Finding Joy in Unexpected Places (It’s Easier Than You Think)

Finding Joy in Unexpected Places (It’s Easier Than You Think)

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I gripped my stomach as ripples of humor turned into roars that opened my mouth wide, and squeezed tears out my eyes and down my cheeks. Laughter triggered by seemingly insignificant causes… simple phrases, witty placement of words, the processes that we as women all go through that we may cry about in the moments of their happening, but laugh about as we look back.

I could barely catch my breath, or catch up with the overwhelming need to release all that had apparently been pent up inside me the last several months. I could not remember the last time I had laughed so deeply or loudly.

The very act of laughing until I couldn’t breathe brought unexpected healing to me. 

“A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”
Proverbs 17:22 NIV

On the surface, it didn’t make sense; I sat at a table with women I had just met. Yet in that space, the permission to venture into authentic community had been laid out like the most lush of red carpets. It was an invitation to walk freely into the room, not shielding part of me in fear, but bringing all of my quirks, experiences, nerves, and needs to the table. 

When I got on the plane to attend the (in)courage retreat, I didn’t know that as I stepped foot on the ground — even amid the hard things we carried — I would step into a group that cultivated joy. 

It’s not that joy and laughter had been far from me, but perhaps these feelings had been so weighed down by so much over these past few years that I hadn’t given myself permission to lean in. 

A few years ago, my husband mentioned that I wasn’t as silly as I used to be. I actually didn’t get offended at that moment, which might’ve been my propensity early on in our marriage. Instead, I sat and chewed on his words. Over the years a part of me had taken a back seat to fear. The part of me that used to dance down the hallway of the church or react enthusiastically. But over time my enthusiasm was met with a side eye from others until those side glances lanced my heart and compelled me to simmer down. 

I wonder how often we hinder our joy response because the place we reside has not welcomed it. Joy is not always represented by cackles and roars of exuberant laughter. Joy may show up in the permission to sit silently, to not have to say a word, to just soak in. It may be found indulging in that treat you love, participating in the nerdy activity that you geek out over, or in the favorite book that you’ve read 100 times. 

Joy just might be found as you finally schedule that girls’ night, go on the date with your husband that you’ve been putting off so long, or maybe lie on the floor, set your to-do list aside, and build a Lego castle with your kids. (At least there will be less to step on, right?) Perhaps joy is engaging in a snowball fight with your neighbors, going on a much-needed walk, or lying down for that much-needed nap.

Joy just might be found when you release whatever you’re gripping and remember that you’ve already been found. And then you can decide that if there’s not a safe place to engage in Christ-centered joy, you can give yourself permission to form it for yourself. In doing so, you’ll lay a path for others as you press forward into joy too.

Maybe what is ahead of you in this season is not so much about what you will see or do, but about God wanting to see you, His daughter, flourishing. 

“The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing.”
Zephaniah 3:17 NIV

Consider how much He desires for you to embrace the innate delight that comes from being His. You are the daughter God intentionally and uniquely formed, and He rejoices extravagantly over you.

In what ways has God positioned you to respond in exuberant extravagance too?  

Listen to today’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts!

The Sloppiness and Surprise of Spring

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I am not a fan of the spring season, for a few reasons.

First, here in Minnesota, spring is sloppy. It doesn’t look like the bright, flowery, fresh springtimes depicted in storybooks or TV shows. Here, the snow is just now melting, the earth is tamped down and wet with mud abounding. Forget blooming flowers and fresh air and bright sunshine; we get dreary damp days and cold soggy nights. Our flowers don’t begin to blossom until long after much of the rest of our country, very near the start of summer. We can’t plant our gardens until well past when some of my friends have already harvested their spring lettuces. Around here we don’t plant until after Memorial Day weekend. It could still snow, you know!

Spring means my mudroom is full. Loaded up with winter parkas, raincoats, and fleece jackets. Rainboots and winter boots, tennis shoes and flip-flops. Dirt and dust are par for the course, along with hats and mittens that badly need a washing. You never know what you’ll need for the weather, so we keep it all at the ready. . . which equates to one full mudroom.

Spring also signals the transition to summer, which means heat and humidity are on their way. Not my favorite. Sure, I do enjoy some aspects of summer (swimming, tending the garden, patio dining, evening walks, and the ease of no coats necessary) but even so, it’s just not my favorite.

Despite all that I grumble about during spring, there is one thing I adore. Since we moved into our home nearly eight years ago, I’ve kept an eye on the rock beds surrounding our front lawn for the first signs of spring. And each year, my hosta burst through the ground, reaching for the sky. They take their sweet time filling out and spilling large into the beds, taking up grand amounts of space they know belongs to them.

I don’t have fancy varieties or do anything special. They were here long before we moved in. We did divide and replant some from their original spots, but that’s it. I do nothing, and every year they bring me such joy. Our house needs a repaint, so we’re really in our beige era, and the pop of bright green that the hosta provides is such a breath of fresh air after a fall and winter of brown.

And isn’t that just like the goodness and grace of God?

Goodness and grace that we do nothing to earn. That we’ve done nothing to deserve. That brightens our day and brings us joy and offers us a moment to breathe deeply, thankful.

In the icy sloppiness of spring, new life bursts through right on time, as if by clockwork. Just when I don’t think I can take one more gray day, a fresh shoot springs up through the rock. Right when I’m convinced that I won’t make it to summer, that the trees will never return to their green leafy glory. . . those hostas pop up and begin their slow unfurling.

And every year I’m surprised. Taken right aback. I never expect the good thing to happen, gaslighting myself that I’ve made it all up and this will be the year it doesn’t happen.

Oh, how He is faithful in our deep-rooted doubting.

When we doubt that His glory could be real, that His story happened, that He makes us new and whole and scrubbed clean, even the hostas declare the Truth.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”
2 Corinthians 5:17 NIV

“See, I will create new heavens and a new earth. . . “
Isaiah 65:17 NIV

If the hostas can be neglected and dormant for months and months, then rise up on their own at just the right time, we just might be ok too.

Hang in there. Goodness may surprise you, right there in the sloppiness.

Listen to today’s devotion on the player below or your favorite podcast app!

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How to Find the Courage to Face Yourself

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In the heat of my single motherhood journey, a rare gift was bestowed upon me — an entire summer off. My son embarked on a Floridian adventure with his grandfather, opening the door to weeks of freedom and tranquility. As the countdown began, I envisioned a life of peace, rest, and rediscovery. Little did I know, that those two months would unravel a profound transformation, bringing me face to face with myself. 

