When Mysteries of the Past Become Clearer in the Present

When Mysteries of the Past Become Clearer in the Present

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You can no longer live in a place, yet that place can still live in you.

From 2004 to 2007, our family lived in a little house outside of Dayton, Ohio. Earlier this month I visited our former abode for the first time in nearly twelve years. When I rounded the corner and saw that humble tri-level home, I teared right up. I could see tiny James and Ethan climbing the crabapple trees and running rings around the house. I could see toddler Faith chasing them, always trying to keep up with her big brothers. When I drove past the house, I could see all three kids playing on the swing set out back underneath the towering maple tree.

Until that visit a few weeks ago, you know what I usually reflected on from our family’s Dayton days? My bonafide exhaustion from chasing little people. With my husband’s busy work schedule, I was terribly lonely. By the time I found friends, we weren’t far from moving again. I also struggled with the exasperating weather that frequently draped heavy clouds, cold and damp, over everything, including my mood.

Sure, I could name good things from that time. Our church family, whom I still miss, for one. My friend, Sherri, and her daughters, Allie and Cassie. The fall festivals, chock-full of some of the best-tasting pie I can remember eating. Ever.

But in my memory bank, the Ohio years held more hard than happy. And while that’s true, it’s also true that going back and standing in a sliver of our family’s history reacquainted me with many good memories.

While the cloudy skies were (from my perspective) a shadow side of living in Ohio, the ability to grow good things there was a strength. The frequent moisture meant our grass stayed green year-round. In the summer, the peonies and tomatoes grew with little to no effort on my part. As I stared at our former residence, I could see how my good man and I grew good things well beyond flowers and fruits. With a whole lot of effort, we grew three children from seedlings to saplings. We grew a sturdier marriage and a hospitality philosophy that sheltered everyone we welcomed inside our home.

There’s a passage of Scripture in which Paul tells the Ephesians: “I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better” (Ephesians 1:17).

That trip held several telling moments in which the Lord revealed His goodness to my family and me in the past. So, I stood there on that janky, uneven sidewalk outside our old house, tears streaming down my face in gratitude for all the blessings of before that I couldn’t even name till long after.

Like the shock of a sunny Ohio day in March, my trip back took me back to all the ways God’s grace showed up for us daily. Somewhere around the year 2040 — if I’m still drawing breath — I’ll probably say the same of 2023. ⁠Time softens the edges of the past, as it’s wont to do. But it also gives us a perspective we can’t always see when we’re neck-deep in the daily demands of our present life. ⁠

My trip to Ohio didn’t only reveal good things I couldn’t see at the time. It also revealed how God has turned many of the hard circumstances — the shadows of those years — into beloved strengths. My loneliness led me to learn how to befriend others and to keep persevering in the practice when I’m not successful. My immersion in little ones repeatedly led me to Christ and full-on dependence on Him.

During that time, too, my faith blossomed and burst forth in a way like never before.

What I really want you to hear is this: If you’re in a season that is particularly difficult, I’m so sorry. If that season is heavy with hardship that makes it hard for you to name what’s good right now, I understand. While Scripture rightly tells us to be thankful in all things, it’s harder to see those good things when you’re snowed under, doing your best to get through. In the struggle, know that God wastes not one drop of your difficulty. After a time, hard seasons can break open into beauty, even if it takes you a while to see and name it.

God is renewing your strength and vision day by day, season by season. He is not idle but actively moving in your life so that you may know Him better. Part of that is showing you and me how the hardship that seemed so unnecessary before can grow into future blessings rising from the mystery.

In that, we see how a place and all we became there can live on in us long after we’ve left.

I’ll continue to look back at my memories and response like Jesus’s mother, Mary, treasuring things from those years and pondering them in my heart.⁠ But I’ll also be more diligent about being thankful for what I have so I can treasure that today, not only at some distant point down the road.

I’ll be thankful that God redeems all my hardships, using them to help me better know Him and His extravagant faithfulness.

Visit here for more encouragement through a difficult life season.

