To Dwell in the House of the Lord Right Now

To Dwell in the House of the Lord Right Now

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I held her hand in mine. The sounds of the hospital hummed all around us, just outside the door of her room. I could hear the nurses and other patients, background noise that didn’t provide any additional peace. 

She had texted me early that morning asking me to come to the hospital. We had become friends more than a year earlier when she had been diagnosed with cancer. I was still new to pastoring and even though I knew I didn’t have all the answers, I knew I could show up for her. 

She had been moved into palliative care a few weeks earlier, and the doctors weren’t sure how many days she had left. Her text indicated how afraid she was feeling and asked if I’d come to pray. 

I texted her back: of course I would come pray.

I drove down to the hospital and held tight to her hand as she told me all she was afraid of. 

She was so afraid she wasn’t forgiven by God, so afraid she wasn’t going to be with Him, so afraid she didn’t deserve eternity with Jesus. At one point, I said kindly but firmly, “You don’t deserve it. Neither do I. That’s what makes Jesus so good. You and I could never earn it. We could never be good enough. But Jesus trades our sin for His righteousness. God sees us through the lens of Jesus Christ… that’s what makes the gospel so good.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I’m forgiven,” she whispered.

I had preached on Psalm 23 at our church just days earlier, focused primarily on verse six: “Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

It flooded back into my mind as we talked. I began to recite it quietly. She closed her eyes and repeated the words. 

“I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” I said softly. 

“I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever,” she said. Her eyes were closed, her breaths were labored, but her face was filled with peace. 

We recited that line over and over and over. 

“Do you know what that means?” I said when she opened her eyes. “You’re going to be with Jesus forever.” 

“Forever,” she echoed. 

We spent a bit more time together before she needed to rest again. I gave her a tight hug and told her I loved her. 

As I left the hospital, I knew in my bones that those words were true: she would dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

But I couldn’t help but wonder: is that where I spend my days too? Do I dwell with Him? More often than not, I find myself dwelling in other spaces… in anxious spaces, in fearful places, in places where my mind wanders to “what if” scenarios. 

But the promise in Psalm 23 is not only that if we follow Jesus we’ll dwell with Him forever in eternity — the promise is for now, too. 

We can dwell with the Lord forever, starting right now. We can dwell in His presence in this very moment — during a hectic workday, while throwing in another load of laundry, in the middle of singleness or marriage or motherhood. Brother Lawrence, in his tiny book, Practicing the Presence of God, believed everything we do, mighty or mundane, can serve as prayer. He was a monk who primarily spent his time washing dishes. If washing dishes in a monastery can be a place where you dwell with Jesus, then you can dwell with Jesus anywhere. 

If you follow Jesus, you will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. 

But I think we may as well start now. 

 

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Cry Out to God

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But in my distress I cried out to the Lord;
yes, I prayed to my God for help.
He heard me from his sanctuary;
 my cry to him reached his ears.
Psalm 18:6 NLT

God’s people have been a people who cry out. When the Israelites were enslaved by the Egyptians, they cried out for deliverance. During the reign of the judges, the people cried out when things turned for the worse. King David cried out in his depression, in anguish, and in repentance. Hannah cried out for a son, the prophets cried out for their people to turn from their own ways back to God, the bleeding woman cried out silently as she touched the hem of Jesus’s robe. And even Jesus cried out with His last breath on the cross.

We come from that line of people, and crying out together is our inheritance. We pray as our hearts ache for strained relationships, as we struggle in long seasons of darkness and sadness, as we sit in loneliness, as we work through resentment and bitterness, and as our tears stream down our faces for all the unspoken pains and longings in our hearts and in those around us.

Here at (in)courage one of our greatest privileges is turning to God together in prayer. Please leave a prayer request in the comments and then pray for the person who commented before you. Let’s experience the power of prayer as we pray for and with one another.

How can we pray for you?

Make Space in Your Soul for Hope

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Ask any Midwesterner about “fake spring” and they’ll surely have a story for you about packing away all the coats on a warm day only to have to pull the winter gear back out the next week. While I’m all for a shortened winter, I think these false-start spring days have something to teach us about the spiritual practice of living expectantly — even when we don’t feel particularly hopeful.

We brought our newborn son home from the hospital on Easter. Tucking a pastel green blanket around him and pulling a knitted cap over his head, I marveled at how much he resembled an Easter egg. After a long winter and an even longer pregnancy, it would finally be spring — the season of new life! And then, as we arrived on our doorstep, the wind howled, clouds covered the sun, and it started snowing.

My baby cried. So did I.

A couple weeks into the winter-that-wouldn’t-end, the sun reemerged and offered us an unseasonably warm day. Had we fast-forwarded over spring and gone right into summer? I knew it was too good to be true — the day before we’d been wearing puffy coats. I squeezed my postpartum body into a sundress, put the baby in his carrier, and located two matching shoes for my always-moving toddler. We were going on a walk. We were going to seize the summer day!

And seize it we did. I sat on the park bench and slipped my tired feet from my sandals, wiggling my toes in the sandbox and letting myself breathe in hope that while the beautiful forecast wouldn’t last through the week, it was also true that winter wouldn’t last forever. I watched my toddler conquer the playground, and as I felt the sun on my face, I also felt a glimmer of hope that the postpartum exhaustion wouldn’t stretch over my body and soul forever. Better days were ahead.

And then, wouldn’t you know? The very next day, it snowed.

But I’ve never minded false-start sunny days. Hope deferred is still hope. We need the small offerings of hope in our lives to remind us that just as there is darkness around us, light is near too.

From heartbreaking headlines to the everyday aches and anxieties that come with being human, we have every reminder that the world isn’t as it should be. And that’s why we have to cling to the promise of hope, even if hope itself still feels out of reach.

On that warm spring day years ago, I knew there were bound to be more cold days to come. I knew my circumstances weren’t going to suddenly change. I was in a difficult and demanding season of life that wasn’t going to improve with the changing of the natural seasons. But the warmth of the sun tethered me to the reminder that even though life didn’t feel particularly hopeful, hope was on the horizon. Someday, my baby wouldn’t be colicky. Someday, my toddler would potty train.

The expectancy of hope was enough.

Each headline feels heavier than the last these days. I find myself wondering how much pain our tender human hearts can hold. It’s in these moments that I need spiritual eyes to see glimmers of hope in hard times.

The expectancy of hope begets hope.

It’s that whisper deep in our souls that reminds us though life might not be better right now, or even in the foreseeable future, the sun will shine again someday. It’s why we’re drawn to a video of a little girl singing “Let It Go” in a bomb shelter. It’s why our hearts ache to share laughter with loved ones even as we gather to grieve the loss of another. These glimmers of hope don’t fix anything, but they keep us going.

The promise of hope begets hope.

It’s easy to close up our hearts and say hope is too far gone from a season, situation, or person. But it’s the braver choice to have the audacity to believe hope will return to our hearts even so. Even if. Even when.

In Mark 9, a man is desperate for relief for his son who is having seizures. He begs Jesus to help his child, and says, “I believe. Help me in my unbelief.” In times when hope seems lost, maybe the best we can do is get really honest with the One who knows every ache of our heart by praying this prayer: I hope. Help me in my hopelessness.

We cannot change the weather just as we cannot stop a warring world. But we can hold tight to the expectancy of hope. This is not the end. Despair does not have the final say. Cynicism won’t win. Winter won’t last forever.

