When We’re Overwhelmed by the Tide of Grief, God’s Love Will Quiet Our Hearts

When We’re Overwhelmed by the Tide of Grief, God’s Love Will Quiet Our Hearts

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Recently, I cleaned up the aftermath left behind after last year’s king tide. 

A king tide is an extremely high tide caused by events that amplify the gravitational pull between the Earth and the Moon. These rare tides occur when the Earth, Moon, and Sun are aligned, compounding the strength of the forces that shape the tide. 

One overcast day, we observed the slow rise of the ocean creep over the bulkhead and flood the sidewalk, surging — inch by inch — into a fifteen-foot swell. At the point when panic began to ensue, as the level reached the bottom of the front step, the water began its retreat back out to sea. Thankfully, the tide left no structural damage. Only a muddy, mucky mess. 

The mess left behind is the mess I rallied strength to face after months of procrastinating. I had to dig deep to find the mental and physical strength to dredge through the muck, overturn rocks, and wash away layers of algae. 

This hesitation to clean up the mess reflected my own hesitation to face what the tide of life brought in last year.

Like a king tide, a great shift in life’s course set off a wave of grief — a grief that slowly rose and rose, overturning layers of sludge and sadness. Unresolved grief over losing my mom, the heartbreak of changing relationships, and health issues surfaced at the sudden and unexpected loss of a beloved pet. Overwhelmed by this tide of grief, I questioned my resolve. Did I need to just “get over” my ache? Even though I mask the depth of this sadness from others as I move forward in daily life, does God know how my heart lingers in an undercurrent of sorrow? 

As I dug through the dirt, overturning rocks and pulling out plants deadened by the tide, I turned over the muck of my own mourning that had been buried for a very long time. As I gave space to acknowledge sorrow, God’s word rose from somewhere in my memory, reminding me of His promise during painful seasons of the past.

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
Isaiah 43:19

Our world can be overturned by a king tide, knocking us over and unexpectedly leaving us unprepared for the flood of emotions that will overwhelm us. Yet, as the tide recedes, we will get glimpses of God’s grace in the new life that emerges. 

I grieve the loss of my mother and many other relationships that have shifted from the gravitational pull of this world. But, after a season of loss, the birth of my first grandson brings new life and joy to my heart. I delight in the wonder of his gaze and the sweet way he pats my cheeks with his tender, little hand. 

In the gaze of my beloved grandson, I sense an unconditional love I have not known before. And, through my grandson’s gaze, God reveals a new dimension of His love — a love that delights in me.  That squeals in my presence. That chatters in my ear with words only He understands. 

And when my sweet grandson rests his head on my shoulder to sleep, I sense with new perspective how God longs for me to surrender and rest my head in His presence with the same kind of abandon. 

God does a new thing when we are able to clear out the muck of grief buried in our hearts. He overturns sadness with a tender love — the kind of love that heals with grace. This love is a love that delights in the return and recognition of a beloved face, over and over and over again. This love is a love that comforts, a love that soothes like a pat on the back and the soft Shhhhh I utter to my grandson as I rock him to sleep. 

This love is a love that anticipates being face-to-face with a loved one, trembling with awe and wonder. It is a love called, in Hebrew, racham — the deep, from the deepest bowels, innermost love of a mother. It is the love of a mother I grieve. Even still, it is the love I experience for the first time as a grandmother, healing me and teaching me that, This is how God loves me, too. Deeply, from the deepest bowels, with an innermost love.

Indeed, in the aftermath of overwhelming tides, God quiets all of our aching hearts with His tender love.

What It Can Look Like to Praise in the Middle of a Struggle

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Has the Lord ever reminded you of something so simple, yet so fundamental? This is that. A few weeks ago I had the joy of sharing this reminder with an amazing group of women. I wrote an entry for (in)courage’s newest devotional, 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle entitled “A New Song of Praise.” The Lord led me to build on what I wrote about with them. I believe He’s wanting more of His daughters to get this reminder.

The season when I wrote that devotion was hard and difficult. Honestly, the current season I’m in is not so far off. God is doing many amazing things in my life. I’m growing in many ways. He’s doing a profound work in me and through me. I’m discovering new facets of His character and ways. I’m making tons of new friends and going deeper with old ones. He is also opening doors for new ministry opportunities. It all sounds great, right? It is.

And yet, there are a few areas in my life that are a struggle. They are the areas where it’s been a consistent battle, where the enemy has been persistent in attacking me. They are the areas where I have to fight to not be discouraged by or lose hope.

That’s much of life, isn’t it? There are mountaintops and valleys, green pastures and harsh deserts.

As I was reflecting on the areas of ongoing struggle in my life, the Lord reminded me of a couple of truths. They are not new truths. But, if you are anything like me, I can so easily forget them.

Hold fast to and remind ourselves of what we know to be true. What is it that we know to be true? God is GOOD! And He can be TRUSTED! How do we know this? We know this by reading His Word and reflecting on His past faithfulness in our lives. Whenever we are in the midst of a trial, we need only to look to the Word of God to be reminded of God’s heart for us and His purpose for our lives.

One of the most impactful ways I get into the Word is to read it out loud. I declare it over myself and my situation. I love Psalm 43:5 (NIV), “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God.” It couldn’t be any clearer. He is our hope! He is our source! He is our provision! He is everything we need and everything we didn’t know we needed. When I do this, I can feel the faith rising within me.

We are to let others carry our burdens. I don’t much like the word burden. Burdens are just that. Burdensome. They’re heavy. Whenever I am in the midst of something hard, I tend to power my way through and try to figure a way out all on my own. Growing up, that was my only choice. So, when I became a Christian, the Lord had to do a big work in me about this. He has had to tear down my independent nature and mistrusting mindset. He’s had to teach me how to depend on Him as my source and how to trust others for help and support. He’s also had to teach me humility along the way.

Often the enemy will lie to me and try to convince me that I am a burden for needing help. He tries to convince me that I should be able to fix everything by myself, that I don’t need anyone. He tells me that no one cares about me and that no one is trustworthy.

There has also been some shame and embarrassment when I’ve needed to ask for help or accept help when it was offered. God has gently reminded me of the first 10 verses of Galatians 6. My Bible titles the chapter, “Doing Good To All.” Verse 2 specifically says to “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” The burdens of this life are not just the sins we are tempted by. It can be everything from our thoughts to our behaviors, the effects of other people’s decisions to health struggles. If you were to name something that is a result of living in a fallen and broken world, that can be a burden.

The Lord knew those things would come. That is why He designed the Church, His Body, His Bride. His heart is for us to be a benefit and a blessing to each other, to be a source of strength and encouragement for one another.