 

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Finding Jesus at a Smoke Break

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The cigarette smoke clung to my denim jacket. I sat on the front step of my church, a man named Hank sitting beside me. His friend Trish stood in front of us. They each took long drags of their cigarettes, the smoke curling into the winter sky. Our church service was starting, but I saw them slip outside and wanted to see if they were okay. 

Turns out they just needed a smoke break. There was snow on the ground, and I was cold as I sat down on the cement stair. But Hank was telling me how he hadn’t been to church in awhile. 

“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks!” I told him. “I’m glad you came back.” 

“Me too,” he said. “I was going to come last week, but didn’t feel like it.”

I nodded. I understood that. Some weeks I didn’t feel like coming to a church service either. 

He motioned to his bag. “But I brought my New Testament with me today.”

I was delighted. “What’s your favorite part? I’m reading Luke right now. I like Luke.”

“I’m in the Acts of the Apostles. There’s some wild things that happen there.”

“I hear you.”

I could hear one of our pastors preaching, the sound muffled through the front door, and I knew the service was well underway and we were missing most of it. My skin felt tight and itchy. I kept thinking about how I could get them to come back inside. Wasn’t it more important to hear the preaching and be inside? 

Then Trish started talking. “I was an actress and a comedian, you know. Before life changed. Before life got harder.” 

“I didn’t know that,” I told her. 

She took another drag from her cigarette. “I had money. I was doing well for myself. Things can change sometimes. They can change quick.” 

She tossed her cigarette into a snowbank and smiled at me. We talked for a while longer, then Trish decided to take a walk and Hank decided to come back inside. There was nothing spiritual about our conversation, not really. Neither of them decided to confess Jesus as their Lord and Savior. Neither of them shed a tear. But I was left with the profound sense that despite the fact that we were sitting outside the walls of our church building, Jesus was sitting right beside us. 

Sometimes I can become so consumed with doing things the “right” way, that I can miss out on how God is working in His own way right in front of me. Of course, I want to be holy and disciplined, and there’s something beautiful to that – but Jesus isn’t always found in the four walls of a church. Sometimes He’s also found outside sitting next to those who are taking a smoke break.

A few weeks ago, another man came up to me before church service. I told him, “I’m so glad you’re here!” 

His eyes filled as he said, “I didn’t think I was good enough to come here today. I almost turned around and walked back home.”

I looked at him with all the compassion in my heart and said, “None of us are good enough. That’s the good news. We each get to come exactly as we are, and you belong here.”

One of the things I love most about Jesus is how He seemed to purposefully gather the most ragtag group of people as His followers. They had all messed up more times than they could ever count. Even as they followed Him, they made mistake after mistake. And yet, the more time they spent with Jesus, the more they began to look like Him. Each of them belonged to Him.

Jesus meets us inside the walls of our churches and outside of them on smoke breaks. You might feel like a ragtag follower, like you don’t belong, like you need to polish up before you enter the building of the church you call home.

But you belong to Jesus and so do I. 

Later that night, I sat on my porch and watched the sun dip slowly. I still smelled like cigarettes from Hank and Trish earlier that morning. I lifted up a heart of gratitude to the Living God who was holding the setting sun and at the same time holding me and Trish and Hank. 

Church isn’t always a sermon. Sometimes it’s a smoke break with two friends whose lives have looked nothing like mine. Jesus was right there – inside our church service and outside too. 

Each of us belongs to Him.

 

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A Faith That Will Not Fail: Dreaming of Heaven

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I was sitting outside soaking up the summer sun when my phone buzzed with an incoming text from one of our adult sons.

“Can I come home? I need to come home.”

For months, he’d faced numerous challenges. A rigorous college academic load and challenging leadership positions, all exacerbated by a pandemic that wouldn’t go away. Then in the middle of all that, one of his most important relationships went south. This is our optimistic child, the one whose glass is always half full. And the one who thrives on relationship. I could sense his discouragement, no matter how brief the text.

“Of course. Always. I’ll have your room ready.”