The initial days were not the “carefree” oasis I had imagined. Instead, a sense of unease settled in, leading me down a path of unexpected introspection. The quiet exposed the neglected corners of my soul that echoed with unheard cries of grief, unhealed wounds, and unresolved breakups. Buried beneath the layers of motherhood and ministry, my self-esteem had been masked and, for the first time, I had only myself to care for — a daunting realization. 

In the silence, I discovered my struggles and the pain that I had evaded through a bustling, active lifestyle. The freedom I longed for soon transformed into an unexpected encounter with a dark depression. The stillness allowed my soul to speak, and it spoke of aching wounds that demanded attention. 

Dark days followed, marked by reckless and self-destructive behaviors — drinking, smoking, and seeking refuge in unsavory company. The absence of external noise compelled me to create my own, drowning out the uncomfortable truth that awaited me.

This was the realization that I was afraid to confront — a fear that the woman I had curated was no longer recognizable.

In that moment of vulnerability, I chose to unbox my experiences, to delve into the difficult, unpleasant moments that had unraveled my created identity and distorted my perception of God. It was a journey of rediscovery that required the courage to face myself. Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 12:9 echoed in my heart, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

To unbox means to unpack . . . to unfold the layers of our experiences, both painful and joyous. The pivotal lesson I learned is that God’s grace is the key to finding courage in vulnerability. It is in facing our weaknesses that His power dwells within us. Just as Paul boasted in his weaknesses, I learned to embrace the broken pieces of my story as opportunities for divine transformation. 

I realized that vulnerability is not a one-time act but an ongoing process. The layers of my experiences unfolded to reveal not only pain but also moments of profound joy, shaping me into the woman I am today. God’s grace, I discovered, isn’t merely a balm for wounds but a catalyst for divine transformation.

In the quiet surrender to vulnerability, I encountered a profound truth: facing our weaknesses isn’t a sign of defeat but a gateway to God’s power dwelling within us. It’s a paradoxical dance where our brokenness becomes the canvas for His strength to shine brilliantly.  

As we navigate the ongoing journey of unboxing grace, it’s crucial to recognize the need for pauses and intentional repositioning. The clarity gained through vulnerability empowers us to choose wisely amidst life’s unpredictable moments. It becomes a lens through which we see not only the brokenness but the beauty that emerges from the fragments of our stories.

So, dear sister, I invite you to join me on this journey of unboxing grace. Allow the silence to reveal the whispers of your soul and, with God’s grace, find the courage to face yourself. Embrace the transformative power that comes when we lay bare our vulnerabilities before the Creator, confident that His grace is, indeed, sufficient for every unboxing moment. 

Listen to today’s devotion on the player below or where you stream podcasts.

This Is My Immeasurably More

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I wake up and stretch my legs under the high-thread-count sheets. The luxury cotton feels good on my slightly sore muscles, a reminder of yesterday’s five-and-a-half-mile trek along the lake. The cabin is quiet. I tip-toe upstairs to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. It’s nice to warm my hands on a hot cup in the chilly mountain air.

Back in my bottom-floor room, I open the blinds to reveal early morning blue skies and a glimpse of deep water in the distance. But the trees are still my favorite. Towering pines dot the view, a reminder that the best things grow slowly with wide branches and deep roots.

It would have been nice to sleep in on this rare morning away from the demands of school schedules and hungry boys. But I’m now the kind of “old” that apparently can’t turn off my internal clock.

My eyes are bleary and I keep yawning. Yet I admit I’ve learned to love the early hours. The joy of being still. Quiet. Not rushing into the day ahead but savoring what is and expectantly waiting for what is to come. Plus it’s easy to linger without someone asking for socks or sandwiches.

So I linger in the Word and with the Word.  

Soon my heart turns to gratitude. Thanksgiving overflows. I’m spending the weekend in Lake Arrowhead with three of my dearest friends. It’s Kyan’s 40th birthday and her husband arranged for us to celebrate in a family friend’s gorgeous home. Four bedrooms for the four of us. A beautifully appointed kitchen and ample room to relax. Walking distance to the village and the lake.

It’s a gift for Kyan – but it’s a gift to us all.

I smile thinking about the slow morning we enjoyed the day before around the table, sharing hearts and stories and Ky’s amazing cinnamon rolls. I smile thinking about the conversation and laughter that accompanied us on our long walk along the lake — the freedom to be silly or serious, chatty or chill. I smile thinking about the tender afternoon tears shed and the encouragement given, friends who see and are willing to be seen.

I almost laugh out loud recalling how we ended the evening with ridiculous facemasks sticking awkwardly to our foreheads, cheeks, and lips like wet old-man skin. I almost peed my sweatpants it was so funny.

How freeing to be in the company of true friends.

The magnitude of the gift is not lost on me.

I gaze out the window and up at the evergreens. The words of Ephesians 3:20 (NIV) bubble up in my heart: “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine…”, and with this promise, a memory.

The pine needles ripple in the breeze and I think back fifteen years. I remember being a new mom in a new city. I remember loving my baby boy and yet feeling swallowed by loneliness. I feel the memory of how quickly baby boy number two, then three, crashed onto the scene and how the relentless days and exhausting nights and pervasive loneliness nearly crushed me.

I remember how I cried out to God… over and over, again and again… Just give me one real friend.

Now I’m the mom of teens, with body aches and eye wrinkles and the best friends a girl could ask for.

Kyan, Kimberlee, and Sara are my immeasurable more, I say to God.

Truly, I could not have imagined such friends.

Then like a movie montage, the last decade flashes in my mind and I see hundreds of moments stitched together in a tapestry of God’s faithfulness. The first time we met at a mom’s group. A neighborhood walk pushing strollers. A muddy backyard playdate. The first time we had dinner. A summer book club. Serving together on a ministry team. Celebrating birthdays and graduations and births. Mourning aging parents and job losses and health scares. Swapping childcare and sourdough starters.

Hours and hours and hours over years and years and years of life together.

Yes, this is often how God answers prayers.

And now I am keenly aware of the sheer grace and goodness of God’s abundant faithfulness after years of loneliness and desperate tear-filled pleas.

This I know: God is the same God in my dreamy girls’ weekend away as He was in my sadness and solitude. God is the same God in our abundance as He is in our lack. It’s quite a truth to wrestle with.

Today I see so much beauty and purpose in the slow answering of my good desire for good friends. Though at the time, the stitch-by-stitch unfurling of God’s faithfulness was often too incremental to see, too slow for my comfort.

But now? Now I wouldn’t trade His intentional weaving for anything.

I hear the shuffle of feet above me. Sara must be up and about to go on her morning run. Surely Kimber and Ky will be awake soon and ready for coffee. I’ll put a pot on.