Let’s be vulnerable. Let’s ask for help. Let’s ask for prayer. Let’s accept help and prayer when offered.

God expresses to Paul in his affliction in 2 Corinthians 12:9 that His grace is sufficient for us. God’s power is made perfect in our weakness. Paul exclaimed that he would boast all the more in his weaknesses so that Christ’s power would rest on him. Oh, that Christ’s power would rest on us.

His grace is indeed sufficient for any struggle that comes our way. Thank God that it is a sustaining grace. We can trust Him. And we can trust those who He places in our lives. This is how we can we can praise Him. We thank God for His truth in our lives and how He sets us in His family.

God is our faithful Father.

Jesus is our trusted Friend.

The Holy Spirit is our Comforter.

If you are in the middle of a struggle, I would love to pray for you!

Listen to Karina’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Hope for New Life from the Aftermath of Destruction

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My mom was a DIYer and pro upcycler long before there was ever a corresponding television show or hashtag. In the 80s, our cooking utensils sat by the stove in a coffee can my mom spray painted cobalt blue. She also took an old windowpane door and added a fresh coat of white paint, four spindle legs, and a custom piece of glass to make a new kitchen table.

In fifth grade when I volunteered to be The Lonely Goatherd, Mom took a deep breath then went to work making a papier-mâché goat head from a mold of taped-together balloons — with zero Pinterest boards to guide her. (Best goat ever.)

But perhaps my favorite upcycling project my mom ever came up with was after we endured a massive house fire. After the flames were extinguished, the blackened backyard was a clean slate for fresh landscaping. However, a lean budget meant most of my mom’s suburban garden dreams had to be modified. Thankfully, where finances lacked, her endless creativity and ability to envision what no one else could, stepped in.

The back of the house was burned off, leaving a full-scale version of an open-air dollhouse. Given that the whole exterior had to be redone, it made sense to ditch the simple concrete stoop that led to the back door in favor of a larger wood deck. But concrete is expensive to demo and expensive to remove. Enter upcycler superhero. My mom came up with a plan to repurpose that cumbersome and unattractive concrete into a funky and functional stacked retaining wall that would serve as the structural frame of the yard.

For days the neighborhood buzzed with the piercing grind of a jackhammer. Once the stoop was reduced to makeshift stones, the noise stopped and the magic started. Mom sorted through the debris, painstakingly matching jagged paver to jagged paver.

From a pile of rubble, a retaining wall was formed that snaked its way around the perimeter of the yard. On the lower level, grass was planted — a beautiful yard for Easter egg hunts and summer cartwheels. Above the retaining wall was now dedicated space for fruit trees, plants, and flowers.  

Fast forward several years and the devastating smell of smoke and glow of dancing flames had vanished from memory. The charred earth and rubble had long been replaced by a flourishing lawn and established fruit trees. As a little girl, I ran barefoot across the concrete retaining wall, arms out like a tightrope walker. I imagined I was a world-class gymnast, leaping across a balance beam. I paused to bend down and pluck a red strawberry from its little patch. Juice still dripping down my chin, I then reached up and grabbed a ripe plum from its weighty branch. I rubbed the plum on my cutoff jeans, letting soft denim turn the purple fruit into a shiny orb of delight. I sat down on the jagged wall, sunbaked concrete warming my legs, toes resting in the cool grass, and I let the flavor of that perfect plum burst in my mouth.

Now, more than thirty years later, recalling a hundred moments just like that makes my heart burst with gratitude. Gratitude for the carefree wonder of childhood. But also gratitude for the backdrop birthed in my mom’s creativity, and the picture it gave me of God.

The Bible says we are created in God’s image. This means that as image bearers, we reflect what He is like. Whatever is good and trustworthy and redemptive about humanity is a reflection of God’s goodness. So as I celebrate my mom as a phenomenal upcycler, I find an invitation to ponder God’s nature and celebrate Him.

Consider this: a pile of broken concrete is not beautiful; it’s a burden. But, reimagined, that rubble becomes purposeful.

And new purpose births new beauty.

What was left over from a scorching fire that destroyed much of our beloved home, along with our joy and security, what was torn apart by the relentless blade of a jackhammer, what was ordinarily destined for a dumpster — my mom gave new life. And in doing so, she helped usher in a new season of life and joy for our family.

 My mom was a salvager, a creator, a broken-pieces redeemer. A new-story writer. And that is exactly who God is. God takes what is burned and busted up and makes it beautifully purposeful.

Romans 8:28 (CSB) says, “We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” Whether we are suffering through the blackened aftermath of our sin or wounds from the sins of others, whether we’re walking through chronic illness or anxiety, or enduring a season of depression or broken relationships, we can trust that God is not done writing our story.

We can trust that, in God’s loving, creative hands, any source of destruction can eventually be used to resurrect new life.

 

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

 

 

There’s No Way Back to Normal But There Is a Way Forward

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Recently I spent an entire day in the emergency room with one of my kids. Many x-rays and a small surgery later, the doctor said her bones should heal nicely and predicted she’d be “back to normal” in four to six weeks.

In that moment, my daughter and I didn’t dare make eye contact. Because if we’d done so, we could not have contained our disbelief and likely inappropriate laughter at that statement.

“Back to normal?” What does that even mean?

The reality is that our lives haven’t been normal for a seriously long season. Things have changed. We have changed. And even though I’m still trusting God to walk us through this time, I’ve long since given up on ever finding “normal” again.

Perhaps you feel this too?

Now please know, that I have not arrived at this place of acceptance easily or quickly. At times I also still rail against the injustice that is my specific hardship. Every person in my inner circle has heard me shout, “It’s always something!” and most have heard me, more quietly, confess how very tired I am.

But nobody sees when I cry after reading social media posts from friends or acquaintances sharing about an incredibly “normal” thing their family has just done or experienced. “Normal” is such a painfully deep longing when it feels so far from your own reality.

We’re probably never going back to “normal” at my house (and it has nothing to do with the ER visit). I know this. But I also grieve it. I have to fight the urge to put my head in the sand and pretend like this is just a temporary detour, plus the urge to let bitterness bubble up and lash out at anyone unlucky enough to stand too close.

All of that is why I recently rewatched the entire season of Ms. Marvel to get to one scene in the final episode. (Well, that and the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed it the first time around!)

I’ll try to tell you about this without giving away too much, just in case you haven’t watched yet but want to. Our main character is a teenage girl, and in episode six, she tries to help another teen who’s engulfed by grief and rage. He expresses that he just wants things to go back to normal, and the young Ms. Marvel says: “There is no normal. There’s just us and what we do with what we’ve been given.”