I remember doing something similar decades before, when I was a sophomore at a small private Christian college. Although in many ways I thrived, I was still a young nineteen-year-old with a fragile self-image and a desperate desire to be loved. So when a few peers made some thoughtless comments about my appearance, it crushed me. I remember the humiliation and rejection. And I remember lying on the bottom bunk in my dorm room when I made the call to my parents.

Can I come home?

There is a homesickness we feel in places of pain. No matter the size or source, pain shouts, “This is not the way it’s supposed to be!” And no matter the friends we call or distractions we employ, the suffering creates an otherness, alienating us from everything familiar. And causing us to long for home with a cry that rattles our bones.

The author of Hebrews recounts the many men and women of faith who experienced this homesickness in suffering:

“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one.”
Heb. 11:13–16

Longing for heaven. Homesick. But this kind of homesickness can’t be cured by an earthly solution.

In 2014, I got a phone call from my dad while I was speaking at an event in Florida. While I sat in my hotel room thousands of miles away, my dad told me that he had only a few months left to live. Pancreatic cancer is vicious, and my fathers was no exception.

That was May 8. By August 19 he was gone. In those three short months, I watched my father process the reality of his mortality. Earlier that same year, I’d received a second cancer diagnosis, so I took notes. I watched him mourn his impending death, the future he’d dreamed of with his wife, children, grandchildren, and friends, the memories we’d make without him, and the plans he’d made but wouldn’t achieve.

But I also watched him dream of heaven. As if he were planning a once-in-a-lifetime vacation, I saw his anticipation and excitement and watched as he planned and prepared. He read his Bible more, talked about Jesus more. And although he grieved, he also experienced real joy. After spending his adulthood dreaming of heaven, that dream was about to be fulfilled.

Homesick. He was homesick.

Can I come home?

Of course. Always. I’ll have your room ready.

On August 19, 2014, he finally got to see it.

Although you and I have mailing addresses, this is not our home. It will never be our home. We feel the ache of this truth every time the temporary walls of our lives crumble and crash. It is oh so easy to forget that this life is not all there is. But, as author Randy Alcorn said in his book Heaven, “We cannot anticipate or desire what we cannot imagine.”

What if we spent more time dreaming and planning for heaven? What if we allowed ourselves the luxury of anticipation, of dreaming of the life that is to come with as much enthusiasm as we dream of our next tropical vacation? Doing so is part of the practice of perspective, and one of the secrets to a faith that does not fail.

As real as our challenges are, heaven must become even more real. That pain you feel? You’re homesick. But that’s okay, because to be homesick only confirms that the best is yet to come.

Go ahead and dream, even while you weep. One day soon, you will finally be home. And He’ll have your room ready.

Taken from A Faith that Will Not Fail by Michele Cushatt. Copyright © March 2023 by Zondervan. Used by permission of Zondervan, www.zondervan.com.

Life can be hard. Although there are moments of beauty and goodness, more often than not, life is marked by fear, struggle, disappointment, and loss. And we don’t know what to do with it. We’ve tried to find hope and security in various people and places — but each has proved unworthy of our trust. We need more. Something — or Someone – -who won’t fail us when our world falls apart.

In her new book, A Faith that Will Not Fail: 10 Practices to Build Up Your Faith When Your World is Falling Apart, beloved author and Bible teacher Michele Cushatt presents a better way. By exploring powerful personal, historical, and biblical stories of people of extraordinary faith, she curates and shares ten practices to help you deepen your confidence and certainty in the God who can be trusted with your worry, questions, confusion, and grief. As a woman who has been through immeasurable suffering, Michele writes with both deep compassion and practical insight as she guides you to:

  • Practice lament and process grief without guilt or shame.
  • Understand what keeps you from trusting God and how to navigate doubt with truth.
  • Learn simple ways to foster shalom and gratitude on a daily basis.
  • Develop a fresh, eternal perspective that delivers both peace for today and hope for tomorrow.
  • Savor daily “faith-builder” practices to strengthen your confidence in God’s love and purposes for you, no matter what happens.