But first I wonder where else in my life and yours does the slow stitching of answered prayers seem like no answer at all? Where does loneliness feel heavy and community impossible? Where are we tempted to give up hope that God has heard our pleas and cares enough to respond?

This morning in the mountains is one of my Ebenezer stones, a reminder that God is always, always listening, and always, always still writing the story.

For more stories of God’s faithfulness, follow Becky on Instagram @beckykeife.

Listen to today’s devotion on the player below or where you stream podcasts.

The Comfort You Need on Mother’s Day

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“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.”
Isaiah 66:13 NIV

We know this day is a complex one, full of many emotions and experiences. You are not alone.

Your (in)courage sisters are praying for each of you today as you remember, celebrate, grieve, or enjoy motherhood and what that means to you. Every single woman who loves, encourages, nurtures, and releases those who become part of the next generation is doing amazing work and is worth celebrating today.

We pray you feel seen by God and folded into His arms of love. No matter what this day means to you, whether your expectations are met with joy or you feel the ache of disappointment, may His comfort wrap around you.

Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for all that you are and all that you do.

When You’re Struggling While Running the Race of Life

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Last fall, after a two-year hiatus from running, I woke up on a sunny morning and laced up my sneakers.

I made my way to the track, brimming with optimism and an updated playlist for running. The sun’s rays beamed down on me, providing an extra layer of warmth. I felt a surge of energy as my feet hit the pavement. Anticipation and excitement simmered within as I reminisced about my running days in Illinois, and how much I missed them.

You got this! The voice of hope whispered. Yeah. I got this! I whispered back.

But my motivational pep talk waned as I forged ahead, panting and nearly gasping for air. Labored breathing. Racing heartbeat. Tight chest. Time to stop. My eyes widened when I checked my stopwatch.

Forty-five seconds? What a disappointment! What a waste of time! You’re never going to be able to run like before.

And, just like that, I allowed pessimism to replace the voice of hope. I trudged to my car, sulking and deeply disappointed. (Confession: I may have stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home to rid the bitter aftertaste of failure with a sweet treat.)

On the drive home, I expressed my disappointment and frustration to God, wondering how it was possible that I could fail this attempt at running when, just earlier that week, I dreamt I was effortlessly running around an outdoor track.

Still, I woke up with a renewed hope that I’d return to my former days — regularly running three miles, finishing my first 8K, completing my longest run at 12 miles, and training for the Chicago marathon. But all that changed when COVID-19 (then followed by long-COVID) symptoms brought my running to a halt in 2021.

I hung up my running shoes, but still told myself I’d get back there one day. I even told my friend that I would speak it by faith. I wrote the declaration in my prayer journal, though I didn’t fully believe it in my heart. I know the Bible says “faith without works is dead,” yet, still, I had tucked my sneakers into the back of the closet, watching them accumulate dust, week after week. This thing that I once enjoyed had become too daunting — the process felt like starting over. And, let’s be honest, beginning again isn’t always fun. Instead, it feels like a glaring reminder of suboptimal circumstances — a reality we never asked for.

Starting over in any area of our lives can feel overwhelming, but, truly, we don’t ever really restart from scratch because the experience, knowledge, and wisdom gained on our journey will always propel us on our journey.

Starting over is a courageous act that requires faith — and it’s okay to begin again. Sometimes, it’s even necessary.

I was reminded of this when I joined a running club recently and selected the beginner group. During the one-minute running intervals, I struggled to silence the critical voice about my slow pace. I silently prayed for God to help me. I didn’t want to focus on how I felt . . . I needed a fresh perspective.  

After pushing myself to sprint uphill for the last minute of our session, the running coach sidled up beside me and complimented my form, saying, “I can see you as a long distance runner. Just be patient. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself and risk injury. You’ll get there soon enough.”

Her comment snapped me out of my trance. Though I was fixated on my current pace, she looked beyond and saw a long-distance runner. Her words challenged me. Why was I rushing the process? My coach saw my potential from afar — and I needed to do the same. I needed to believe that I could build endurance and increase my stamina.

I needed to extend grace to myself.

That’s how our Creator sees His children. God doesn’t hold us hostage to our past or compare who we are today to who we were yesterday. God sees us as the person He created us to be before He laid the foundations of the earth. He sees us ahead of time.

When we’re struggling while running the race of life, barely catching our breath, winded while climbing steep hills, God never changes His mind about us based on our performance. He is our Ultimate Coach — strengthening our feeble arms for the journey, propelling us forward through fatigue, quenching our thirst, and nourishing our weary souls.

When life happens and we want to give up, He reminds us who we are from His lens. We just need to trust the Coach and exercise patience with ourselves during the process — even if it means beginning again.  

Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:31

Simple Steps When Rest Feels Out of Reach

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Two weeks ago, I found myself on a beach. I sat on the sand, ordered tacos, and listened to the melody of my friends’ laughter punctuated by the crash of the nearby waves. I thanked God and cracked jokes and closed my eyes and wondered . . .

First of all, what even was my life? But also . . . why was I still so tired?

The weekend after I returned from the (in)courage writers’ retreat, I spent most of one day lying on the couch and watching TV. Then I spent several hours the next day napping, followed up with several hours giving myself a guilt trip.

I’d just returned from three days in paradise, so how could I still be tired?

My soul was certainly refreshed, so why couldn’t I handle “real life” any better than before my trip?

I had some time off and now I had so much to do. What was I doing lying around like this?

I asked myself these loaded questions and more, even though I knew . . .

I knew that I’d barely had a spare minute the past two months, that I’d spent every lunch break making appointments and filling out forms, that I’d worked weekends to make up for those appointments during the week, that this season was just the garbage frosting on a garbage cupcake of several months of constant crisis.

I also remembered the words of a recent counseling session about our need to take regular breaks to bolster and protect our mental health and, therefore, our ability to handle life’s challenges. But the unfortunate truth is that one vacation doesn’t fill our tank for the rest of the year or, depending on your current situation, even for the rest of the month.

It’s almost like we need a rhythm of frequent rest to handle what comes at us day after day.

And we know this, don’t we? We know that God rested (Genesis 2:1-3) and Jesus napped (Luke 8:23). We know we’re called to observe a regular Sabbath, a time set apart for rest and worship (Exodus 20:8-11). So why is it so hard?

Well, sometimes taking a Sabbath is hard because of logistics. We have seasons where it truly feels impossible to carve out a whole day (much less a long weekend or full week) to rest. Sometimes we feel guilty for taking any break at all, knowing just how many items have not been crossed off our lists or how many people “have it worse.” And sometimes we know that if we let down our guard, if we listen for the voice of the Lord, if we take a breath deep enough to fill our lungs, we’re going to break down for a good, long while. And we do not have time for that. So we keep going.