Holding onto the expectancy of hope is not ignorant optimism. It’s not frilly or fanciful, but rather it sits in the pain and pushes through it. Hope is dirt under our fingernails as we plant tulip bulbs in the fall, believing that even though the days are going to get darker and colder, spring will someday come. Hope is us raking soggy leaves into piles to make way for shoots of green grass that will burst forth — maybe not tomorrow or next week or next month but someday.

The expectancy of hope is defiant. It’s a stubborn, gritty belief that even when our worlds are caving in, the groans of creation will not last forever.

We can come to Jesus with our most honest of prayers: I don’t have hope right now. But with Your help, I have hope that someday, I will have hope again.

Making space in our souls for hope even when nothing seems hopeful doesn’t ignore the seasons of winter in our lives or the very real suffering in our world but believes the truth that suffering does not have the final say.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.
Hebrews 11:1 (NIV)

 

This article originally appeared on (in)courage here.

How to Hold On to Hope When You Just Can’t Anymore

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I didn’t expect to lose the will to live. That was something for quitters, those who were chronically negative or weak. From my earliest memories, I’ve always been a fighter. Determined, optimistic, stubborn to a fault. Quitting wasn’t an option.

Until it seemed the only option I had left.

It took twenty years of consecutive, unrelenting losses for me to finally lose my will to fight. Betrayal, divorce, single motherhood. Remarriage, step-parenting, and adolescent parenting, followed by fostering and parenting three kids from severe trauma. Then came the three cancer diagnoses in the span of five years — bam, bam, and BAM. And in the middle of that I buried my dad after his thirteen-month war against terminal pancreatic cancer.

And those were just the “big” losses. There were other struggles that were less sensational but no less painful. Like a Weeble Wobble, I’d always been able to bounce back from a challenge. But after the third cancer diagnosis — the one that left me with a permanent disability and in chronic pain — I lost my bounce. Instead, I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. Any hope I’d once had was gone.

There’s a verse in Romans 5 that talks about the power of hope:

And not only this, but we also celebrate in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us (vv. 3-5 NASB).

And hope does not disappoint, the God-inspired Scripture says.

And yet I remember reading those words and immediately feeling a surge of resistance. And white-hot anger.

That’s not true! I wanted to scream. Hope does disappoint!

I’d prayed for relief and deliverance for so many years. And yet, in spite of my bent knees and dogged hope, the only answer it seemed I’d receive was more suffering. More loss. More grief and tears. Disappointment was an ocean, and I was drowning in it. I battled to keep my faith afloat, to believe in a good and loving and powerful God. And yet that belief only seemed to leave me weary and desperate for rescue.

Where was the God of hope? Where was the one who said He loved me and would always be with me? Didn’t my relentless grief confirm His absence — or at least His disregard?

Somewhere in the midst of those hard years, I went to the mailbox and found a gift parcel. I didn’t recognize the return address. Inside was a short letter from a total stranger along with an olive wood cross small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. In the following months and years, I found myself holding on to that cross and rubbing its smooth surface when the worst of the losses threatened to take me under. Something about its tangible presence brought comfort.

Then, during Easter one year, I finally understood why. Although I’d long celebrated Jesus’s resurrection, it was Jesus’s suffering that gave me hope.

Jesus knew what it was like to endure pain and loss. He knew what it was like to ask God for relief and deliverance and not receive it. For so much of my faith journey, I’d viewed Easter through the joy of Jesus’s resurrection. But now I saw it through the eyes of His suffering and crucifixion. Jesus knew both physical pain and spiritual agony. He felt the seeming distance of the Father, who didn’t intervene and spare Him the cross.

And yet Jesus didn’t lose hope.

Why?

Because His hope wasn’t in an outcome. His hope was in a Person.

Remember your word to your servant, for you have given me hope. My comfort in my suffering is this: Your promise preserves my life.
Psalm 119:49-50 (NIV)

Your promise preserves my life, the psalmist wrote. Not God’s promise of happily ever after. Not God’s promise of physical healing or a perfect family or pain-free existence.

But God’s promise of Himself.

Jesus is God’s promise fulfilled, divine presence in human flesh. And heaven — the hope of an eternal, pain-free promised land — is the final piece of that promise, when I will live in the hope-filling presence of my Father God forever.

It’s now been almost six years since that season of suffering nearly took me under. I’ve had more hard days than I can count. Life continues to have unexpected circumstances and painful losses. Sure, I have plenty of good days too, and I celebrate those. But life remains hard for so many of us.

Still, as I look at my olive wood cross, more worn than it was six years ago, I remind myself again and again:

If I place my hope in an outcome — a prayer I want answered or a healing I want delivered — I will end up disappointed. “You will have suffering in this world,” Jesus says (John 16:33). That’s the bad news in no uncertain terms. None of us will escape the pain of the human condition. It’s part of the deal.

However, Jesus didn’t end with the bad news. “But take heart! I have overcome the world,” He promises (John 16:33).

Jesus — the flesh-and-blood presence of God Himself — is our good news. He is our hope, our answered prayer to all prayers. And if our hope rests in Him alone, we will not be disappointed. Our hope is as sure as His resurrection, our eternity as perfect as His promise. One way or the other, my friends, the best is yet to come.

This story was written by Michele Cushatt, and published in the Create in Me a Heart of Hope Bible Study.

Create in Me a Heart of Hope is an (in)courage Bible study, written by Mary Carver and featuring stories from your favorite (in)courage writers! The first in a series of four studies, Heart of Hope looks at how God offers us hope — real, certain, unshakable hope. We believe that looking at where that hope comes from and what it looks like in our lives will help us understand first, what hope is, and second, the difference it makes. It will allow God to create in us a heart of hope. Create in Me a Heart of Hope is now available wherever books are sold. Order your copy today!

And as we journey through April, the National Month of Hope, take a moment to explore these favorite resources from DaySpring that will help you live and share a confident hope in Jesus.

 

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The Real Treasure

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One of my favorite stories Jesus tells us about the kingdom of heaven is found in Matthew 13:44 (NIV), “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.”

I read the Bible like I’m watching a movie or like I’m there when it all happens. In this particular story, a man finds a treasure. In my mind, I’m right there hiding behind a tree watching everything he’s doing. I see his joy and excitement about the treasure. He looks around to make sure no one saw him — and then hides his precious discovery again. Then he runs off and sells everything he owns to buy the land the treasure is on. 

I think sometimes we forget how precious the treasure is. This man was willing to sell everything else he owned for that treasure. We don’t know what he owned. Potentially some of his things had sentimental value. His home and land could have been in his family for generations. We don’t get the luxury of knowing all the details, but we do know he considered everything he owned worthless compared to that treasure. 

My husband, Darian, and I were recently invited to a ministry celebration. It was located at a beautiful resort in Florida on the Atlantic coast. Our room was lovely. There was fine dining and luxurious accommodations. As wonderful as all of that was, it paled in comparison to the actual reason we were there. For over 36 hours, we had the privilege of hearing how people were getting the Word of God into forbidden places, including the Middle East, China, and the outermost parts of the world. People from Russia, India, Japan, and many other countries shared their stories. 