There is hope in your hardship and a God who is both with you and for you. A Faith that Will Not Fail points the way to the only One you can truly trust, and ultimately, to a faith in him that will not fail.

Order your copy of A Faith that Will Not Fail today . . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

Then join Becky Keife for a conversation with Michele this weekend on the (in)courage podcast. Don’t miss it!

 

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*Giveaway open until 4/3/23 at 11:59 pm central to US addresses only. Winners will be notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for delivery.

Grief, Gratitude, and Gray Hair

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“What are we doing with your hair this time?”

My hair stylist and I look at each other in the mirror we’re both facing: me in a black cape wondering if that’s really me in the chair, and her standing behind me, examining my hair.

The ends are dried out and the blend between new growth and the pieces she colored a few months ago glare back at me like a challenge. I sigh. I’ve been trying to blend my bright white beacons of aging with my naturally jet-black hair so that it can grow in without such a strong line of demarcation. I’ve been trying to let it all go, like Elsa, for a little over a year now. It’s been a journey and while it’s “just hair,” it’s also everything.

I’ve always wrestled with my hair. I was born prematurely with a full head of it. Black as night, and thick and heavy like a winter blanket, I’ve never been able to forget it’s part of me.

My mom said she prayed that no matter how I turned out, the daughter of a Korean immigrant and a green-eyed, brown-haired Californian, that God would give me her hair. And it was so.

My wrestling went much deeper than changing hair trends and experiments with cuts and colors. At times, I hated how dark it was. I hated when other stylists called it “ethnic” like it was diseased and charged me extra because of how thick and ample it was, and how unyielding it was to their efforts. My hair broke countless hair-ties, wouldn’t fit in most barrettes and clips, and protested by giving me headaches on the rare occasion I found a hair-tie strong enough to keep it in a pony tail. No matter how much my hair shed (and it did, wherever I went like a trail of crumbs), there was always more. It’s broken vacuums that claimed to be unbreakable. In junior high, a kid who sat behind me staring at the back of my head once announced to the class, “ Tasha’s hair is so thick I could floss my teeth with it!!” And it’s true, I’ve compared one of my strands with floss and though I haven’t tried it, they are a similar width and strength.

My hair was the visible part of me that made me stand out and tied me to my ethnicity – the part of me that I spent so many years resisting. As a teenager and young adult, I prayed against that prayer of my mom while spraying Sun-In until the bottle ran out. I’ve ironed it down, I’ve cursed it in the mirror, I’ve dyed it and tried new styles in hopes to tame it into something less strong, stubborn, and “ethnic.”

But God gave me my Korean hair, and after my decades-long struggle, receiving it now feels too late. As it goes away and becomes more and more gray with age, I grieve the years I lost resisting it, and surprisingly, I find gratitude woven alongside these waves of grief. I apologized to my hair and the Maker of my hair more than once in the mirror.

There’s a sisterhood of gratitude and grief, of death and resurrection. I find both in the strands of my midlife hair. I look at a section of still-jet-black mixed with lightened pieces and bright, almost-translucent-white strands and feel an ache for what was and a thanks for who I am becoming with age, change, and redemption.

It’s okay to feel a stretch and pull over who we are, deep into our ethnic and family details. It’s okay to feel more than one thing about aging. We are never too old or too late to feel these things, and every wrestling is an opportunity to draw near to Jesus and surrender to His love. May we never arrive when it comes to this.

I stare at myself in the salon mirror while wishing I still had the original version of the hair my mom prayed for. I tell my stylist, “Let’s keep these long white strands, blend it a bit, and trim the ends, and then maybe next time we can just let it go for good.”

She’s Asian American too, so I feel comfortable telling her how much I miss my dark Asian hair. She brushes it gently and as she does, I sense God saying, “You still have the Asian hair I gave you. Being Asian and being you isn’t just one thing.”

We live in a dance of yesterday and today, of grief and gratitude. We do not have to pick one. Both are good; today, in the salon chair, I receive it.