We tell ourselves rest is optional or we haven’t earned it yet or this is just how this season is. And we dig deep into an empty well and attempt to bolster our defenses for one more day.

We just keep going. We keep going until we break.

But, friends, Scripture tells us it doesn’t have to be this way! We don’t have to grit our teeth, clench our fists, and force ourselves forward without a drop of fuel. And we don’t have to feel guilty for needing the rest God took Himself and instructed us to take as well.

“There is a special rest still waiting for the people of God. For all who have entered into God’s rest have rested from their labors, just as God did after creating the world. So let us do our best to enter that rest.“
Hebrews 4:9-11 NLT

How can we do our best to enter that rest? Well, the things that truly replenish your body and soul may vary. But I think we all must start in the same place.

To experience Sabbath, no matter our season or situation, we must first admit that we need it and then give ourselves grace for that need. It’s okay that you’re human! If you’re holding yourself hostage over the belief that you should be superhuman and above needing regular rest, stop it. Accept the freedom and compassion God offered when He created Sabbath in the first place. Receive the rest Jesus promised when He invited all those who are weary and burdened to take on His light yoke instead of the one weighing us down (Matthew 11:28-30).

And then, right where we are, in our real, messy, tiring lives, we need to pause. Relax, reflect, and rest.

Let your to-do list take a break and listen for God. Breathe. Sleep. Soak up the refreshment you need to connect with the Lord and with yourself before returning to your day, your home, your life.

For me, I enter the rest God offers — even in the most hectic, hard seasons — by listening to my Bible app, by snuggling with my sleepy daughter before jumping in the shower each morning, and by taking the long way home along a back road. I receive rest by blocking out distractions when I take communion at church — and protecting my Sunday afternoon nap with a ferocity my family laughs at but respects.

For you, it might be a morning cup of coffee and a favorite devotional, an hour alone in Target, an afternoon hike, or something nobody else would even think of! True rest and the sacred practice of Sabbath take many forms, but each is a gift from our heavenly Father.

How will you enter His rest today?

Listen to today’s devotion below or on your favorite podcast app.

The Gift of “I Don’t Know”

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One of the first times I went to Sunday school, it was a random visit. I’d never been, and as I joined a few other pre-teens around a small table, someone handed me a Bible. I’d never read the Bible before that point, and I don’t remember what we read or what anyone said that morning. I can’t remember a single word. All I remember was not knowing how to find the book and verses we were supposed to turn to. What I remember most was how it felt to not know what was going on.

I never went back to Sunday school after that, even when my family sporadically attended that church during the time we lived nearby.

Years later, I would still carry that feeling around, even after becoming a follower of Jesus, even after becoming more familiar with faith communities and how to navigate the Bible. After all those years, I was still afraid of being found out — that everyone would discover how much I still didn’t know. Despite how committed I was to Jesus, and how much I thought I knew that Jesus loved me, I was afraid of other Christians and what they knew that I didn’t.

I was afraid of all the invisible lines I often felt in Christian circles – and the inside jokes I still didn’t understand.

It’s been decades since then, and in that time, I’ve worked in vocational ministry and left vocational ministry. I’ve been part of a handful of churches near and far from where I call home today. I know most of the things I didn’t understand all those years ago, but I never want to forget what it felt like to sweat in my seat and feel small, clueless, and so far on the outside. In fact, sometimes I look back and see a sweetness to that unknowing. I was so ready to know Jesus’s love; I had no idea then that receiving Jesus’s love had nothing to do with how many Bible verses or inside jokes I knew, or what issues of the day I was supposed to be on one side of instead of the other.

Knowing what it feels like to be on the outside has given me an incredible guide to hospitality – more than any Bible study, event, or ministry ever could.

Not knowing much about how to be a Christian has helped me receive and rely on Jesus’s love in a way that “knowing it all” never could. Sometimes “knowing it all” can be a barrier to Jesus’s love.

In our age of non-stop information, the temptation to know all the things and profess what we know is heavy. I feel a constant pull towards this posture and I see it everywhere I turn, from my own family’s dinner table conversations to conversations in the larger community I live in.

What would it look like to model “not knowing?” What would it look like to relate to others while always keeping Maya Angelou’s wise words in mind, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”?

In a culture obsessed with how-tos and telling others what to do, and in a society obsessed with accolades, levels, awards, and markers of “intelligence,” what would it look like if we lived with deep concern and care for how we made others feel, instead of concern over what we know and who knows more? How could that posture change the atmosphere around our dinner tables, in our classrooms, at the office, on Zoom screens, or in our churches and neighborhoods?

May it be so in my life and yours!

These days, I try to say “I don’t know” as often as I can. And I’ve been praying, “I don’t know” about an ongoing challenge for some time now. And while sometimes I’m bone-weary and angry about it and wish God would show up and answer so I could know why and how and what to do… I’ve been given comfort and presence and room for faith to stretch and grow in God’s nearness in a way that quick solutions and answers could not offer me.

For the longest time, I would look back on that first Sunday school experience and think, “If only I’d known more about the Bible,” or, “If only my parents (or fill in the blank) had explained more or prepared me better, then I wouldn’t have felt so embarrassed or alone in not knowing.” I would focus on how it could’ve been different and how I could’ve blended in better, instead of seeing what not knowing had given me.

Now I know how much of a treasure and compassion-builder it can be to say and pray, “I don’t know.”

I love Jesus’s words to the disciples who were arguing about who was the greatest in the Kingdom of God:

“At about the same time, the disciples came to Jesus asking, “Who gets the highest rank in God’s kingdom?”

For an answer Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you’re not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God’s kingdom. What’s more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it’s the same as receiving me.”
Matthew 18:1-5 The Message

Not knowing might be hard and it can be incredibly lonely. It might also be just the teacher that shows us how to love deeply and how to recognize the face of Love itself.

Listen to today’s devotion on the player below or on your favorite podcast app!

 

God Won’t Make You Do Burpees, But He Will Do This

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A few times every week, I make my way to the gym.

Depending on the workout, there are times afterward when I can barely get up from the toilet due to aching muscles. Other times, my shaky T-rex arms can’t retrieve a glass from the cupboard, to which my unsympathetic coach responds: “But did you DIE?”

No, I did not die. And yes, the thing that sometimes gets me up in the morning is knowing that my workout will support my queso habit. 

In all honesty, I’m not much of an “athlete.” When I first started working out, I didn’t know what a “burpee” was. I thought it was the sound one makes after a satisfying meal. (It turns out that a burpee is a move that combines a jump, a squat, and a push-up.) Power cleans? That’s a weight-lifting move, but it sounded more like what I do to whip my house into shape before guests come over.