The whole scene is powerful (and not just because these kids have superpowers). In just a few seconds, we see a character express something so desperately and vulnerably that most of us have experienced – that deep desire to go back to the time before the thing that hurt us. But in Ms. Marvel’s voice, we also hear the gentle encouragement that while we cannot go back, we have been given a way forward.

Spoiler alert: It’s Jesus. Jesus is the way.

The disciples were so often confused about what Jesus was doing and why, about who He was, and what His rescue plan was for the people. When Thomas questioned where Jesus was about to go and how could he know the way, Jesus said:

“I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him.”
John 14:5-7 NIV

But Jesus made it clear: He is the way. Our path forward is to follow Him – not our nostalgia, not our fantasies of normalcy, not what we see others doing. 

So how do we do that? How do we follow the Lord instead of our longings for a different reality?

His words in the book of John give us a clue. He says, “If you really know me…” and I think that’s key. When times are difficult and we’re tempted to look back at the old days and wish for a different life, that’s when we most need to lean into Jesus. That’s when we remember who He has already revealed Himself to be and ask Him to be present in the storm we’re in. 

So we read God’s Word. 

Or we pour our hearts out in prayer until we’ve made space to be filled up by Him. 

We stand in His creation and listen to the story it tells. 

We crank up the music or lift up our hands. We sway to the beat or tap our feet or sit perfectly still and soak up every lyric and note.

However you hear from God, wherever you encounter Jesus — do that, go there. He promises to meet you. And He will show you a way forward that’s better than “normal.”

Now receive these words from God’s heart to yours:

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
    I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.
“Forget the former things;
    do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.”
Isaiah 43:1-2, 18-19 NIV

Listen to Mary’s devotion below or find the (in)courage podcast on your favorite app!

The Gift of My Faults

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“Meg, I give you your faults.”

“My faults!” Meg cried.

“Your faults.”

“But I’m always trying to get rid of my faults!”

“Yes,” Mrs. Whatsit said. “However, I think you’ll find they’ll come in very handy…”
― Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

Years ago, my husband and I both took a personality test. It ranks 34 core strengths in order of your answers, and from there can guide you into one of four overall domains. My top five strengths (which were empathy, intellection, developer, consistency, and input) truly described who I am, and didn’t overlap at all with my husband’s strengths. The funniest part was that his very top-assessed strength was dead last on my list. We laughed as we realized how that immediately explained so much about our marriage, who we are apart and together, and how it applied to so many aspects of our lives.

That strength? Adaptability.

I love not changing. I cling to tradition. Nostalgia owns my heart. My aversion to adaptability could be described and viewed as a fault. The unknown keeps me up at night, and big changes and shifts in life cause me deep distress that I try to manage with prayer, deep breaths, and M&Ms.

The fact that one of my faults was my husband’s top strength made us laugh and learn. We still refer to it today, years later, continuing to use that tidbit to explain misunderstandings and reactions as it holds true, even now with more miles on our marriage and minivan.

Those miles include depths of change and massive shifts in our lives, adjustments we asked for, and most that we didn’t. I wonder if I took that personality assessment now if adaptability would still score very last in my lineup. And even if it did, I would disagree confidently because I’ve grown tenfold in my ability to adapt.

Some of the growth has come from adapting to changes we asked for, hoped for, and worked for. Things like having kids. Buying a home. Letting our kids choose activities and hobbies that changed our calendar. Even changing up how we dress, eat, exercise, and make decisions. These are all changes that we grow from and mostly come from a pleasant place, which makes adapting less difficult.

Much of our growth, however, is the fruit of changes and choices I didn’t make. Job elimination. Being forced to leave a church. The consequences of others’ choices. The grocery bill from feeding growing children these days. Household appliances that break. Costs that skyrocket. Paychecks that diminish.

These are the changes that take the most work to adapt to, and yet these are the changes that produce the most fruit in our souls and lives. . . if we let them.

Change can indeed terrify me, but if I choose to mire myself to only what’s known and stay stuck and unchanging, boy, would I miss out on many silly and sacred parts of life.

For instance, sports. I am not a sports girl. I am a theater, music, speech team, library, and marching band kind of girl. But my husband is a stellar volleyball player and former coach, loves his Sunday night softball league, and lives to coach our kids’ baseball, football, and t-ball teams (yep, even the toddler is sporty). This was a massive shift for me, filling the calendar with sports practices, weekend tournaments, evening scrimmages, and early morning games. Not to mention driving to it all, shopping for it all, and planning for it all. If I’m honest, it’s not how I pictured myself as a parent. But baseball, track, football, gymnastics, and cheerleading have been part of my parenting life for over a decade, and though I still pout over the schedule and laundry (because good grief, the laundry – and WHO thought white baseball pants were a good idea??) from time to time, I’ve grown to love it.

I hate to think about the joy, silliness, pride, blessings, and growth I could’ve missed out on by stubbornly refusing to adapt to sports being part of our life. Sports gave me the gift of my faults.

There are other things too, other places and cracks where the sacred enters in and flourishes where I thought only dead soil resided.

After my husband lost his job on staff at the church we’d belonged to for twenty years, I thought our church life was over. We weren’t about to darken the door of a sanctuary again, at least not for a good long time. But our kids asked where they were going to attend Sunday school. And when your kids look at you through tears and ask where they’ll worship… you make it happen. So, we tiptoed into a new church building and community, with much trepidation and fear because we knew the cost. We knew what we’d lost. We knew what it would take to adapt to somewhere new, and it was more than we could offer.

With joy, I tell you that this new church has been a balm, and our whole family is thriving there. Again, I hate to think about what we could have missed out on if we’d refused to adapt to a change we didn’t ask for. The leaving of a worship community and the entering into another gave me the gift of my faults.

While adapting to the changes we don’t ask for can drag us right through the mud and into the valley, God the author remains unchanged. Malachi 3:6 (NIV) says straight up, “I the Lord do not change.” And His faithfulness, His consistency, His unchanging nature can soothe our fear of the unknown.

God stays the same so we don’t have to.

He takes our faults and turns them into gifts, offering them in love and creating beauty from ash. Where do you see Him doing this in your life?

 

Listen to Anna’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

 

 

 

 

Seasons Change, and So Should We

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“I will never move back to this town.” I whispered it as my parents packed the minivan with my college dorm supplies. I was ready to leave and wasn’t going to look back.

And for a long time, I didn’t.

Seasons changed. I changed, too.

I found myself shifting and growing into new versions of myself. I made mistakes and learned lessons that only come with figuring life out as you go. I sat in lecture halls and realized the world was bigger than I ever realized.