 

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Look Around and Find the Treasures Hidden in the Dark

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There’s a star-studded sky out my living room window, evidence of the day winding down. I shuffle to my kettle and pour water into my cup, let the tea leaves soak, then curl down into my chair and slow my mind, breathe. A blessed reprieve in the middle of unrelenting physical and mental health struggles. COVID-19 left me wrecked in the wake of my husband winding up in the hospital multiple times, as well as my own long recovery that I never dreamed would last well over half a year.

These months have stretched long with crippling anxiety and sleepless nights. My mind has howled and body begged for rest, every day has been an uphill climb to get through.

Surrounding myself with a community of women I knew who would be praying for me, I have been gearing up to get through each endless night, and wake to a gray morning on what little sleep I could get. I’ve been running on fumes for what seems like forever. 

If you’re anything like me, you may be looking around in bewilderment, searching for light and an answer. You might be desperate and wondering if God is here, in this hurt, in this heartache. Though it may feel like you are going it alone, I promise you that our ever-loving Father has never once left. 

In the caverns of our confusion, when we’re neck-deep in the what-ifs of life, we can still journey on and adjust our eyes to spot God’s hand, His heart. 

What is here for us, in these underside moments where life flips upside down and our greatest fears and vulnerabilities sit exposed? What do we do in the suffering, when things make no sense and we’re struggling to see straight out in front of our own face? How do we hold to His promises when our grasp feels weak?  

We trust that He who holds the stars in place has a hold of us — and we look around and find the treasures hidden in the dark. 

I will give you the treasures of darkness
and the hoards in secret places,
that you may know that it is I, the Lord,
the God of Israel, who call you by your name.
Isaiah 45:3 (ESV) 

God is growing us in the midst of upheaval. He is at work in the dark, pruning and polishing and watering our parched places. Where we cannot see, God is still there. When our eyes fail, we tune our ears to hear His voice — our God who comes close and calls us by our name. 

The months still drag by without much improvement. The exhaustion, the fight for my thoughts, the blur of brain fog are all part of my daily life, but there has been change, which I can hold up as hope. God is in the business of restoration, of carefully taking each piece of our heart, mind, body, and soul and shaping them into how they need to be. He is in the business of filing and painting and rewiring to put us back together, similar to our original state, but with deeper knowledge, softer hearts. We are His artisanship, the wonder of His work, and He will not rush His design until He gets it exactly right. 

And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.
1 Peter 5:10 (NIV)

In this in-between, in the wait for restoration, I turn my inward worry to an outward outlook. 

I pick up a card and pen words of encouragement to a friend, place a stamp on the envelope and slide it into the mailbox. I look into the eyes of the girl scanning my groceries and tell her that I like her glasses. I make space for my husband on the couch and let him rest his head on my shoulders after he gets home in the evening after a long day at work. 

In the waiting, I grow, glean treasures in the here and now, join God on the move. 

Friend, here is where you grow, too. Where you pocket the gems that you have gleaned in the dark and keep them as reminders of the God who is with you, restoring and strengthening you even now. What view is outside your window this evening? Can you see a darkened sky? Have your eyes adjusted to the jewels of stars that bring out its beauty? 

Tilt your head, just so — you’ll see His presence hidden in the dark.

God Hears Your Voice

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In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice;
    in the morning I lay my requests before you
    and wait expectantly.
Psalm 5:3

There is something powerful about starting our day with our hearts and minds fixed on Jesus. Whether you wake up before the sun ascends from the horizon or when it’s high the high sky. Whether you wake up perky and cheerful or groggy and grumpy, you get to choose the first thing you will do. 

Will it be to turn on the news, check your email, or scroll Instagram? Or will it be to tune your heart to God’s voice?

In Psalm 5, David declares with confidence that God hears his voice. We can have the same confidence. We can trust that whether we whisper or weep or shout or praise, God hears us. Like an attentive parent always listening for their children’s voices, so God is eagerly waiting for the sound of our voices. He loves it when His daughters call out to Him.

So let’s follow the psalmist’s lead today and speak to the Lord. Let’s tell God what we need and wait expectantly for Him to answer. 