One story I will never forget is of a Hindu family in the Himalayas. One of the daughters had received The Book of Hope (a Bible in condensed form for children) and given her life to Jesus. One by one, the rest of the family followed and began serving God at their local church. The father of the family was outraged and felt betrayed. He decided he was going to burn his entire family alive. He tied them all up and just as he was about to light the fire, a man from the new church arrived at their home. He was able to stop the dad from doing such a heinous act and led him to the Lord that day. That family had found a treasure in a field and their lives were the “everything they had” and they were willing to give it up for the treasure.

By the end of the celebration, I realized I was among some of the most Spirit-led, humble, and effective people in the world. God’s presence was in that place. I cried as I heard more stories of the Lord setting people free from addictions, abuse, hardship, and oppression. I was in awe of His love, protection, and ability to reach people.

God will go to great lengths to accomplish His will. All He needs is someone who values the treasure as He does. 

The irony of staying in that fabulous resort and hearing those incredible stories hit me. None of it mattered. The only thing I could think of was Jesus and the love of God. As everything else faded, my desire to do more for Jesus increased. 

I want what I do on Earth to last for eternity. I don’t think there is anything wrong with having nice things or staying in amazing places, but possessions and vacations won’t last forever. Those things don’t make a difference in eternity. Only the things we do for the kingdom of God will last forever. Our careers, hobbies, homes, and cars will not last. They are just pieces of land we must be willing to sell for the real treasure God has for us. 

Only the things done for the Lord have any real value. Yet we like to elevate things that don’t deserve that honor. Nothing deserves the honor of our love, praise, and sacrifice except God. The Himalayan family knew this. They didn’t even consider their own lives worth more than the kingdom of heaven. 

I have a boat dock on my property that I really enjoy. It’s not my “she-shed.” It’s my she-dock. I truly love being there. It’s where I often go to write and spend time with the Lord. One day when I was down there enjoying the fresh air on my face, the reflection of the water, and the sound of the birds, I heard the Lord say to me, “This dock is wood, hay, and stubble.” I knew exactly what He meant. He was telling me to go ahead and enjoy it — it was a gift from Him. But it wouldn’t last forever. It is not the treasure He has for me.

Let’s put our focus on the real treasure, the things that last forever.

Darian and I almost canceled that trip because of some inconveniences in our life. I’m so glad we didn’t. Being in that atmosphere, in the presence of God and people who follow hard after Him, reaffirmed my priorities. I want to build with “gold, silver, and jewels,” not wood, hay, and straw. I want the things I spend my life on to have eternal value.

I love how Jesus said that the man who found the treasure hidden in a field was joyful. He wasn’t disappointed to sell all he had. He couldn’t wait to do it. This was the best day of his life. The treasure was far greater than anything else he could imagine. Nothing on earth compares to the kingdom of heaven. It truly is the greatest treasure. 

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Stay a Little Longer

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The grating sound of wood on tile reverberated in my ears as I dragged the footrest over to where I was sitting. Getting it into an acceptable position for my feet, I settled back into my faithful wingback IKEA chair. My husband and I had just discussed our need for a breakthrough from our lingering weariness. After he left for his meetings, I stayed a little longer in my chair.

The clock was ticking, as it does in my mind every morning I get the kids off to school and preschool. I had my ever-increasing to-do list to tackle, but I felt the stirring need to not move on so quickly.

I’ve often prided myself on my ability to handle a lot on my plate, but over the past year, I’ve found that my capacity has decreased.

I imagine it has to do with the different rhythms that have developed over five and half years of living on this island of Fire and Ice known as Iceland. Perhaps, the intensity of elements like constant winds, blizzards, lava eruptions, and even the months of midnight sun, have shaped me into a different type of vessel in this season. Maybe the doings on that to-do list of the past year depleted me more than I realized — or wanted to admit.

Or maybe I was just plain tired.

Maybe I didn’t need to jump so quickly into asking the Lord for a breakthrough when really what I needed was a moment to allow the Holy Spirit to take a good look through me. So I lingered in my chair, not hurrying to fill the silence saturating that sliver of margin with one more thing, no matter how small.

When was the last time I gave myself permission to just be amid the wrestle? Not automatically jumping to an outcome and a way out, but just laying myself before the Lord. Giving Him free rein to check my motives and agendas. I needed the Holy Spirit to shine a light on the places in my life that were in need of some mending. I needed Him to dig out the roots that were causing me to stumble into striving, instead of dwelling, abiding.

In that infinitesimal but eternal margin, I needed to linger and meet God.

There is a story in Scripture that has always fascinated and challenged me. We know that Moses was considered a friend of God and did incredible things out of the overflow of that relationship. Likewise, his assistant Joshua accomplished amazing feats. But what sticks with me about Joshua is not his faith or how he courageously led the defeat of Jericho.

What lingers with me is how Joshua lingered with God.

“The Lord would speak to Moses face to face, as one speaks to a friend. Then Moses would return to the camp, but his young aide Joshua son of Nun did not leave the tent.”
Exodus 33:11 NIV 

Amidst what I’m sure was constant activity and the pressure of leadership, Joshua didn’t hurry away from God’s presence. He stayed in the tent, even after Moses departed, dwelling with God. I envision him resting in the shadow of ancient wings, turning his heart towards worship and wonder as he soaked up the lingering aroma of the King of the universe.

I don’t have any plans in the near future to install a tabernacle of sorts in my front yard. I’m sure that structure wouldn’t last long in these Nordic winds anyway. But thank You, Jesus, that because of shed blood and a torn veil, lingering with You is no longer about a physical place but about the position of our hearts.

In our very next breath, before the inhale, between, and after the exhale, He is here. The great I Am creating space within our moments and slivers to be with Him. Right there, where we are…

  • Placing our hands in sinks of soapy water, washing the dishes that never run dry.
  • Running to the next gathering to encourage the sphere of influence we’ve been given and pausing a moment in our cars.
  • Finding a second to breathe before the tasks of the day greet us, a certain ache in our hearts from stretching out towards what seems beyond our grasp.
  • Embracing the joy that filters in after a long night with the rising of the morning sun.
  • Facing a period of grief unspeakable, pain too piercing to bear.

Lord, help us not to rush past these moments.

You are as close as our next breath. We will linger and meet You there.

Friend, what moments will become a meeting place for you today?

 

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The Unexpected Miracle

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As a seventeen-year-old, I sat in a U.S. Customs office in Houston, Texas — my future hanging in the balance as I awaited the Border Patrol’s decision about whether I could stay in the United States. The uncertainty of the situation made me question my future and how I would move forward if forced to leave.

Living undocumented in the U.S. as a teenager was not something I would talk about or even acknowledge at the time. After all, I was a teenager still trying to process much more than my legal status. My mother’s abandonment in Canada a few years prior was still a fresh wound, and I was sorting out feelings of rejection while trying to find answers to questions like, “Why wasn’t I enough for her to stay?” My Abue (short for “Abuela” which means grandmother in Spanish) had moved in with us to help my father raise me and my brother. After a few years, my father eventually moved us back to the U.S., where he ultimately left us, too.

I spent my high school years living with Abue in Little Rock, Arkansas, and though times were tough in many ways, that didn’t matter to me because this was my family; this was all I had.

“You are being deported back to Guatemala today; say your goodbyes as we arrange for your return home to Guatemala,” the Customs Agent said. Abue fell to her knees and prayed for a miracle as soon as she understood what was said. And no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t reason with the agent to change his mind. While my Abue prayed amid heartbreak, my brother and I started saying our goodbyes. It was there, in our greatest defeat, that God stepped in. Almost immediately, another agent took me to a separate room to question me about my Canadian passport. After answering many more of their questions, the agent sent me back to the waiting room. Abue’s prayers in Spanish could still be heard, asking for a miracle and God’s will to be done.