I learned. I unlearned. I relearned.

I graduated. Had a job with my very own cubicle. Got married. Became a mother. Bought a house. Moved. Moved again.

I reconsidered things. I looked at life and all its beautiful, terrible glory from different angles. I prayed with an open heart. Sometimes, I was surprised at the miracle. Other times, I was heartbroken at the silence. I read books and kept reading them — novels, memoirs, and how-to’s. 

My world expanded, and so did I.

Change is obvious when we’re in a transitional moment — graduation, marriage, divorce, birth of a child, retirement, diagnosis — take your pick. But we’re always changing, whether we like it or not. Our bodies quite literally renew themselves over time. Skin replaces itself through a natural process every 27 days. We are not the exact same people today that we were a month ago.

As summer will soon give way to fall, no matter what season of life you’re in, what would happen if you approach this transitional time as an invitation to be transformed in the love of God?

We are all capable of change. Every minute, every second of the day, we’re becoming.

So the question is: Who are you becoming?

What have you made up your mind about? Where do you get your news? Who do you interact with who doesn’t look or think like you?

Do you listen to learn or to help craft your argument?

In fourth grade, my teacher invited us to grab our three-ring binders (mine was of the Looney Toons variety) to create what she called our Life-Long Notebook. She helped us take loose-leaf paper and her pre-printed tabs to create an organized place to add our observations about the newly-built butterfly garden, our wonderings about the world, and our hopes for ourselves. She encouraged us to stay curious and open not just in our classroom but wherever our lives took us.

My first college internship was at a local newspaper. My editor, then in her early 40s (I shudder to admit to thinking she was quite old at the time), told me that she stuck around day after day because she was always learning something. She met new people, asked new questions, and learned new things.

You don’t have to be an eager ten-year-old or a seasoned editor at the paper to be a life-long learner. 

A commitment to learning about the world, the people in it, and the God who made it all is a cornerstone of a faithful life. We can trust God with our wonderings because God gave us that spirit of curiosity in the first place. It’s when Christians refuse to learn and grow that we get into dangerous situations.

I’m not the same person I was five years ago, and I hope that in five years, I’ll be a different person than I am now. I don’t want to alter the fundamentals of who I am but want to grow fully into who God created me to be. I want to keep learning – to be, as Romans 12:2 says, transformed by the renewing of my mind. I don’t want to do this to accumulate more knowledge but to more fully love God and love my neighbors as myself.

Spiritual transformation is not always comfortable, but it is sanctifying. Our spiritual walks with Christ are ongoing. We don’t stop learning the vastness and fullness of God, of our world, and of ourselves the day we say a certain prayer or hit a specific milestone.

When I read my Bible, I feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, opening doors and going down rabbit holes, often finding more questions than answers. The more I learn, the more I wonder. The more I wonder, the more I learn. A life walking with Christ is comforting yet often confounding. The more we embrace a posture of Christian curiosity, the more our worlds get, as Lewis Caroll put it, curiouser and curiouser.

You are allowed to change your mind. You don’t have to draw lines in the sand and dig in your heels.

Take it from me: After fifteen years away, I began dreaming of moving back to my hometown.

I changed.

And by the grace of God, I will continue to shift and change with the seasons, knowing that in all of my shades of becoming, the steadfast love of Christ never ceases.

As we prepare to bid farewell to summer and shift into fall, may you stay curious and live open-heartedly, forming deeper connections with yourself, your neighbor, and the One who breathes every season into existence.

Find reflections and prayers for every season in Kayla’s new book Every Season Sacred.

Listen to Kayla’s devotion below or find the (in)courage podcast on your favorite app!

Peace for Your Mind and Heart

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“I am leaving you with a gift — peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.”
John 14:27 NLT

If the world was trying to sell peace, it might give us a brochure with sunset beaches and umbrella drinks. We might see a commercial depicting happy families, big homes, and successful careers followed by tranquil music and towel-clad women receiving spa treatments. The world’s version of peace in the form of financial security and tropical vacations might be enticing, but that temporary pleasure is not the same as true peace.

When the doctor calls with a devastating diagnosis, when the one you thought was trustworthy betrays you, when the stress of regular life simply pushes you to your limit — only one person can provide peace in the midst of it all. His name is Jesus.

How have you experienced the peace of mind and heart Jesus gives? Or where do you need to encounter the gift of Jesus and His peace today? We’d love to hear.

Need more peace in your life? Check out our Create in Me a Heart of Peace Bible study.

Our Longings Are Signposts, Directing Us Home to More of Him

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I once traded ten years of my life for a dream — a dream ten thousand sizes too small and altogether the wrong color for me. You’d think I’d have known better, given what happened to my dad. Given how things turned out for the family in which I grew up. 

But our longings are our longings, aren’t they? And mine was for a house — preferably a lovely, wide-porched, cream-colored country home with plenty of room behind its charming exterior for our growing family to live a life of generous hospitality . . . for God, of course. But first we needed the right house, didn’t we? A settled, rooted place out of which to live said big, holy-purposed life.

And, given what happened with my dad and his house dream, we needed our house sooner rather than later. 

Are such dreams valid? Is God in our longings? 

I was around nine when Dad became gripped with a longing to plant our family of five in an A-frame chalet among towering redwoods. His dream took on the cinnamon hue of those velvet-barked, subtly fragrant giants of coastal California. I’m sure he foresaw the curl of woodsmoke rising into blue skies, no need for privacy curtains, years of family meals around the table, and peace. 

Sure, he and Mom would have to work more and harder to pay for the dream. More of his time spent away from us, commuting to the college in the next county where he added both summer and night classes to his teaching schedule. More of Mom’s time was spent working inside and outside the home while riding the bucking bronco of perimenopause. 

Tension and tears reigned for several years, as my siblings and I saw less and less of Dad and more and more of Mom’s fragility. 

But everything was going to be okay, right? Because now the property was being excavated. Now the foundation was being poured. And now, at last, the sweet scent of sawdust bespoke a promise, as a maze of framing rose into the forest canopy. 

Would things have gone differently if we’d known how soon Dad would be gone? That, ultimately, three of the four years we lived together as a family in that redwood oasis would be spent under the tarry-black cloud of his lung cancer battle?

At first I didn’t notice the parallel between my father’s longing and mine — my obsession with house plans and vacant lots, or the way I spoke to my children of the free and simple Jesus-life, all while privately harboring the farmhouse-shaped craving that owned me. 

And then, at last, my husband and I had it — our cream-colored dream house in the pines! Welcoming porch and spacious kitchen. Hardwood floors and river-rock fireplace. Jacuzzi tub and even a bidet. 