 

True Confession

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Even now—
this is the Lord’s declaration—
turn to me with all your heart,
with fasting, weeping, and mourning. Tear your hearts,
not just your clothes,
and return to the Lord your God.
For he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger,
abounding in faithful love, and he relents from sending disaster.
Who knows? He may turn and relent
and leave a blessing behind him,
so you can offer grain and wine
to the Lord your God.
Joel 2:12-14

I sat on my friend’s couch, looking at the sweet women in my small group. We were discussing the chapters we’d read in the last week, and it was time.

Nobody would know if I didn’t speak up. Though we’d been talking about the parts of the book that had encouraged and convicted us most, they had no idea how God had used one small paragraph to remove the scales from my eyes and pierce my heart with fiery truth. I didn’t have to confess. But it was time.

I took a deep breath and blurted it out. I told them how I’d thought of a friend who needed to read a specific point in our book — and how God had straightened me right up, making it clear in my heart that I was the one who needed that message. I told them how He’d brought to mind a situation in which I was the guilty party, in which I had deliberately disobeyed God’s commands.

Eyes downcast, I assured them I’d learned my lesson. I apologized, aware that I’d probably disappointed them. Their response was so kind. They understood how hard it can be to love others the way God calls us to. But like best friends do, they offered accountability alongside their grace and mercy. And in that moment, when they forgave me but didn’t excuse my actions, I realized how long it had been since I had sincerely confessed a sin.

Of course, I apologize for mistakes all the time. And certainly, in quiet moments in a church service or the carpool line or the shower, I might be hit with conviction. But in the same breath I utter a quick “sorry,” I immediately move into gratitude for forgiveness and fresh mercies, vowing to try harder and do better next time.

Facing my sin that morning, I saw clearly my need for true confession, for the fasting and weeping and mourning that comes when we recognize just how far from holy we are. Don’t get me wrong! I don’t think God intends for us to wallow in our regret, to stay stuck in the mud of our mistakes without hope or healing. He is, after all, a God of forgiveness and mercy. He’s a God who loves us so much He sent His Son to take the punishment for our sins. But if we don’t acknowledge our brokenness or the severity of our sins, if we shrug them off as no big deal or assume it’s all good because we are forgiven, we’re missing the point. We’re missing the point of what Jesus did for us on the cross, and we’re missing the blessing of feeling the weight of our sin lifted off of us.

If it’s been a while since confessing your sin caused you to mourn before you rejoiced over God’s grace, I invite you to join me in a posture of humble repentance this Lent season. Let’s spend the next few weeks reflecting on God’s goodness while also taking a hard look at ourselves. And when we see all the ways we fall short of the glory of God, let’s not sweep our grief or waywardness under the carpet. Let’s be honest about it and believe that we aren’t bearing the burden of them ourselves — God bore them for us on the cross. Let’s allow that reality to sink in.

Let us prepare for the wonder of the resurrection by remembering just how much we need it. Let us turn to the Lord with hearts truly broken over our transgressions, more grateful than ever for His abounding love and forgiveness.

God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’ve taken Your lavish grace for granted, overlooking and underestimating my sin. Please forgive me. Please bring to mind the things I need to confess and give me the courage to turn them over to You. Thank You, Lord, for loving me so much that You died for my every sin. Thank You for not being content to leave me in my mess, for remembering me even when I forget how much I need You. Thank You, Jesus. Amen.

Excerpt from Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter by Mary Carver.

It’s not too late to have a meaningful Lenten season. Let us send you a FREE sampler from our Lenten devotional, Journey to the Cross! Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter was written with women of all stages in mind so that we can all better experience the power and wonder of Easter with intentionality and depth. Also, join us daily in our Instagram stories for a brief passage, prayer, or Scripture from Journey to the Cross. We hope it will bless your Lenten season.

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How to Be Countercultural and Cheer Each Other On

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If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad.
1 Corinthians 12:26 (NLT)

My phone dings and I see her text: “Could you read something I wrote? I don’t know if it’s any good, but I wanted to see if you could just take a look and tell me what you think.”