But here I am, years later, still showing up for a legalized form of bodily torture.

(I exaggerate. Sort of.) 

To be candid with you, I used to work out because I wanted to look better in my swimsuit. These days? I work out because I want to do a favor for my future self. I want Future Me to be able to move freely and enjoy a life of physical flexibility. 

In case you are wondering, we at (in)courage did not just morph into a fitness website overnight. I’m sharing this story with you today for a reason: this kind of approach works for our faith lives as well.

Everything you do today to build your faith muscles pays dividends down the road for Future You. You are strengthening your future self through all you do to connect with God.

Every conversation with Him.
Every minute spent in His Word.
Every verse memorized.
Every worshipful act.

It all adds up.

I call it “resourced faith.” It’s like building muscle in a workout. When you build up your faith in the best of times, you have resources of faith to draw from in the most turbulent of times.

That’s true not only when you’re in your 20s and 30s. It’s also true when you’re in your 80s and 90s. Those faith muscles you built years earlier give you needed strength later on. If you’ve ever visited a nursing home, and watched what happens when an old hymn is played, or a familiar Bible verse is read, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Biblical David had a resourced faith like that. He had been growing in relationship with God since he was a child. His faith helped him when he took on Goliath with a sling and a few small stones. And it helped him years down the road when he was running for his life, hiding in caves, and trying to stay one step ahead of his enemies.

In the Psalms, David kept building his faith muscles, kept crying out to God, kept writing down the promises of God.

And when he was old and frail, David remained steadfast. His last words are recorded in 2 Samuel 23:1-7. One last time, he shared the truth about who God is. Here’s part of what he said:

“Is it not my family God has chosen?
Yes, he has made an everlasting covenant with me.
His agreement is arranged and guaranteed in every detail.
He will ensure my safety and success.”
2 Samuel 23:5 NLT

In the end, David could die with peace, knowing God was in control. David’s resourced faith – built over time – sustained David in seasons of trial.

The same can be true for us.

The good news is, it’s never too late to start. Like the best kind of coach, God will meet you where you are, and help you build your faith muscle from there.

Another bit of good news? He won’t make you do burpees.

Listen to today’s article below or wherever you stream podcasts.

This Will Help You See God in Every Season

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For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV

I live in Minnesota, usually thought of and referred to as a frozen tundra. Which is entirely accurate for about half the year. But truly, this is the land of four distinct seasons. Our summer, autumn, winter, and spring seasons are each beautiful in their own unique ways, and living here for them all helps me see the Lord.

Summer here is hot. Humid. The bugs come out (especially the dang mosquitos) but so do the birds. Loons can be heard calling sweet and strong across our many enormous lakes. In the summer people flock “up north” to cabin country, gather in backyards for cookouts and bonfires, and meet up in neighborhood parks and pools. The sun sets glorious, the sun rises early, and the days between are sticky with heat and melted popsicles.

Autumn blazes a trail of glory in the now red and orange forests of maple, birch, oak, and elm. The early morning sparkling drops of dew return to still-green blades of grass when the air turns chilly again. Sweaters make their return, pumpkins sit on porches, and orchards open for apple picking. We pray for the harvest and the farmers, rake leaves off lawns, and relish in the return to school and routine. Some of us also rejoice at the return of pumpkin spice everything. 😉

Winter here can be harsh, but it can also be beautiful. I, for one, love it. The bite of the wind, faced while wearing a parka, boots, mittens, and a knit hat. The crunch and glitter of freshly fallen snow. Hot cocoa and lit fireplaces, shoveling each others’ driveways, and kids building snowmen and sledding the day away.

Spring is a welcome respite from the bitter winter, with warmth returning to the undercurrents of the breeze. Annuals and planted bulbs burst through dull earth, and everything seems to sigh as it thaws. Blossoms open slowly on flowering trees, rain washes away the dust and refreshes the gardens, and we pull on galoshes and raincoats to stay dry. The sun seems to shine a little brighter, warming front porches and our hearts.

His glory is on display in each and every season — if we just remember to look for it. And when we look, when our eyes stay open to seeking His glory, we remember that Jesus came for us all — all the time. In the grey days of November. In the summer heat of August. In the slushiness of March and the blossoms of May. When we’re looking for Him and when we’re running from Him. When our hearts are soft and open, and when they’re hard and closed.

In all seasons of the year and of our lives, Jesus comes for us. He welcomes us wholly at any time, in any space, in all of our seasons.

Be reminded that you can see the Lord in all seasons with our brand new(in)courage Seeing God in Every Season 18-Month Agenda Planner!This planner provides the classic DaySpring planner features, including a durable laminated cover and tabs, a lay-flat design with continuous spiral, an interior pocket page, and generous space for noting your plans. Ooh, and we LOVE the checkboxes on the weekly lined pages!

The notes section will help you write down quick thoughts to come back to, the fresh and beautifully designed tear-out prayer cards will encourage your heart (or the heart of a friend!), and three pages of adorable stickers you can write on to help personalize your planner with extra color and joy!

In addition to those fantastic features, each month of our planner also includes a story from (in)courage! Yep, each week has a Scripture to focus on, and every month includes a selection from a story by an (in)courage writer, sharing what God was up to in her life and heart during that particular season.

You can scan the QR code beside each excerpt or visit incourage.me/everyseasonto read the full devotions! But here, we’ll give you a sneak peek:

JULY : If God cares so wonderfully for flowers… He will certainly care for you. Luke 12:28 NLT

That day, a bouquet of July ditch flowers was my teacher. I needed to re-learn something I had re-forgotten: God uses ordinary things to show us His extraordinary kindness. – Jennifer Dukes Lee

—

SEPTEMBER: I thank my God every time I remember you. Philippians 1:3 NIV

Teachers are amazing, imperfect, profoundly important people — who need our prayers. “Bless this school year and bless each person who wears the beautiful and noble badge of Teacher. Amen.” – Becky Keife

—

NOVEMBER: I will give thanks to you, Lord, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds. Psalm 9:1 NIV

November is the perfect in-between month. A time to prepare and putter in the kitchen. A time to gather in and come together. A time of expectation of what’s yet to come and thankfulness for what has been. – Anna E. Rendell

This new 18-Month Agenda Planner will truly help you embrace each season. The pages will meet you right in the middle of your busy schedule with encouragement, truth from God’s Word, and space to keep you organized.

AND for a limited time (just two more days), buy the planner and receive a Gold Prayer Board Snap-In Planner Accessory for FREE! The perfect combination for staying organized and inspired this year!