The washboard road of faith lessons it took to get here was behind us. Except that, within the span of a year, ahead of us lay a cliff. A terrifying health crisis for our oldest. Job losses for both me and my husband. My mother’s death. 

Now here I was, shedding tears in my beautiful bathtub, as wrung out and hormonal as Mom had once been. 

We faced a choice — go big or go home. Going big meant fighting to maintain our new digs, contending for bright and shiny (read: demanding) jobs to replace those lost. But what, we’d begun to wonder, might it mean to go home?

Frederick Buechner wrote, as published in The Clown in the Belfry, “If we only had eyes to see and ears to hear and wits to understand . . . we would know that the Kingdom of God is what we all of us hunger for above all other things even when we don’t know its name or realize that it’s what we’re starving to death for . . . The Kingdom of God is where we belong. It is home, and whether we realize it or not, I think we are all of us homesick for it.” 

To “go home” might mean our family could downsize. We could come to a full stop, listen for direction. We could make room for serving Jesus in the ways that moved our hearts. 

Never had we been as sure about anything as this: We’d sell our dream house. Laughter bubbled up — we were free! 

For years now, a quirky, old 1300 square-foot house has provided a home base for discovering what it means to venture further up and further in. For stepping into the most satisfying and meaningful assignments this side of our eventual heavenly home. 

The right color for my longings, I’m learning, is the crisp white of a blank canvas. An empty-handed invitation: Lord, paint me into your Kingdom wherever and however you deem good and beautiful. 

To “go home” is to surrender our narrow ideas of home. It’s to say, I don’t care what lies ahead, if only God will be there. It’s to recognize our longings as signposts, ever directing us home to more of Him.

Feel Like You’re Failing? Take This Lesson from a Lilac Bush

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When I walked through the door, I could smell them before I saw them.

Lilacs — jars full of the cut blooms overflowed on the kitchen table. I inhaled deeply, one of my favorite fragrances and, because of this, one of my favorite flowers. My children had been cutting them from the yard and bringing them in, one handful after another. 

I was given this lilac bush, along with a car full of other treasures, from a local nursery that was going out of business around the time we moved to the farm. We were busy with house renovations and massive repairs around the farm, but I still needed to dig the holes to plant everything we hauled home. I was very pregnant at the time and my sciatica prevented me from making the step-down motion it takes to break ground with a shovel.  

All this to say, there wasn’t a lot of thought put into where to plant my scrawny, root-bound lilac bush. I remember thinking, “Weren’t lilacs once planted by outhouses to mask the smell?” I opted to just stick ours by the chicken coop and see what would happen. And, into the ground it went. 

Over the next few years, this lilac bush lived but it didn’t grow much. In fact, it didn’t do much of anything. It maybe had three or four clusters of blooms per season, but that was it. It didn’t seem to get any taller or bushier. It was just there. Yet, all along our road were examples of tall, thick lilac bushes with showy displays of flowers. It had me wondering why ours was so . . . underwhelming. However, in the grand scheme of raising kids and livestock, troubleshooting my melancholy plant wasn’t high on the list of things to worry about. 

Fast forward to last spring when we decided to move the chicken coop because our ladies needed to be moved to higher ground. All the years of scratching and rooting around in their run carved out a low spot that began to fill with water whenever it rained. So we picked a different spot in the yard, maybe ten feet away, and rotated it 90 degrees. It seemed like a small change that didn’t take much effort, but it made a big difference to our chickens. 

Surprisingly, it also made a big difference to my lilac bush. . .

Over the rest of the spring and all through the summer, it thrived. I felt like I could almost see it growing! Not only taller, but it began to fill out and thicken up too. Suddenly, it all made so much sense. I didn’t pay attention to how much sunlight it would get when we first planted it, sticking it next to the chicken coop. Lilacs love full sun, and ours had been in the full shade of the coop for years. No wonder it hadn’t been doing much of anything. 

Now, as I stand here in my kitchen seeing and smelling the evidence of a flourishing, healthy lilac bush, I keep thinking about this beautiful metaphor. For years, this plant merely survived, stuck in an environment it wasn’t created to be in. Now that it has been given full sunlight (or—depending on your perspective—now that the shade has been removed), it’s thriving.

It endured conditions that were against its nature; stunted but still alive. Now this lilac bush is not just surviving, but living abundantly.  

Just like lilacs were created for direct sunlight, we were created to be in direct relationship with God. Comforted by His presence. Fueled by His warmth. Growing closer and closer to Him every day. Boldly displaying abundant blooms as a living example of the goodness and power of Jesus.

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

This World Is Not Our Home. But Knowing That Doesn’t Make It Any Less Hard to Live In

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I sit on the bed and look out the window, watching the tree branches sway wild in the wind.

This is not my bed. Not my room, not my home. It is a guest room now; though, over a decade ago, I lit candles in the dark and strummed songs on a guitar every summer when I came home from college and called this room mine. I’ve since moved out. Got married, birthed babies, made a home of my own in a state a ways south of this one.

Yet, here I am. Thirty-five years old and living back home with my mother and two brothers. My sons and I are here for a season, and we’ll be joined by my husband at the end of summer. Wild, I know. But we moved because we’ve been following a shift and taking time to seek where the Spirit is leading us.

In this transitional season, my heart has become heavy with the idea of home. I talk and write about it all the time. I grieve the people and places I left, and I dream about where and when we will plant ourselves in a permanent, new place. Deeper still, beyond this concoction of grief and dreams, it feels like what I’m really waiting for is a home that can’t be built with brick and beams.

A lasting home — an enduring, eternal home. One that sustains and stays steady . . . can’t be shaken or taken or broken. Is immovable. Anchored.

I read my Bible on this bed that is not my own, and Matthew 8:20 tells me Jesus had no home. “Foxes have dens and birds have nests,” said Jesus, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head” (NIV).

And, I know. I know this world is not our home. I know that we are strangers in an even stranger land. Just passing through, only and ever looking for the city that is to come. I know that, someday, all strivings will cease, all tears will run dry, and loss will no longer be the legacy on our lips. It’s just . . . knowing that doesn’t make it any less hard to live in this world. It doesn’t magically make the waiting feel worth it. It doesn’t make the troubles disappear, or the lacking and longing evanesce into thin air. 

What do we do when we can’t pray away our pining for place, for home? What do we do when we feel that pang for a permanent place of peace — of rest and relief, right in the here and now?

Maybe you didn’t move, but “home” is a hard reality. Maybe you’re still dreaming of a permanent place to call your own. Something right out of a pastoral painting — a beautiful backyard with breathtaking views.