I could hear the hesitancy in her words and how much courage it took for her to ask. We had met each other at a conference, and from our brief interactions, I knew she had stories to tell, pain to express, and wisdom to lead with. We noticed each other in a breakout session for writers interested in getting published, and afterward, we talked in hushed tones about our hopes for where our writing would go. The writing world and its nuances were new to us, and we parted ways holding those hopes for each other.

Eventually, I became an editor, and I watched from afar as her leadership took her places. I witnessed her voice become louder and stronger as she processed the current social climate through her newsletters. I could see that she was becoming freer, more herself, and less afraid of what people would think of her.

And so was I.

Her text was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. She shared how she had been keeping up with me as well and thought she’d take a step of faith by reaching out. I was honored to be entrusted with a first read of her writing, and I agreed to take a look and get back to her soon.

I wasn’t prepared for her gift of words. She wrote with precision and power, beauty and hope. She didn’t shy away from naming her pain, and her pastoral and prophetic leadership shined through her stories. I was blown away by her natural talent, and I texted her immediately to tell her so.

She responded, “Really? You think so?” Her lack of confidence boggled my mind, and I sent back ten yeses in all caps with way too many exclamation marks. I assured her I wasn’t just saying it because she was a friend. I genuinely believed she should be writing and getting published.

We went back and forth about her essay a couple of times, but it wasn’t until years later that I received another text: “The essay we worked on got published in a book!”

I squealed in delight at this news. Her success wasn’t only about her but also about the many other women — particularly women of color — who would see her name in a book and know what was possible for them too. Her joy was my joy.

First Corinthians 12:26 says, “If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad.” And Romans 12:15 simply says, “Be happy with those who are happy” (NLT). In Christ, we are intricately intertwined and interdependent on one another. Because we are made for community and placed in community, we cannot separate our grief or our joy from that of others.

In a world and time when social media and celebrity culture hype certain people over others, it’s easy to feel envious of someone else’s success. Those feelings are understandable and shouldn’t be shoved down in order to celebrate others. Instead, we can bring our honest selves before God, confessing our hurt, disappointment, and anger, acknowledging our own desire for success, and letting God be a balm for us. He can realign our hearts to His, remind us that together we make up the body of Christ, and teach us to be glad when another is honored.

We can be countercultural by cheering each other on, and in doing so we participate in the joy that God has for us all.

I relished in my friend’s news. I was so proud of her work, her persistence, and her increasing belief in herself. I had the privilege of watching her growth like a time-lapse of a seed becoming a plant, and my delight was just a glimpse of God’s rejoicing over her. And from my vantage point, I could see that this was just the beginning.

God, thank You that there isn’t a limited amount of joy to go around and that one person’s success doesn’t cancel out another’s. You are not a God of scarcity but of abundance. I confess that there are times when I have a hard time cheering someone else on when I’m not in the same place or position as they are. But I want to learn to participate in their joy as You are inviting me to do. Thank You for creating us to be the body of Christ so that gladness can be multiplied instead of hoarded. Amen.

This piece was written by Grace P. Cho and published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

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You Are Not Collateral Damage

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Look, I am about to do something new; even now it is coming. Do you not see it? Indeed, I will make a way in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.
Isaiah 43:19 CSB

 

To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.
 Isaiah 61:3 NLT 

 

I want to share a tender, still-in-progress story with you.

Never, ever did I think I’d be one to write about “church pain”, spiritual abuse, or even how to integrate into new faith communities. But here I am. (To be clear, it’s not Jesus causing the pain or doing the harm. It’s the broken people, like me and like you. There’s no escaping our sin, and all too often it sadly seeps out from those in authority.)

I’ve mentioned parts of my painful and sad and totally unexpected story online, and every time I do, friends and strangers reach out to let me know I’m not alone. I’m loved. I’m welcome. And that so many have their own version and story of the pain church has caused.

I’m both grieved and grateful to know I’m not the only one with a work-in-progress story. Here’s mine.