The (in)courage 2024-25 Planner Features:

  • Spiral bound, lay-flat design, laminated cover
  • 3 pages of super-cute stickers
  • 6 perforated tear-out notes to share hope
  • Weekly Scripture to focus on during your quiet time
  • Monthly devotion by an (in)courage writer
  • 18-month planner (July 2024 – December 2025), 248 pages

Get your new planner + FREE prayer board today!

Listen to today’s article at the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Grieving What’s to Come While Still Living in the Present

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She sits before me in the teal velvet chair in my bathroom. Methodically, I separate her thick hair — the color of the night sky — into sections. I pin the top half up so I can begin curling the bottom layers.

My fingers fly, winding each smaller section of hair around the curling wand. I let it sit just until it steams a bit. Then I let it go, releasing gently. A springy curl bounces before me.

Separate, curl, release, repeat.

My bedroom is brimming with laughter as half a dozen girls get ready for their Senior Prom. In another chair, one girl is getting her makeup done by a different friend while she chats with my daughter. A couple of girls sit in the corner, catching up near the charcuterie board piled with savory and sweet snacks. Taylor Swift is playing in the background, singing something about holding onto memories and never growing up.

My eyes linger over my oldest girl’s face. Her smooth skin is like a chai latte with those freckles adding just the right spoonful of spice to her creamy brown cheeks. Her midnight eyebrows make a dramatic swoop at the corners, framing her cinnamon eyes.

Suddenly, I’m transported back. I’m holding that newborn baby girl to my breast, tracing her eyebrows with my gaze. Tears stream down my cheeks. Maybe it’s the post-partum hormones, but I can’t help myself. My heart races as I think about bringing a beautiful baby girl into the cruel and often unforgiving world.

What will be her challenges? What heartaches will she face? Will I be able to protect her, love her, raise her as my heart desires?

My heart fills with emotion like an ocean wave — swelling, swirling, and unabashedly spilling into a new season called mothering. I’m at once rejoicing and terrified, teetering with trepidation at the prospect of it all.

That was 17 years ago. And this month, that baby girl is graduating from high school. Time wrinkles and folds. Just yesterday I was nursing her and now she needs me to curl her hair for the prom. In just a few months, she will be leaving for college on the other side of the state.

When my husband was diagnosed with cancer at this time 10 years ago, I experienced something I didn’t have language for then. I now know it was anticipatory grief. These are feelings of grief that happen before a loss actually occurs.

When we received his stage four cancer diagnosis, I began to feel a slow ache growing deep inside me. I didn’t know what was to come.

During those months, I slept very little. I cared for my beloved around the clock as the cancer coursed through his body. When friends and family members came to relieve me, I could never really rest because I was so fraught with anxiety. The anticipation of losing him felt somehow weightier.

When he soared to heaven three months after his diagnosis, my oldest girl was only eight. I never dreamed God would use that tragedy to tether all of us so tightly to His heart.

I’ve been in denial for a while, but now I have to name it. The anticipatory grief is starting to return. I wonder if this is how Mary, Jesus’ mother, felt when she held her new baby boy — the Savior of the world — in her arms.

Doctor Luke, in his account of Jesus’s life, gives us some details of how Mama Mary might have been feeling. After Jesus was born and the shepherds and angels came to worship Him, Luke writes that Mary “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19 NIV).

In the original Greek, the word synetērei translated as “treasured” in Luke 2:19 means “to preserve knowledge or memories (as for later use).” Mary was savoring and storing up these memories of her son.

This same phrase is used in Luke 2:51. After Mary and Joseph cannot find their young son, Jesus, for three days, they discover He has been at the temple among the teachers. Mary may have been distraught in the moment, but looking back she “treasured all these things in her heart” again. She tucked this memory of her boy away in the treasure chest of her mind.

The Greek word symballousa translated as “ponder” in this same passage means to consider or to turn around in one’s mind. I’m learning from Mary’s example — trying not to drown in the waves of grief, but to treasure and ponder what God might be doing in this season of laughter and lament, celebrating and releasing.

I imagine the joy and grief swirled in her heart, ebbing and flowing like ocean waves throughout Jesus’ life. Mary, too, must have experienced anticipatory grief. She may not have understood it all, but she knew her son was born to save and suffer. She mothered, holding His calling in her weathered hands and tender heart.

As we step into a month full of festive awards nights, senior celebrations, and graduation for our daughter, the grief gathers quietly at the base of my throat. I anticipate the loss, but I also celebrate my girl spreading her wings and soaring into her next chapter of life.

Friend, what milestones or memorials will you mark this month? Are you experiencing anticipatory grief in any areas? Share in the comments.

Let’s treasure and ponder together what God might be doing in our midst.

Dorina helps people discover God’s glory on life’s unexpected trails. Subscribe to Dorina’s Glorygram here for reflections, recommendations, and details about her devotional journal, Breathing Through Grief.

Listen to today’s article on the player below or wherever you stream podcasts.

 

The Thing We Love Most

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Don’t burn out; keep yourselves fueled and aflame. Be alert servants of the Master, cheerfully expectant. Don’t quit in hard times; pray all the harder. Help needy Christians; be inventive in hospitality.
Romans 12:11-13 (MSG)

There is nothing we love more at (in)courage than clinging to God’s truth together and praying for one another.

Today, we invite you to do three things:

  1. Share a verse in the comments that is encouraging your heart.
  2. Leave a prayer request.
  3. Pray for one or more of the women who commented above you.

“I mean this. When two of you get together on anything at all on earth and make a prayer of it, my Father in heaven goes into action. And when two or three of you are together because of me, you can be sure that I’ll be there.”
Matthew 18:19-20

For the One Carrying a Broken Hallelujah This Mother’s Day

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No one that was there that day knew I was grieving more than the death of my mother.

No one present at her funeral knew I was broken in the grief of losing her, and also shattered by the reality that I had coincidently lost my faith, too. It felt like the foundation of who I was and what I believed had been stolen right from me — gone.

There was no warning, and if there had been, I’m not sure I would have even recognized it. I was in disbelief of the last breaths I witnessed when my mother passed and in confusion for the future that now stood in front of me.

It’s a harsh reality, a broken hallelujah, sitting with the loss of your mother and also the loss of your faith. It’s a loneliness that you cannot describe and one you truly cannot comprehend until you’re sitting with it, encompassed like a new skin, a new version of you that you never asked for . . . one that, in fact, you despise.

The loss of my mother came over time, a fatal diagnosis, though never truly expected. The loss of my faith came sudden and without any kind of indication of what was to come, of what was dissipating.  

The raw truth is that I was angry with God. I was bewildered and hurt by His will for the life of my mother — a life that didn’t last as long as we’d envisioned. I felt betrayed and I felt abandoned. I felt alone. I felt weak. Then I felt ashamed for thinking and feeling all of those things.