When the agent returned, she informed me that due to my Canadian passport and citizenship, they would allow me 36 hours to leave the country, a voluntary withdrawal, to return to Canada with the possibility of reentering the U.S. in ten years. I was no longer facing deportation to Guatemala. Abue jumped off the floor, hands in the air, praising the Lord when she heard the new plan. “Solo Dios pudo hacer este milagro” (only God could do this miracle), she proclaimed in Spanish. God had answered her prayer most unconventionally. Three days later, I was boarding a plane bound for Toronto — alone.

When I share this part of my story, I think most struggle with finding the miracle and God’s goodness. And if I am completely honest, I did for many years too. I had a lot of questions for God. How was allowing me to be separated from the only family I knew a miracle? How was it good to allow a child to go to another country with no parents, no money, and no real direction for the future?

The truth is that neither Abue nor I had a plan or even the slightest idea of what still was ahead, but Abue knew that our circumstances didn’t define God’s goodness, and because of her faith, I knew He was good too.

During a recent visit to Abue’s, I came to the realization that God’s divine protection, grace, and perfect plan were present in the rejection I faced when I was forced to leave the U.S. many years ago. He was also present in the rejection by both my mother and father. Though these experiences were heartbreaking, He gifted me a story through them. I can now share about God’s love and redeeming power with others, praying they will also come to believe in Him. Despite the hardships I faced along the way, I have realized that those challenges were personal invitations from God to seek refuge in Him. As it says in Psalms,

“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.”
Psalm 34:8 NIV

Today, I want to encourage you that no matter how impossible your situation may seem, this moment, right now, is your opportunity to seek refuge in your Heavenly Father. It’s the Lord’s personal invitation for you to “taste and see” His goodness through eyes of faith and believe with your heart that your circumstances don’t define His goodness; rather, His goodness is His character.

Remember, God is always there in your darkest hour, working miracles and making a way for you. He promises you hope and a bright future as He authors your story.

Your miracle is in the making.

 

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When You’re Not Ready & Jesus Shows Up Anyway

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“My surgery is next week,” I told the nurse as she checked me in for bloodwork. “I don’t feel ready in the least.”

I half-laughed nervously, hoping she wouldn’t think I was silly. “But is there any way to be ready for a mastectomy?”

She shook her head as she gathered the vials from the shelf and turned back to face me.

“Honey,” she declared, bright eyes flashing. “You’re having a major surgery. There’s no way to feel ready. That’s completely normal. But can I tell you something?”

My whole body exhaled with relief. For the first time in months, someone in the cold, sterile clinic was treating me like a human being.

She pulled her stool close to my chair and took both of my cold hands in her warm, soft palms. She looked me full in the face.

“You are going to be ok. But this is incredibly hard. No one talks about the emotional side. A mastectomy is an amputation. And you need to give yourself all the grace to get through.”

I nodded, ready to weep, knowing this wasn’t the time or place. But I was bone-weary after months of chemo, weeks of nausea, endless days and nights sick in bed, trying to believe all this suffering would bring healing. I just wanted to be ok — for myself, for my husband, for my kids, for my family and friends, for my church community and every blessed stranger on the internet praying for my recovery.

“Listen, darling,” the nurse continued. “Before I started working downtown, I worked in labor and delivery for twenty years, at a hospital up north. I loved every minute of that work, helping mamas and their babies. But on the same floor, we also had the post-op ward for the women who’d had mastectomies. So I got to take care of them, too. I know how all of it is so hard on women and our bodies. We don’t talk about the emotional side or spiritual side of this surgery, how it changes everything about your identity.”

From the other side of the curtain, an impatient intern interrupted: “Labs ready?”

“Not yet,” she hollered, winking at me.

She went on, holding my hands, talking me through the process of mastectomy, giving me recommendations for recovery, reminding me to say yes to every offer of help, making me promise to take it slow. I surrendered to every emotion and started to cry. She cried, too. We both laughed. She grabbed Kleenex for both of us and kept going.

“Labs ready?” Impatience kept rising in the intern’s voice, waiting to run the routine labs to the university hospital for analysis.

“Not. Yet.” Her reply was steady and unwavering. Here was a woman who knew her calling.

For half an hour, the nurse kept talking with me, coaching me through “what to expect” like I was a new mom terrified of birth. Every few minutes, the annoyed question would come from the hallway: “Labs ready?”

Without skipping a beat, she’d respond with a smile only I could see: “Not yet!”

Eventually, we did get down to business, finished the blood draw, and sent the vials off to the lab — with apologies for the delay and gratitude for their patience. But how could I begin to explain that this was the real work of healing? Seeing the hurting human in front of you, reaching out with all the compassion and courage you could muster, and setting aside the day’s schedule to make time for what matters most.

Whenever I read the healing stories from the gospels, this is the part that catches the lump in my throat: how Jesus saw straight into each person in front of Him. The bleeding woman, the sick child, the feverish mother-in-law, the blind man, the dying servant, the paralyzed friend. He always let His agenda for the day — whatever teaching or preaching He had planned — be interrupted to care for the beloved, broken child of God right in front of Him.

Ironically, this truth is hardest for me to remember on the ordinary days, when one more kid has interrupted one more conversation, when my inbox is overflowing, when the house is a mess and the to-do list is a mile long. How am I supposed to get this all done, Lord? Why don’t You just let me focus and finish what I need to do?

That’s when I hear the gentle reminder of Jesus’ words to His friend Martha when she was worked up at her own overwhelm: “There is need of only one thing” (Luke 10:42 NABRE). And that one thing is always and everywhere to see the face of Christ in the person before me, the sacred image-bearer of the divine that has shown up at my door.

Like the kind nurse who set her schedule aside when I needed her comfort, like the exasperated intern in the hall who saw my tear-stained face and realized there was a reason for our delay, I try to remember that our most important, loving actions on any given day are often when we let ourselves get interrupted by God.

We might never feel ready, but Jesus shows up anyway. What a gift when we remember that we can show up with compassion for each other, too.

 

If you’re new to (in)courage, WELCOME! We’re so glad you’re here! Don’t miss a day of encouragement. Sign up now to get daily devotions sent straight to your inbox. Or subscribe to our daily (in)courage podcast and we’ll read every article to you!

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Our Easter Prayer

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Lord,

Thank You for the gift of HOPE
You gave us on Easter morning.
Because of You we know
That no problem is too difficult
And even death does not have power over us.

Thank You for the gift of JOY
You gave us when You were resurrected.
Because of You we know
That no matter how challenging life may be,
In the end we will rejoice again.

Thank You for the gift of LOVE
You gave us when You laid down Your life.
Because of You we know
That there is no sin too great to separate us
and we are incredibly valuable to You.

Thank You for the gift of LIFE,
You gave us when You left the tomb.
Because of Easter we know
this world is just the beginning
and we will spend forever in heaven with You.

We celebrate You, JESUS,
With hearts full of praise and gratitude
For who You are and all You’ve done for us!

Amen.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him.”
Romans 15:13 NIV

This beautiful prayer was written by Holley Gerth and appeared on (in)courage here.