Maybe you’re waiting for the world to change — waiting for bullets to stop breaking through bodies, waiting for the crime in the streets to cower, waiting for the cure for cancer, waiting for stability and safety in your schools, your state . . . on this whole planet.

Jesus knows what it’s like to have no home, no place to lay his head, no permanent place of peace. He knows, full well, about persecution, poverty, and placelessness. Jesus knows the transient life, living from bags and boxes, so to speak. How to be in a place and, mysteriously, how to pass through it. How to be present in the pain of this world and, yet, how to press forward for the sake of the Father’s plan.

Humbled, Jesus came. Lower than kings, lower than His own creation. Even the slyest and smallest of the animals — untrustworthy foxes and unassuming birds — have a home on this God-breathed planet. But not Jesus. Because home for Jesus was in the palm of His Father’s hand. Home for Jesus was always wherever the Father was working and moving.

Jesus lived to serve, not to stay and settle. And I wonder, am I (are we) in the world to be settled or to be servants? Are we bending with and bowing to the will of the Father? Going where He goes. Partnering with Him, place to place to place.

I am downstairs, now, sitting in a recliner passed down by my Pop, who spent most of his Sunday afternoons here in this home. Pop is home now. Home, home. And I think, what a prize it is to be settled in heaven’s home after a lifetime of following Jesus . . . living and moving and serving in His name.

I look outside the window — the whirling winds have stopped.

And, mysteriously, my yearning heart is calm now, too.

Friends — I’d love to hold space for any thoughts or aches or prayer requests you might have about home. Comment below and share a little bit about what you’re going through — I’d love to encourage you.

Listen to Rachel’s devotion below or find the (in)courage podcast on your favorite app.

Peace in the Middle of the Storm

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I was fine, totally fine. Or so I thought.

And then after a long day of work and another hour making a home-cooked dinner, one unnamed thirteen-year-old made one too many critical comments, and I went from okay to out-of-control.

Rest and recovery have eluded me recently. There’s lots of tension and anxiety and chaos — in my home and in the world. We’re like too many passengers, crammed into a too-small dingy, thrust into the wide-open sea and then caught in a furious, terrifying storm. It reminds me of one stormy day when Jesus’s friends woke Him up in the boat crying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!” (Luke 8:24 NIV).

I understand the disciples’ panic — their ability to go from fine to undone in the span of seconds. My squall may not come in the form of rain and wind, but it’s just as terrifying and damaging. And I’m usually the source of its sting — in my impatient responses and curt replies, my critical remarks and unforgiveness. When the tension and anxiety and chaos rise, my peace and self-control go down.

The funny thing about tension, anxiety, and chaos is that the first things we often let go of are what we need the most: quiet, prayer, meditation, Bible reading, solitude. It seems there isn’t time or energy for it.

A few days ago, I realized once again how insecure, irritable, and overwhelmed I felt. I was so caught up in the turmoil of the storm I forgot that Jesus was in my boat. To stay afloat, I needed to remember the only One who could offer me true peace.

“Where is your faith?” Jesus asked the disciples (Luke 8:25 NIV). He asks the same of you and me. And for today, I remember that although my world rocks and the wind roars, my faith is with Jesus. He sits in my boat, even while the storm grows. That means my Peace is with me, right here, right now, no matter what comes.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.”
John 14:27 NIV

Devotion by Michele Cushatt from 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle

Stay organized and inspired this school year with an (in)courage Agenda Planner & 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle bundle! Both are full of Scripture to encourage you, devotions by your favorite (in)courage writers, and space for jotting your notes. The set includes our Seeing God in Every Season 18-Month Agenda Planner, a Gold Snap-In Prayer Board Planner Accessory, and a copy of our 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle Devotional Journal. . .

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100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle features 100 daily devotions to help you discover where strength really comes from — Jesus, who holds everything together. Together with our Seeing God in Every Season 18-Month Agenda Planner, God will meet you right in the middle of your busy schedule with encouragement and truth from His Word.

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

How to Pray for God to Lead You

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Our family’s fourteen-year-old grandma-dog, Quimby, is lying at my feet while I’m writing this. She has been the best dog that a family could ever have, and I will tell my future dogs exactly that. I believe God led us to her when she was a two-year-old pup in the animal shelter. Quimby sat and stared at us without making a sound while dogs all around us barked and pawed for attention. She had picked us, so we took her home. Quimby was the glue in a broken family that was trying to put the pieces back together. Her glue was endless love, hope, and joy — except when it came to one thing:

Quimby was a jerk every time we took her out for a walk.

Our sweet dog turned into an absolute maniac as soon as we snapped on her leash and stepped out the front door. After a few weeks of us getting pulled in all directions and suffering hyperextended elbows, Dr. Google recommended a solution called the “Gentle Leader.” Deceptively simple, the Gentle Leader was not a muzzle but a loop of half-inch nylon that went over Quimby’s nose with two attached straps that would snap on top of her head. It was simple but highly effective. Whenever Quimby pulled on her leash, the tension would transfer from the Gentle Leader and tug her nose to the side. Since dogs can’t walk with their nose turned to the side, Quimby would immediately stop walking and therefore stop pulling. Problem solved. I appreciated the Gentle Leader because we were able to correct a troublesome, difficult, and at times painful behavior in a way that didn’t require any harsh punishment or shock.

Fast-forward to the present. You’d think that after more than a decade of wearing a Gentle Leader, Quimby would no longer need it. After all this time, she should know better and not pull her leash to check out that little squirrel or sniff every single bush, right? Nope. Bless that sweet dog’s wandering heart, she lives to pull, even though her pace is slower now.

But a very interesting thing happened after the first few years. Initially, Quimby would fight us whenever we pulled out the Gentle Leader and tried to put it on her. Now, however, Quimby comes over, sits down, and slips her nose through the nylon loop. While her zest for sniffing trees or going off on her own has never changed, she has adjusted to letting us lead her along the way.

I can be a lot like my Quimby, constantly trying to wander off on my own, oblivious to the dangerous paths I might be taking. Maybe you can relate. In Galatians 5, Paul teaches us to let the Holy Spirit guide our lives because God knows that we would confuse His lordship with the dazzling allure of other siren voices calling us to do what makes us feel good, to get what we deserve.

“So I say, let the Holy Spirit guide your lives. Then you won’t be doing what your sinful nature craves. The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions.”
Galatians 5:16–17 NLT

We have a Gentle Leader in God’s Holy Spirit. Letting God lead us begins with realizing our need to be led every day and never getting to the point where we think we don’t need God’s guidance or correction. There are times on our path when we pull, and the Holy Spirit gets our attention by stopping us from charging ahead. This is not a punishment; rather, it is a kind and gracious act of God.