In desperate longing, I thought of my mother — a woman with unwavering strength, even when her body was frail and failing. I wanted that strength. I wanted her courage and her resiliency. I wondered where she got it and how she kept it. I wondered what the source of her strength was so that I could find it too. And then the truth of those questions came, and it was undeniable.

Faith was her strength.

If I wanted her strength, I had to have her faith too. I had to remember His promises and His love. I had to remember His plan for the brokenhearted. If I wanted to heal, if I wanted grit, if I wanted to survive the heartbreak, I’d need my faith more than ever. I’d need Him. 

In the doubt, in the low valleys, in the devastation and the despair, I need to hold tight to my faith and ask God for His help, grace, and guidance.  

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.
Proverbs 3:5-6 NIV

Upon this realization, I vulnerably wept in front of Him. Yes, broken and afraid, but also acknowledging all that I’d ever been taught about Him and His ways. I stopped trying to comprehend my loss and grief, and instead resolved to trust that while some things are incomprehensible, that doesn’t mean they’re not survivable.  

  • When we feel lonely, we are not.  
  • When we feel abandoned, we are not.
  • When we feel betrayed or forgotten, we are not.
  • When our faith feels as if it has been lost, it’s only being refined.

When we are in our lowest valleys, our darkest days, it is He who rescues us.

For, He is here . . . always. By our side like an invisible friend — guiding us, lifting us, reminding us of all of the beauty that remains, even in the midst of our sorrows.

It turns out that on a day where I thought I had lost two of the most meaningful aspects of my life, I’d really lost neither. For my faith and my mother coincide together, with Him — and that has been and will always be my strength.

A Mother’s Love: For Us and From Us All

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We are the moms who hug, dance, and snuggle. We are the moms who get overwhelmed, whose snarls sometimes come easier than our smiles. We are the moms who live in the push-pull of exhaustion and joy, in the tumultuous world of feelings and giving all of ourselves.

We are the moms who pray our children will fly while a tiny part of our heart grieves their flight from us, because we are the moms who love those children with every fiber of our being. We’re not sure where they end and we begin, but we know we didn’t begin until they arrived.

We are the moms who work around the clock in a million different ways. Praying. Cooking. Cleaning up. Carpooling to school and dropping off at daycare. Guiding. Loving, always loving. Scolding and worrying. Kissing boo-boos and wiping tears. Breathing deep, in and out, over and over. Chasing their feet and their hearts. Answering emails in the middle of the night. Pulling them back and drawing them in and sending them out. Scrubbing toilets and remembering details and packing lunches and signing papers and pouring out.

We are the moms who love children we didn’t birth. We are the neighbors, aunties, sisters, friends, and church grandmas who love these kids as though they’re our own. We snuggle up to beloved little ones during the sermon at church and pass them hard candies to squelch the wiggles. We attend birthday parties and graduations and weddings, bearing gifts for these dear hearts, setting up tables and making food, and then cleaning up at the end of the day. We rock little babies and help big kids pack for college, tearing up at the thought of them driving away. We light up when our phone dings with a text from a precious high schooler. We read stories and sing songs and carefully choose cards to pop in the mail for every holiday.

We are the moms who haven’t had a night out in ages, and who crave one like oxygen. Who run on grace and caffeine. Who build a meal off of the scraps pilfered from kids’ plates. Who go through more coffee shop drive-thrus than we care to admit. Who are exhausted from being “on” all day at work, and coming home to be “on” longer still.

We are the moms who drive through McDonald’s for milk because we ran out and just cannot drag ourselves into the actual grocery store. Who pay for a latte in change dug out from between the minivan seats. Who cannot make it to church without bickering with our family on the drive. Who are consistently seven minutes late to every appointment. Who perpetually lose socks to the washing machine, and have been known to purchase new underwear instead of washing the pairs we already own. Who take our alone time seriously and guard it fiercely — just like we do our kids.

We are the moms who long for more. More grace. More patience. More coffee. More time (always more time). More space in home and heart. More money. More sleep. More Christ in us. More life in our days. More quiet.

At the same time, we are the moms who long for less. Less laundry. Less fighting. Less yelling. Less clutter. Less selfishness. Less guilt. Less busy. Less stuff. Less dust. Less hustle.

We are the moms who sit in the hallway in tears during bedtime, drained. The moms who sit in empty houses in tears because there are no more babies to tuck in at bedtime. We are the moms who ache for those we’ve lost, for those we’ve wanted, for those we’ve asked for, for those we’ve begged God about and bruised our knees over in earnest prayer. For the babies we couldn’t carry. For the children we’ve lost to heaven and red tape. For the grown children we couldn’t hold on to as they flew our coop to make their lives. For waywards and prodigals and could’ve-beens.

We love this life even when we don’t like it. We love these kids with all of our beings — even when we may not like them very much. We thank God for the gift of love He gives in the form of sticky hands, flown coops, late nights, early mornings, birthday celebrations, cards in the mail, trips to see each other, texts sent, calls placed, and prayers whispered.

We are these moms, and God is for us all.

As Mother’s Day approaches, we know that it is a complex day full of many emotions and experiences. Know that at (in)courage, we are praying for each of you in this season as you remember, celebrate, grieve, or enjoy motherhood and what it means to you. Every single woman who loves, encourages, and nurtures those who become part of the next generation is doing amazing work and is to be celebrated.

Above is an excerpt from our book, A Mother’s Love: Celebrating Every Kind of Mom by Anna E. Rendell, which is full of reflections on God’s heart. Featuring unique and diverse stories from the (in)courage community, A Mother’s Love offers heartfelt encouragement to all kinds of moms, whether they’re a mother in a traditional sense, a spiritual mother, or a mother-like figure who breaks the mold. This book is sure to help any woman share a meaningful gift with someone who has been impactful in her life, a new mom learning the ropes, or a close loved one facing the joys and challenges of any stage and type of motherhood.

Compiled with all women in mind so we can celebrate those who made us, shaped us, helped us grow, and loved us well, A Mother’s Love is a beautiful gift for the moms in your life.

Listen to today’s devotion on the player below or wherever you stream podcasts. (And be sure to subscribe so you don’t miss a single one!)

The Right Words at the Right Time

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Despite my extroverted tendencies and sometimes bubbly nature, I’m a fairly quiet person. I often sit back and observe people. I’m contemplating and analyzing and even over-analyzing. I’m not quick to speak and offer my thoughts and opinions.

So, needless to say, when I do speak, I’ve put much thought into what I want to say and how I want to say it. I’m not perfect, but, I do try my best to be strategic in my conversations. I try not to be careless or haphazard with my words.