 

The Most Powerful, Remarkable, Beautiful Truth

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Today is Easter Eve, though I’ve never heard it called such a thing, and I’m finding myself on a sweet stroll down memory lane. Won’t you join me?

What characterized the Easter celebrations of your childhood? What made this cherished church holiday special for you? A brand new outfit? Waking up to an Easter basket brimming with goodies? A sunrise service or Sunday afternoon feast with your family, close and extended? A city-wide egg hunt ablaze in color and chaos? Day-by-day deconstructing a Resurrection egg set to examine tiny symbols that represented the life of Christ?

With a big grin and a bit of horror, I recall the coordinating pastel dresses my sister and I wore when I was about four, complete with crunchy crinoline skirts, white bowler hats, and shiny patent leather shoes. “Fancy” is relative, yes? I also remember being a beast when it came to hunting for Easter eggs. Never was I more fierce or competitive than when a contest for most eggs found or a golden egg was at stake. It was in your best interest not to get in my way because you just might come face to face with a 35-pound steamroller determined to win a prize.

Are your earliest Easter memories similar or something entirely different?

Fast forward many years to when I became a mother with three children of my own. It never occurred to me until right now how closely the practices of my own childhood inspired Easter traditions for our family. New, coordinating outfits for our daughter and two sons; maybe not crinoline for Rachel, but all three matchy-matchy (until I finally learned that didn’t actually have to be a thing). Baskets filled and waiting right outside their bedroom doors. Attending church somewhere, wherever we happened to be that morning. A glorious lunch with our extended family (or friends when we had to be apart), anchored by glazed ham, potato salad, deviled eggs, and way too many sweets. And an egg hunt — always an egg hunt — except now my competitive beast mode for finding the prized or most eggs was proffered for my babies.

Memories are golden when they connect our present to happy or special moments from our past, aren’t they? While it’s unhealthy to live in the past or to become stuck in a rut of longing for the “good ol’ days,” telling and re-telling the stories of our lives can build unity, familiarity, and identity among family members. These are good things.

Easter traditions, in terms of norm and practice, vary from family to family, church to church, denomination to denomination, and even culture to culture. How we commemorate this holy holiday doesn’t matter a bit, but why we celebrate Easter is essential. Jesus, Holy God wrapped in human flesh, lived a perfect life, and in doing so, was able to offer Himself as a sacrifice for our sins by surrendering Himself to the brutality of the cross, atoning for each sin and redeeming our lives with His precious blood. And then, in news too good to be true (but nonetheless true), He conquered death, rose again, and according to Acts 1:3, ” . . . presented himself alive to [the apostles he had chosen] by many convincing proofs, appearing to them over forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God.”

Beyond the four gospel accounts of Jesus’ resurrection, Paul tells us that He “appeared to over five hundred brothers and sisters at one time” (1 Corinthians 15:6 CSB). Paul supported the veracity of such a startling claim, dispelling any notion it was some fairytale conjured by the apostles. Jesus had risen, and He was wise and faithful to show Himself to many.

We celebrate Easter because it is a powerful, remarkable, beautiful true story and because God alone is worthy of our praise, adoration, and worship.

Jesus spent three years in ministry, revealing truth by the way He lived and loved. I have to smile in appreciation of how He lived out this quote, long before any philosopher, preacher, or teacher gave us a model about how to deliver a memorable speech:

First tell them what you’re going to tell them, then tell them. 
And then tell them that you’ve told them.
– Author Unknown

Except His was a memorable life. Hallowed Scripture foreshadowed the coming of Christ and hinted about God’s plan for redemption (tell ’em what you’re going to tell ’em). Then, Jesus came to earth and lived as a man so we might know God, and in light of that, how to live (tell them). And after His resurrection, He spent His last days on earth reminding His followers of what He had already told them, equipping them for ministry and enabling them to understand the mystery of what had escaped them prior to His death (tell ’em what you’ve told ’em).

The powerful truth about Easter is Jesus’s victory over sin and death.

The remarkable truth about Easter is Jesus’s complete obedience to God and His willingness to not only pay the price for our sin, but also to offer forgiveness and new life to those who follow Him.

The beautiful truth about Easter is that Jesus always delivers what He promises, He loves us no matter what, and in the closing pages of Matthew, He offers us the hope we’ll need when we’re prone to doubt or forget:

“And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
Matthew 28:20b CSB

Take a moment to share a special Easter memory. Or share a powerful, remarkable, or beautiful Easter truth the Lord has revealed to you!

 

This article originally appeared on (in)courage here.

 

Introducing Four New (in)courage Contributors!

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Do you know why we do what we do here at (in)courage? Why we share stories about our struggles and God’s strength, why we write about the pain and beauty of ordinary life, and how God’s power and presence meet us there? Because we believe stories are a tool God uses to impart courage to His daughters to help us live out our calling as members of the body of Christ.

Our writers show up here every day to reveal the inner workings of their lives so you can more clearly see the goodness of God in your own.

We are not perfect messengers but we are dedicated followers of Jesus. We are followers who want to know His ways and orient our lives around them so the light of His love and power can reach every corner and cranny of this dark world. Beginning with the crevices of our very hearts.

We are over the moon to introduce you to four truly fabulous women who are joining our community of Jesus storytellers. These writers will bless you with their wisdom, joy, and humor. We can’t wait to learn from their unique and layered stories and how God continues to heal, guide, and empower them. Seriously, we could not be more excited…

Please meet our new (in)courage contributors in their own words:

Jenny Erlingsson

Hello friends! I’m Jenny, an Alabama-born, Nigerian-American currently living in the land of Fire & Ice. I’ve learned to never say never to God because when I married my Viking husband I was never moving to Iceland, and once the Lord called us, I was never moving to my husband’s hometown. Whelp, one seriously supernatural dream later, we live in his small but sweet village on the southern coast.  

Before dwelling among lava rock, erupting fissures, and waterfalls, I served on the pastoral staff of my home church in Huntsville, Alabama. My degrees are in Social Work, but I jumped right into vocational ministry. (in)courage has been so impactful to me and I also love encouraging others at the root level, helping them cultivate Christ-centered identity, intimacy, and influence. This flows into the books I write and help others create. I’m the author of creative non-fiction and my debut novel, Her Part to Play, releases this June! The little girl in me who wrote stories about her Barbies is overjoyed, y’all!  

I think I’m a kind, strong, and outgoing woman, but I crave moments of solitude. A cozy chair with a novel, snacks, and coffee? Yes, please! But these moments are not as frequent as they were during my Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High era, ok?! Did I mention my four adorably feisty kids? When I’m not mothering them or ministering with my husband, you’ll find me in the margins, scribbling words I hope tell of the glory and goodness of God. I’m thankful to get to share more with our (in)courage community from that beautifully messy, but deeply anchored, place. Bring the chairs, I’ll bring the snacks, and we’ll hang out in those margins together.
Connect with Jenny on Instagram.

Laura Kelly Fanucci

Hello from Minnesota! I’m Laura, and I’m delighted to join the (in)courage community. I became a writer when I was a bewildered new mom, fresh out of graduate school for theology and wondering where to find God in the mess of motherhood. I started writing about parenting and spirituality back in the blogging days, but in 2022 I turned my Mothering Spirit site into a collaborative gathering place for mother-writers around the globe — a long-time dream to create space for diverse writers and readers to connect around shared joys and struggles of faith. I spent 11 years working on ecumenical theological projects on calling and vocation, so I love hearing where people are feeling God’s nudges—especially in surprising places.