God offers gentle nudges intended to get us to pause, reflect, slow down, and align ourselves with Him again.

Submitting to God’s Holy Spirit isn’t easy, especially if you sense God calling you to take hard steps like offering forgiveness, turning away from certain desires, or trusting Him without being able to see the path ahead.

Being led by the Spirit doesn’t mean that you turn into a robot. It’s a choice and a freedom. God isn’t making you do anything. You choose whether you want to submit to His leading.

Here are a few prayer prompts for inviting the Holy Spirit to lead you:

  • God, examine my heart and open my eyes to any area in my life where I am afraid or unwilling to wholly trust You.
  • God, is there a step of obedience I haven’t taken that You’ve been waiting for me to take?
  • God, is there a habit or pattern of behavior that is unhealthy for me physically that I need to submit to You?
  • God, I give You permission to lead me today. I want to follow Your plan and purpose for my life.

The Holy Spirit’s leading is gentle, full of love, and always for our good. Let’s trust the guardrails and guidance He provides, and eagerly walk with Him today.

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

5 Things to Help Your Relationship with Adult Children

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Twenty-five years ago today, I gave birth to twin sons — three months after I turned twenty-five myself. As I prepared to be a mama, I thought I was as adult-y as one gets. And I never thought I knew more about parenting than I did before actually becoming a parent. I know kids, I told myself back then. After all, I was a big sister to two younger sisters. I regularly babysat other people’s children. I taught elementary school children from kindergarten through 5th grade.

In some ways, I certainly did know kids. But as with many things in life, I didn’t know nearly as much as I thought I did. Once I became a mom, I learned that having peripheral experience with other people’s children is a lot different from the neck-deep experience of raising my own.

Still, there was something about raising small wee-watts that came naturally to me. In all honesty, I took to parenting younger children better than I took to my more recent season of “doing life with” adult kids. I’m sure part of that had to do with the level of control I had then versus now. With little kids, the greater element of control means that if your two-year-old is doing something you don’t like, you can pick her up and remove her from the activity in question.

With adult kids, there’s no such thing, of course.

Now, there’s SO MUCH I love about having adult kids. I love having amazing conversations with them that provide a window into the top-notch humans they are. I love hearing them relay what God is doing in their lives. I love sharing memes and jokes and laughing with them till my sides split. They’re spectacular people. But as one who can be “extra” and sometimes overstep with the best of intentions, I’ve had to learn a more laid-back approach to being with my adult kids.

To embrace that, here are five things I’ve discovered that help (and not hurt!) my relationship with my adult kids:

1. Make like a houseplant. This bit o’wisdom is from my friend, Jamie, who insightfully suggests that when it comes to adult kids, talk less and listen more. I’ve learned to make like a houseplant in the corner of the room and not speak till spoken to (mostly – -heh). Truly, though, this houseplant visual is a helpful one for me because I’m prone to chime in with my “wisdom” on all manner of things. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that per se. But these days with my adult kids I’m more careful to make those words “quality over quantity.” 

2. Love them where they are, not where you wish they were. Our adult kids aren’t us, and this fact eventually proves they’re going to make choices we wouldn’t — and that we’d prefer they didn’t. But that’s okay. Odds are good that you and I made choices our parents wouldn’t have chosen either! We can offer them the benefit of our experience through sharing our perspective as we feel led to do so, but we love them well when we accept that they are going to make choices we don’t necessarily endorse. 

3. Think of yourself as a peer more than a parent. Of course, we still are their parents. That will never change. But since this stage of life is for mentoring more than parenting, I often think of myself as their peer over their parent so I don’t overstep with the free advice. Adult kids aren’t really interested in our advice unless they ask for it. (Ask me how I know!)

4. Get together with your girlfriends. Mamas with adult kids need friends who have adult kids. One more time for the people in the back: MAMAS WITH ADULT KIDS NEED FRIENDS WITH ADULT KIDS. Therefore, when your grown-up darling does something you don’t agree with, you can share your feelings about it with those friends. In return, your friends will have much wisdom and perspective to share with you because 9.8 times out of 10, they will have been where you are — or will be in the future. And whether they can identify with your every parenting struggle or not, they can pray for your kids alongside you. It’s an invaluable gift to have friends who pray for your kids like they pray for their own. 

5. Remember God loves your kids more than you do. The older my kids become, the more I find that I have to trust God to reach my kids from the inside out, instead of trying to affect their behavior or choices from the outside in myself. I’d like to spare them from any hardship, and yet I know that through hardship God refines them into the people they’re meant to be — just like their parents are. Yes, we know our kids well, but God knows them even better. He knows what they need more than we do. He’s got a hand under our kids, and our kids are in good hands because of that.

It’s scary to fully release our kids into the world. But we aren’t helpless, either. While we can’t “do” for our adult kids like we used to, we can pray our guts out for God to do for them what’s best for them. We can be thankful that Jesus walks with them — and us. We can, in as far as it depends on us, live at peace with our children.

And in the meantime, we can water those growing plants through presence and prayer… and less talking. 

If you’re the mama of a recent graduate who’s flitting from the nest, Kristen has written The Changing Nest: A Devotional for the Mom of the Graduate just for you.

Listen to Kristen’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

A Sure Way to Pray

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Do you ever find yourself at a loss for what to pray? Do you want to pray in alignment with God’s will but you’re not exactly sure what that looks like for your life?

A powerful practice is praying the Word of God. The Bible, especially the Book of Psalms, is filled with authentic and applicable prayers. When you take a passage, such as Psalm 25, and make tit your personal prayer, you can be confident that God hears you and will honor His words in your life.

Praying Scripture will bolster your faith, root God’s promises in your heart, and align your desires with your Heavenly Father’s.

Today we’re praying these words for you:

Show me the right path, O Lord;
    point out the road for me to follow.
Lead me by your truth and teach me,
    for you are the God who saves me.
    All day long I put my hope in you.
Psalm 25:4-5 NLT

How else can we pray for you?

Here at (in)courage, one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. Join us in holding space for one another in prayer. Leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you.

Practicing True Hospitality + a Recipe for Berry Tarts

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At a conference I once attended, one of the keynote speakers was addressing the topic of hospitality when she said something that took my breath away. “True hospitality,” she said, “is when your guests leave your home feeling better about themselves, not feeling better about you.”

Those words left her mouth and punched me right in the stomach.