I’m also a deep feeler. I don’t necessarily communicate what I’m feeling, but I feel everything. I even have feelings about my feelings. It can be a lot. When I was younger, I was labeled as easily offended and thought I was. As I have matured, I’ve come to realize that is not necessarily the case. I notice and discern much of what is said and unsaid. It’s how the Lord has wired me. It’s what makes me a good friend, counselor, and coach.

Recently, I was with a friend who I find completely hilarious. She is naturally funny. Much of her humor consists of sarcasm, imitations, and mostly well-meaning jabs at people she comes across during her days. She jokes with me all of the time. I laugh and joke back. It’s usually all good. But this time, I posed a question and her response came as a blow. It was actually a comment she had made about me before, but on this particular day, it hurt.

It sent me into a bit of a mental tailspin. My thoughts began a downward spiral into questioning my motives (even though I knew they were genuine).

When I’m in those situations, I can’t speak. I can’t address anything in the moment. I can’t resolve the misunderstanding. I need time alone to process, to assess the whole situation. And for me, that process takes quite some time.

Encounters like these always cause me to reassess the words I speak and the tone I use. Again, I am nowhere near perfect. I fail often. But, I don’t want to. I want my words to be the words of God.

Numerous verses focus on our tongues and the power our words carry. Sadly, it’s often not until we are on the receiving end of something hurtful that we stop to take inventory of our own speech. That is when we have a choice to make: to be intentional or not.

The Book of Proverbs is a literal wealth of wisdom. In it, we are reminded that life and death reside in the tongue. We are reminded that it can be wise to stay silent. Our words are to be truthful. Our words are to be healing.

I’ve been in a hard season filled with several losses, from friendships to deaths. Uncertainties and doubts have been surfacing. This wilderness has left me wandering and feeling far from God. I’ve desperately needed clarity, direction, and hope. I’ve needed to hear His voice above the barrage of other voices.

Fast forward a few days after the hurtful comment, and I was able to attend two multi-church gatherings. I worshipped, prayed, and believed God would meet me and speak to me. And speak to me, He did.

At both events, there were opportunities to be prayed over, and I took advantage. The women who prayed for me truly heard from the Lord. They spoke words of life and hope and healing. Their words were filled with grace and promises. They were a sweet honeycomb to this weary soul, as described in Proverbs 16.

I needed to be reminded of God’s truth that my finite mind so easily forgets. I needed my gaze to be redirected to the Savior who gave His life for me.

I needed to feel seen by the God who sees those who feel unseen.

First Thessalonians 5:11 reminds us to “Therefore encourage one another and build each other up as you are already doing” (CSB).

This is what I experienced through each of those women. I was encouraged and built up in my faith. This is our calling as believers. We are to weigh our words carefully and release them even more so.

When we weigh our words and release them in His timing, Jesus breathes Proverbs 15:23 into action. Joy and goodness are abundant in the timely Word of the Lord. His Word is guaranteed not to return void. It ALWAYS accomplishes the work it was set forth to accomplish. There is fruit and much fruit that is produced. It is a blessing that remains.

I know the words prayed over me were the right words at the right time. I’m grateful for how God loves us intentionally and intimately. He knows what we need, how we need it, and when we need it.

I’d love for you to share your stories of how God has spoken the right words into your life at just the right time!

Listen to today’s article or on your fave podcast app!

One Thing to Help in Moments of Panic and Anxiety

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I get to my seat and it’s a window because I like to see what’s going on outside. I put my bag under the seat, send a few last text messages before I have to go into airplane mode, and buckle my seatbelt. My airpods are in, music is going, and we start to taxi to the runway. As we increase our speed, I take a few deep breaths because there’s one thing I know: I want to be on the ground.

There once was a time when I would fly at least once a month; one year, I flew over 35,000 miles. Sometimes it was work, other times it was visiting my family on the other side of the country or attending a wedding. Either way, the miles added up and you’d think that my tolerance for the stresses of travel would be nice and high. You would, however, be wrong.

I’m one of those people who has panic attacks. So a flight can’t just be a time to watch movies and write in my journal or take a nap. No, my body goes into a full-on panic if we start to encounter turbulence.

I get a fight-or-flight jolt whenever a plane begins to shake.

Some things happened early in my life that left me with the inability to know when something is safe or unsafe. I can certainly know it in my head, but my body is another story entirely. My body is regularly trying to figure out if something is a threat and because of this, my pulse will rise without me running sprints or doing jumping jacks or hiking a mountain. I know that my body is trying to help me, but sometimes it makes me feel pretty helpless.

It’s easy to not feel a lot of grace when you are in the middle of trying to survive what feels like an overwhelming and never-ending cycle of fear.

I’ve tried just about everything that I can think to do and have met with therapists over the years, but when I try to slow my breathing or do exercises to get back into my right mind again, all I can think is that I need help because of my panic and it somehow makes it worse. A few years ago, however, I discovered something that helps in my moments of anxiety: I just let it happen.

I have spent so many years trying to control the outcome of these experiences and one day I decided to see what would happen if I just allowed my pulse to rise and had grace for the fact that my breathing was changing. I accepted the fact that I was probably going to cry in front of strangers and reached into my backpack to grab a holding cross I keep for comfort. It’s a little wooden cross that has smooth edges and is easy to grasp and I move it around between my fingers, reminding myself that Jesus is with me even in this. It is not a moment of tranquility or instant resolve. My grip on the cross usually involves white knuckles.

But as I have started to allow my helplessness to stay, it reminds me of my hopefulness that Jesus also stays. In the Bible, He is given the nickname Emmanuel, which means God with us. He very easily could have seen us in our mess and decided to snap His fingers and resolve all of our problems, but our God is relational, so He decided to roll up His sleeves and come to us. And because His character never changes, He’s still doing that today.

When I panic, He is not rolling his eyes — He is rolling up His sleeves.

Jesus rolls up His sleeves, He packs His carry-on, goes through security, and sits next to me on airplanes while I try to make it through to landing. And He does not disappear once my moment of need has passed. Instead, I am reminded in my moment of need that He was always there to begin with.

And He will always be there to the very end. And beyond it.

Jesus meets us when we are facing deep heartache or going on a first date or doing the dishes or making impossible parenting decisions. He is present when we are feeling the most confident and He is present when we are the most terrified. And perhaps this is the greatest gift to me in my panic: I remember my Prince of Peace, who does not always take away the struggle I am facing, but He certainly sits with me in it.

And when we land, He walks with me to baggage claim.

Listen to today’s devotion below or search (in)courage podcast on your favorite app.