Lately, I write about everyday spirituality at The Holy Labor, my weekly Substack, and I’ve authored books on parenting, discipleship, calling, and grief. My husband and I went through infertility, miscarriage, and the loss of our twin daughters after their premature birth. So I’m always searching for God in the broken places and seeking to share light in darkness. But I’m also a firm believer that humor is holy, so I’m forever a half-step away from a huge laugh (and a sarcastic aside).

I live in the suburban wilds near Minneapolis with my husband of 18 years and our five boys (yes, it’s an energetic, messy house). With the sparse free time I have these days, I love reading, music, poetry, and laughing with my kids. Most recently I’m a breast cancer survivor, so I will lovingly bug you to get your mammogram and prioritize caring for the body God gave you. Joining (in)courage is a delight because building community with other women has been one of the great joys of my life. I can’t wait to connect with you!
Connect with Laura on Instagram.

Ligia Andrade

Hola Amigas! I’m Ligia, pronounced Lee-Hee-ya. I was born in Guatemala and reside in Canada, the most beautiful country in the world. Sometimes, I cannot believe I get to call this country home. Sure, we don’t have a Target or a Trader Joe’s, but the stunning scenery, experiencing all four seasons, and the amazing people here more than make up for it!

I am happily married to my husband Alan, of thirteen years, and we are raising our three kids, 16, 14, and 11. Navigating these teen years, we often experience high school flashbacks as we deal with dating and play Uber driver, but I would have it no other way! I am mostly known for my delicious barbacoa tacos (if you know, you know!), speaking Spanglish, and intentional hospitality. Still, most importantly, I am known for loving God and loving people.

Most days, you can find me connecting with women from various communities, in-person or online. There’s nothing better than making new friends and learning about women from all life paths, each with their own story. With a passion for women to come to know Jesus through community, my husband and I launched ANEW in 2019. Anew is a women’s ministry devoted to fostering community and connection while pointing women to Jesus as we equip and empower women to solidify their identity in Christ.

I have loved being a part of the (in)courage community, which has been a constant source of blessings to me through its active online presence. It is an honour to now join the team and be able to serve you this season. Bendiciones!
Connect with Ligia on Instragram.

Tyra Rains

Hi everybody! I’m Tyra, I cannot wait to get to know you all. If I could, I would love to have each of you over to my house, sip a latte, hear your story, and laugh for hours. I have to be honest and tell you I’m sure I’d have tears part of the time as well. I’m invested in people.

Jesus, my marriage, my family, our church, and sunshine are my life. My husband, Darian, and I have raised three awesome kids. They are all married to the best humans and have (so far) given us five perfect grandbabies. In our off time, you’re likely to find us eating, on a family walk, boating, or just hanging out at the table.

Pastoring Your Place Church with my husband and leading Virtue, a movement of women striving to live uncommonly in a common world, is my passion. Gosh, I love both of those things. Weekly we watch people transform in the presence of God. It’s beautiful.

Virtue is also a book and curriculum I wrote after spending time with a group of girls who believed their lives could never be more than mediocre. A mediocre life is not okay. Life to the fullest is the message Jesus has called me to share. I’m in awe of the life change it’s brought so far.

It’s a joy to be a part of this (in)courage family. I’m honored to have the opportunity to share in your walk with the Lord. Let’s be friends.
Connect with Tyra on Instagram. 

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Don’t you just love them already? Please offer your warmest (in)courage welcome to these new sisters! And be sure to tune in every day next week for the first devotion straight from each of their hearts. We know you’ll be (in)couraged!

 

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

 

Let’s Help Each Other Fly

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Earlier this winter, my daughter participated in a cheerleading clinic. She and other elementary school kids learned two routines and were invited to perform at halftime during the high school basketball game.

She and I practiced the small group routine over and over, perfecting the cheer and hand claps and jumps. What I couldn’t help her with was the large group routine. She had a small stunt she was involved in, and while I can holler and clap with the best of them, my cheerleading “skills” end there. I would just have to wait and see her during the game.

She ran out onto the basketball court, a beaming smile on her face and high ponytail flying. She crushed the small group routine, the one we’d practiced together, and I was so proud. I was beaming too! And then all the kids spread out over the whole court, picked up signs and poms, and went into their large group routine.

My girl was the base for another girl, whom she helped hoist into the air. She and two more girls formed a kind of pyramid, then boosted the fourth girl up on their hands, holding her confident and strong.

When she ran off the court and for the rest of the evening, my daughter could not stop talking about how much fun she’d had. Cheering on the players. Being part of something bigger. But especially, she expressed that her joy had been serving as the base, lifting another kid up into the air.

“I helped her fly!” she exclaimed. And even now as I write this, tears prick my eyes because what if we all took such joy in helping each other fly?

We may not all be the best cheerleaders. We may need to be lifted up ourselves. But we can all do the heavy lifting of friendship, of support, of helping someone else to fly.

When we do, we might be stepped on. We may be overlooked in some ways. We may not be at the top of the pyramid; but we may be called upon and given the opportunity to be the strong, firm, and steady support someone needs.

To be clear, it takes strength to both ask for and offer such support.

The times throughout my life that I’ve needed to be held up were humbling. I don’t necessarily have trouble or guilt asking for help, but it can be a shock to realize that I don’t — I can’t — hold everything together on my own. I’ve been so thankful that when I’ve asked (and even a few times when I haven’t had to), my prayers for help have been answered. Meals delivered. Tasks finished. Dishes done. Snacks dropped at my door. Finances given.

Some of the people who have helped lift me up have been the closest and dearest of friends. Others have been total strangers, led to follow a whispered call.

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”
Hebrews 13:2 NIV

I grew up in the glory days of Amy Grant, and one of my favorite songs of hers is Angels Watching Over Me, and the closing line that says “Though I never see with human eyes the hands that lead me home”. 

Friends, we can be those hands! With our offerings both big and small, we can be the ones to hoist another right up into the air.

We can be the one who helps another girl fly.

In tangible ways and in words spoken. In giving from our time, our talents, and our treasures. In showing up when we’re needed, even if we’re not asked. In opening our hearts, our homes, our hands to one another.

In a world where it’s often easier to assume, ignore, or compete, we can be the ones to support, uplift, and bolster.

When the chance to help arises, may we find ourselves saying, “I get to be the one!” May we beam as my daughter did on that basketball court as she hoisted someone up and into the air. And may our hands serve as one pair that helps lead another Home.

 

P.S. Be sure to read (or listen!) tomorrow because we’ve got a HUGE announcement to share with you!

 

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

 

When You’d Rather Hide, Reach Out Instead

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Last Thursday was a really bad day.

I’m talking about a horrible, terrible, miserable, no good, very bad day.

After work, I drove home to take one of my children to an appointment . . . but we never made it to that appointment. Some truly bad choices were made before we even got into the car, and we couldn’t go. It was traumatic for all involved, and missing the appointment was merely the icing on a garbage cake.

By the time that crisis was resolved, I was physically and emotionally spent. I wanted to crawl into my bed and ignore the whole world. The horrible, terrible, miserable, no good, very bad world.