So often I am a hot mess before guests arrive. I whirl around the house, scrubbing and cleaning and arranging. I plan my meal so everything’s ready upon their arrival. I snap at my husband and plunk the kids in front of the TV so they’re not in my way. Do I want to create a lovely, warm, and welcoming atmosphere for my guests? Of course. Do I want them to leave feeling better about me? I did…

…but no more.

No more will I blame a small home for my lack of hosting. No more will I allow the mindset of perfection to rule my behavior. No more will I use my introversion as an excuse for not inviting people into my home. My guests deserve more from hospitality, and so do I.

As we enter the end of summer and start of back-to-school, may there be backyard gatherings, impromptu get-togethers, and block parties. In the midst of them, may we be mindful of our motivation. May ‘good enough’ truly be.

May our doors fling wide and our smiles spread wider. May we practice true hospitality.

by Anna E. Rendell, as published in the summer issue of Everyday Faith Magazine.

These end-of-summer days can be full of sunshine, camping, and barbecues. But don’t forget to make time to spend with the friends who make life sweet. Invite a pal over for a sweet, summery dessert — make these berry tarts by our friend Nancy! Print your free recipe card, brew the coffee, and text that friend to swing by for dessert.

Scroll down for the recipe (courtesy of our friend Nancy) and download a FREE printable recipe card!

Berry Tarts

Download the FREE recipe card here!

Prep Time: 25 minutes
Bake Time: none
Makes 6 tarts.

INGREDIENTS:

  • 6 dessert shells
  • 1 (8-oz.) block cream cheese, softened
  • 1/2 cup confectioners sugar
  • 1/4 tsp. vanilla
  • Raspberry or blueberry jam (1/2 tsp. per tart)
  • Fresh blueberries and raspberries, to top the tarts

INSTRUCTIONS:

  1. Make the filling: In a medium-sized bowl, mix together the softened cream cheese and confectioners’ sugar until smooth. Add the vanilla, blending everything together well; set aside.
  2. Arrange dessert shells on serving plate. Spread 1/2 tsp. jam onto the bottom of each dessert shell, then add 1 1/3 Tbsp. of the cream cheese filling mixture over the jam in each dessert shell.
  3. Top each filled tart with fresh blueberries and raspberries. Have fun making different fruit arrangements on top of the tarts!
  4. Serve immediately or refrigerate tarts until ready to serve.
  5. NOTE: You can use other kinds of fresh fruit to top the tarts, including sliced strawberries, blackberries, sliced kiwifruit, and sliced peaches.

To enjoy a look similar to what Nancy created here, use the Thankful 2-Tiered Plates and a Thankful Tea Towel, and voila! You’re ready for a beautiful dessert party!

Find these lovely pieces and more at Mary & Martha by DaySpring.

And let us know: How can you practice the art of true hospitality, right where you are, just as you are?

Grieving Life’s Small but Significant “Deaths” (Even When Others Don’t Understand Your Loss)

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When I scroll through my friends list on social media, there are a few people who are no longer with us in body. I just can’t bear the thought of “unfriending” them. For these friends and family members, I have grieved deeply, and those around me have understood my grief. I’ve taken days off of work, spent money on travel, and changed plans in order to grieve those people and relationships.

But this year, I realized that both my husband and I have been experiencing a different kind of grief. In the past few years, we’ve experienced several smaller “deaths” in our lives — losses that others don’t always recognize or understand.

Over five years ago, we moved to a new community. Both of our jobs changed dramatically, we were farther away from our kids, and, like everyone who has the privilege of growing older, we experienced physical changes.

These changes brought several small but significant “deaths” to us:

1. The death of our community after moving four hours away.

2. The death of identity because of changes in my job.

3. The death of how life “used to be” because of physical changes.

Let me tell you, the recovery from these small but significant “deaths” can be harder the older we get.

The systems to make friends and community are not there for those in our fifties the way they were in our twenties.

How the world views your “usefulness” changes the older you get.

And the body? The body I took for granted, the body that would bounce back after an injury or an illness? Well, she’s gonna need a minute …

While some people seem to take these changes in stride, it starts to wear on others of us when these small deaths keep coming. My identity should not be wrapped up in any one thing. Not in my profession, how I look, how I feel, or who I hang out with. But what else is identity than these hundreds (thousands?) of little things that make us who we are?

Change is hard. I’ve known that since I was a child.

What I didn’t know? Sometimes, change has to be grieved. Grief feels like a strong word, but I believe it is an accurate one.

I’ve noticed when my usually wonderful, get-along husband starts to get cranky, it’s not because he’s suddenly had a personality change; it’s because he is processing a grief he may not even understand.

And when I’m not behaving as my absolutely delightful self? I can now sit back and ask, “What is the loss that I’m experiencing but not acknowledging?” Because in that, I will find an underlying pain that I need to start working to heal.

When we moved to our new community, we needed to find a new church. We loved our church in the Bay Area and had built real friendships there, so we assumed that we would do the same in our new city in California.

But with a two-year pause because of Covid and living far from our new church (it takes over an hour to get there), it has been so much harder to make those connections.

Once we acknowledged that we were sad about the community we lost, we finally had a chance to grieve what we left behind. Finally, we’re starting to heal.

As a couple, we have stopped waiting for others to reach out just because they were at church first. We’re making the calls, inviting people to lunch, and going to events. Even when it feels awkward.

Sometimes I struggle because I know I’m experiencing a loss, but I don’t want to let myself feel the loss. It’s so much easier to pretend that I am not suffering, that if I can just wait out the grief, it will all go away, and I can get back to “life as normal.” But if there is one thing I’ve learned about grief, whether it’s the loss of a friend or the loss of an identity, it’s that grief is a one-way street; there is no going back the same way we came. That place of “before” no longer exists.

Psalm 30:5 (NIV) tells us, “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” This verse reminds us that while grief is real and valid, it’s not the end of the story.

So how do we move from acknowledging our grief to finding joy again?

1. Recognize and name your losses. Identify the specific “deaths” you’re experiencing.

2. Allow yourself to feel. Give yourself permission to grieve these changes. Cry. Journal. See a counselor. All of these steps can give you the permission you might need to feel the grief.

3. Embrace new opportunities. See how you can grow and adapt in your changed circumstances. I bet there are others who have gone through something similar. You can be there for each other.

As we navigate life’s transitions and the grief that comes with them, remember that it’s okay to mourn what we’ve lost. By acknowledging our small but significant “deaths” and working through our grief, we open ourselves up to new paths to walk going forward.

Want to learn more about building community in the mountains? Click here to check out Kathi’s book, The Accidental Homesteader.

Listen to Kathi’s devotion below or find it on the (in)courage podcast on your favorite app!