As I considered collapsing under the covers and hiding from all the things making me hurt, I remembered something. My friend had invited me to a Bible study that was beginning that evening. Because of my daughter’s appointment, I hadn’t been able to go . . . but now I could. I weighed the options:

Go to the Bible study and open up to people I didn’t know well or didn’t know at all?

Go and run the risk of monopolizing the conversation? (Or go and spend the whole time crying because that’s what I felt like doing anyway?)

Stay home and wallow in self-pity and misery, rehashing the horrible ordeal with my husband?

Or stay home and hide, numbing my feelings with half a bag of chocolate chips from the back of the pantry and hours of Instagram reels?

I decided to go to the Bible study.

Though my friend had invited me, the group of women meeting was mostly people I didn’t know. And they were reading a book that, when I’d heard about it and read the synopsis, didn’t appeal to me. I was glad for the chance to connect with other women and discuss Jesus, but I was also a little nervous about the whole thing.

Plus, I wondered if going made me a negligent mother or a callous wife. After all, shouldn’t I stay home and help my kids process what had happened that afternoon? Shouldn’t I be there in case my husband wanted to talk about how he felt or what he thought about it?

Maybe . . . but we’d already processed and would certainly continue the next day. And another part of me knew I needed to get out of my house. I needed to choose connection over hiding. I needed to take care of my own heart before I could help heal anyone else’s.

So I did it. I drove to the designated coffee shop and ordered a caramel latte with oat milk, hoping the wisdom of avoiding regular milk (because I’m allergic) would balance out the foolishness of consuming caffeine so close to bedtime. I smiled and said, “Nice to meet you,” and tried to remember the new names. I listened as they discussed the first chapter of a book I hadn’t read and wondered if, when I started the audiobook on my drive home, it would resonate for me like it was for them.

And when one of my new friends said, “You have kids, right? So how’s that going?” I shared the story of my day and let them into my messy life.

Telling others about my horrible day didn’t fix all the problems. Spending a couple of hours with five other women didn’t allow me to go back in time or erase the memory of every bad thing that had happened.

But it did minister to my hurting heart. It gave me a moment to stop and breathe. It gave me a few minutes to focus on something other than my situation, and it reminded me that I’d never been alone in any of it. See, mixed with our conversation about the book I hadn’t read were snippets of each woman’s story and the places God has met them over the years.

They talked about how He’d met them at the bottom, how He’d stayed with them, and helped them up.

They shared the ways God gave them strength in every kind of struggle and how He was still holding them close and guiding them through hard spots.

They helped me remember the things I know to be true about God and His incredible love and care for me. They reminded me that it’s okay to not be okay, that God doesn’t expect us to handle it (whatever “it” is) on our own, and that sharing a burden is always better than trying to carry it all by myself.

If you’re having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (or week or month or season), you might feel like I did last week. You may be tempted to stuff all the hard feelings, to hide under the covers, and refuse to come out until the world plays nice, or to simply go radio silent. You might think you have to take care of everyone else first and maybe then you can rest or recover. Or perhaps you feel like it’s better to keep your mess to yourself, or you’re afraid nobody will understand or care or be able to help.

Fight those urges, friend.

Don’t hide. Don’t stay home or stay quiet in your pain. Reach out. Connect. Allow someone safe to see the real you, to hear a bit more of your story. And then listen as they share how God has met them along the way and loved them through their pain.

Let them help you remember the things you know to be true.

“Therefore, I will always remind you about these things — even though you already know them and are standing firm in the truth you have been taught.”
2 Peter 1:12 NLT

 

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

 

You Are in the Potter’s Good Hands

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A few months ago, I invited my friend to join me for a pottery class at a new local studio for her birthday present. We both love to try new things and were intrigued by the experience of using a potter’s wheel to create something out of clay.

When we arrived at the class, the teacher gave us step-by-step instructions. We each sat down behind a wheel while she passed out a ball of clay to each student. Our first task was to slam the clay down in the center of the wheel to get it to stick. Then we were to wet a small sponge and soak the clay.

Our teacher encouraged us to gently nudge the pedal to get the wheel spinning. With wet hands, we learned to center and cone the clay. Coning helps to mix the clay and work out inconsistencies or air bubbles before shaping it. We used our fingers to lift the clay into the cone shape and then our palms to push it down again.

Once the cone was centered well, the teacher showed us how to smooth and shape the clay into a flat disk. She said to make it look like a mini flan. (She had me at flan. Hello, one of my favorite desserts!)

The process of forming clay on the wheel was longer and harder than it looked.

The trick was to keep adding water to keep the clay supple and moldable. We pressed, pulled, and pinched until that ball of clay eventually became a bowl or vase.

Metaphors for life abound in the pottery studio.

A few times, the teacher came over, stuck her hands in front of me, and started to work with my clay. At first, I wanted to take control of the clay myself. I wanted to learn by doing it myself. But soon I realized the value of surrendering to her expertise. I learned a lot from watching my teacher and her techniques.

The first surprising lesson was that it requires lots of water to make a clay pot on a wheel. Clay is naturally hard and heavy, but water makes it workable.

Our souls are much the same. We need consistent hydration. We need the living water that only Jesus offers. On our own we are heavy, brittle; we are dust. With Jesus’s living water, we are malleable clay. The very same water that He offered the Samaritan woman at the well has the power to transform us from the inside out (John 4:13-14 NLT). He is our Thirst-Quencher when we are parched, our Teacher when we lack technique, our Shepherd when we need a gentle guide.

In the pottery studio, I also learned that pushing on the pedal to speed up the wheel does not make the work go faster. I had to be slow, deliberate, and intentional if I wanted to make a beautiful bowl.

It turns out that in pottery-making, as in life, you have to trust the process. It’s rare that someone would sit down at a pottery wheel and make something perfect on the first try. Oftentimes the clay needs to be reworked, reshaped, and reimagined.

This brings to mind the story where God sends the prophet Jeremiah to the potter’s house to show him something important He wants to relay to the people:

Go down to the potter’s shop, and I will speak to you there. So I did as he told me and found the potter working at his wheel. But the jar he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so he crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over. Then the Lord gave me this message: “O Israel, can I not do to you as this potter has done to his clay? As the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand.”
Jeremiah 18: 2-6 (NLT)

God uses this visual to remind the people that He is the Master Potter, molding them like clay. He calls them back to repentance and rest in Him.

The prophet Isaiah uses a similar metaphor of clay and Creator:

“What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator.
Does a clay pot argue with its maker?
Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying,
‘Stop, you’re doing it wrong!’
Isaiah 45:9 (NLT)

These verses remind us that the Potter can do whatever He wants with the clay. He can push out our inconsistencies, transform our too-jagged edges, and smooth us to symmetry. It might feel uncomfortable or too long in the waiting, but we are not to resist His design work. We are to submit to His molding and making, and behold His creative process embodied in us. 

After the class, our teacher fired our creations in the kiln — a hotter-than-hot oven — to set them. When it was done, I traced my finger along the smooth edges of my bluish-teal bowl. I held it with a quiet sense of pride because it wasn’t fancy, but it was my creation.

That little bowl sits on my bathroom counter now, holding some of my favorite jewelry pieces. It’s a sweet reminder that God is the Potter, and we are but dust mixed with water in His heart-shaped hands.

This devotion originally appeared on (in)courage here. 

 

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

6 Simple Prayers for When You’re Barely Hanging On

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I often feel like I’m living in the land of barely. Barely enough sleep. Barely enough patience. Barely keeping enough spoons and socks clean. (Seriously, what happens to all the spoons?!)  Barely fixing dinner. Barely getting dressed. Barely keeping my anxiety in check.

My default is to shame myself for all the barely. To “should” myself into doing better, trying harder.

Do you have a soundtrack of shoulds? I should be on top of things. I should manage my time better. I should be over this. I should be okay by now. I should be more grateful, more together, more spiritual. I should be less of an emotional mess.

But through the noise of my shame, I hear the voice of Jesus who keeps gently reminding me that He is the God of abundance who isn’t put off by my barely. When I’m barely holding on, God is abundantly able to hold me.

It’s because of our barely that Jesus laid Himself bare on the cross. He took all our weakness, sin, and failure upon His flawless self. He did it so we wouldn’t have to keep living in the land of barely… barely enough righteousness, barely enough sacrifice, barely enough grace.

The bloody cross and the empty tomb mean any barely we face is a fleeting circumstance. Our future is secure! God’s unshakable hope, His unending joy, His perfect peace — this is our inheritance! But the beautiful reality is that we don’t have to wait till heaven to receive it. It can be ours today!

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”
Romans 15:13 NIV

God’s peace isn’t reserved for the ones without mildew in their showers or strained relationships in their families. His joy isn’t set aside for the ones who have never known the ache of depression or the stress of stretched finances. His hope isn’t only designated for the optimists who never yell at their kids. The beauty of Jesus’s love and grace is that it’s poured out for all of us!

If you’re living in the land of barely today, the hope, peace, and joy of Jesus are available to you.

He wants to meet you in the muck. Exactly where you feel stuck. I know it’s true because He’s done it for me more times than I can count.

Years ago when I had a toddler who wouldn’t sleep — wouldn’t even stay in his crib for more than 90 seconds —  I remember sitting slumped and sobbing in the hallway, night after night, utterly at the end of my rope. I also remember Jesus sitting right there beside me.

In those weary and wrung-out moments, God’s Spirit would speak the words of James 1:2-5 to my heart:

“Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides. You know that under pressure, your faith life is forced into the open and shows its true colors. So don’t try to get out of anything prematurely. Let it do its work so you become mature and well-developed, not deficient in any way. If you don’t know what you’re doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You’ll get his help, and won’t be condescended to when you ask for it” (The Message).

I definitely didn’t know what I was doing. Yet again and again, God helped me through the next moment. Now more than a decade later, I can see how that brutal season of barely feeling like the mom my child needed was indeed a gift. My son grew and matured at the same time God was growing and maturing me.

Or when I was in the dark pit of anxiety, before I had a name for it, and my mind raced like half dreams I couldn’t escape and my heart beat like I had overdosed on caffeine — Jesus met me there too. When I could barely make it from dinner to bedtime without snapping at my husband and crying without cause, Jesus drew near. Out of the abundance of His love, He sent friends to share their own experiences with anxiety so I didn’t feel alone. He led me to seek help and support through a trusted Christian counselor. He showed me that just as He had compassion for the physical suffering of the lame, the leper, and the blind, so too He has compassion for our mental suffering.

Again and again, Jesus reminded me that I am not alone.

Maybe today you need to know that Jesus is there with you too, but you don’t even have the words to tell Him.

Here are 6 simple prayers for when you’re barely hanging on:

     God, I don’t know what to do. Please give me wisdom for the next step.

     Jesus, I feel so alone. Show me that You are here.

     God, my mind and body are full of anxiety. Please fill me with Your peace.

     Jesus, I need joy that doesn’t depend on my circumstances.

     God, thank You for the gift of Your Spirit. Help me to overflow with hope.

     Jesus, please breathe Your abundance into my barely. I trust you.

Friend, tell Jesus about your hurt, your disappointment, your failure. Whatever barely looks like in your life today, it does not disqualify you from being abundantly loved by God.

If you need more lived-out hope in your week, subscribe to Becky’s new Hope and Reason Podcast. Also available on Spotify.

 

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

 

Is That the Messiah? Is It Time?

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The next day, when the large crowd that had come to the festival heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem, they took palm branches and went out to meet him. They kept shouting:
“Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord—the King of Israel!”
John 12:12-13 CSB

We lined up in the church lobby — about 100 preschool and elementary school children and the volunteers tasked with keeping them quiet for those few minutes. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for our signal.

Ok, he’s still doing announcements, I thought, wondering how long our pastor was going to talk about Easter service times while these kiddos grew increasingly restless. I made a mental note to bring the kids out a few minutes later during the next service.

As the children’s ministry director at our church, Palm Sunday was one of my most stressful Sundays. It was like a jigsaw puzzle, moving up our own worship time and helping late families get to the right place, trying to estimate how long the beginning of the worship service would last, and then gently suggesting to our pastor that he perhaps make his announcements as concise as possible, despite the million details related to Easter Sunday.

And then there were the palm branches — scheduling their delivery, drying them off, stripping them into smaller pieces, distributing them, convincing second-grade boys to stop hitting one another with them, asking four-year-olds to stop chewing on them.

I’m a bit of a control freak. I like things to progress just so and according to plan. I function best under concrete timelines, clear expectations, and certain outcomes.

The Palm Sunday service involved too many moving pieces and too many elements beyond my control; my neck itched, and I wished for a second application of deodorant. I held a finger to my lips and shushed the group one more time. Please no one cry. Please no one have to go to the bathroom. I put my ear to the door again. Is it time?

Suddenly, the guitars picked back up, and there was our cue. The offering baskets began their journey up and down the rows of gray chairs as we opened the heavy sanctuary doors. I put my most enthusiastic volunteers at the front of the lines; we clapped our hands and said, “Wave those palm branches high, guys! It’s time.”

And we sang: Hosanna, hosanna!

Their lap through the sanctuary ended as quickly as it began, and I offered high-fives to each kid on their way out of the sanctuary. We spent the rest of the service learning about that word, “Hosanna,” and the humble King who fulfilled prophecy by riding into Jerusalem on a donkey.

But before I guided the little ones back into our normal Sunday routine, I took one last peek into the sanctuary of adults, normally very reserved in their worship. That’s when I saw them: the smiles. And that’s when I heard it: the laughter. And that’s when I felt it: the joy.

To think I almost missed it!

For the people of God, that first Palm Sunday was a celebration. Generation after generation waited for a sign of the promised Messiah. I imagine with every prophecy, shift in the weather, and change of regime and ruler, they wondered: Is that the Messiah? Is it time?

I wouldn’t function well in that long, long waiting. I wonder whether my faith would have withstood the questions and uncertainty. As Jesus rode on a donkey under their canopy of palm leaves, they shouted “Hosanna” and their hearts said, It’s time.

I just barely understand the sweet relief and rapturous celebration of that moment.

I’m not serving in children’s ministry right now; we’ve since moved 1,000 miles away from our old church. I’m home with my 3-year-old, 16-month-old, and newborn. Right now, we are finishing mortgage paperwork. With three under four and an impending move, it would be easy to get caught up in logistics and timelines and my control freak tendencies. But that’s not how I hope to spend this Easter season.

Instead, I’ll hand my toddlers some palm leaves cut from green construction paper, and when they wake up on Palm Sunday, I’ll tell them, “It’s time!”

And I won’t miss the joy.

 

Today’s devotion was written by guest author Lindsey Cornett and originally appeared on (in)courage here.