At 40 years old, I’m attending a new church for the first time in my life.

See, I interned at a church in college, then worked there after graduation, joined as a member, and was fully embedded into the community for the next twenty years. I was married there. Baptized my kids there. Worshipped there. I eventually left my position on staff, but then my husband began working there. He led worship every Wednesday, oversaw the volunteer ministry, and was the glue of the community during Covid. I started and then led mom’s and women’s groups for years. There was hardly a volunteer position I hadn’t held. And our kids were loved, comfortable, and felt at home in those church walls.

But throughout a particular season when we were between called pastors and had interims leading, there was discord. My beloved volunteer team was disbanded, and our tasks redistributed. The moms and women groups I’d led were removed, just a header in the Facebook group remaining. The treatment of some staff members became harsh and erratic. And finally, last summer, my husband’s job was abruptly eliminated. It’s accurate to say when his job was eradicated, our family needed to leave. The job change was not communicated to the congregation, so we didn’t get to say goodbye or thank you — and no one had the chance to say goodbye or thank you to us either.

It was one of the most painful seasons of my life.

And my kids. After we told them we wouldn’t be returning to the church they knew and loved, as their tears fell, they asked where they would go to Sunday school. I wanted to tell them, “Nowhere. We’re done with church.”

I didn’t say that though. My husband and I prayed and talked through tears of our own. Could there be new life for us in a faith community?

We called a friend who was plugged in at a church nearby. We watched their services online, attended in person, and signed up the kids for Sunday school. The first day we walked in there were people we knew from school and sports, even some of the kids’ friends, and it felt like love from the Lord.

Each week I now meet new people, corral my toddler, learn new traditions, re-learn what church looks like, and encourage my kids to do the same.

Unsurprisingly, it’s come with a LOT of feelings.

Some are good. We’ve been very warmly welcomed in. There are fun events for the kids, chances to meet and get to know other adults, and a wonderful team of pastors who shepherd well. To our absolute surprise, other families from our old church left “with” us and several of them attend this new church too, sitting alongside us once again in the pews, which brings me to tears right there in the sanctuary. We very much feel we are in the right place, which is a massive blessing we weren’t even looking for.

And of course, some of the feelings are really, really hard. The first time my husband played and sang with a praise band again, I bawled. The first Christmas service we attended, holding candles and singing Silent Night, I bawled. The first time I attended a new mom’s group, I bawled. The first time we ate dinner there (something we used to do weekly), I bawled, right over my sloppy joes.

Lots of tears. Lots of anger. Lots of grief.

The pain isn’t only the freshness of still-healing wounds. It’s seeing life continue at our old church and feeling like the people we loved who remain there have “gotten over it.” It’s seeing them breathe a sigh of relief that “the difficult season is over”, and they can move on.

Which feels like me and my family are collateral damage. Brushed away, buried behind painful memories, and considered a symbol of a time no one wants to remember.

I’ve never felt so dispensable. Expendable. Disposable.

And yet, I know deep in my heart that I’m not. That there’s space both for that congregation to enter a new (hopefully healthier) season, and for me not to look back. There’s space for us both to be where we need to be.

Friends, writing this takes grit I didn’t think I possessed. And I mean beyond my gritted teeth, which I also have. There’s not going to be a nice tidy bow at the end here, because I’m processing with you in real-time, and healing takes time — a lot of it.

But God promises beauty for ashes. Dancing for mourning. Streams in the desert. And God delivers. So even as we heal, cry, and grieve… we hope.

Because we are not collateral damage. We are beloved, no matter what. Beloved. Worthy of belonging. And never, ever disposable.

 

 

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Love and Then Some

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My favorite spot as a four-year-old was under the tamarind tree in our front yard, playing with coconut shells from my mom’s kitchen. I could spend hours pretending to cook in the shade of that giant tree. Once in a while, I would play in my cousin’s yard across the street, throwing rocks at the baby mangoes and watching them fall off the branches. I loved those sour mangoes, especially when they were sprinkled with some salt and chili powder. We would also find little wildflowers; my favorites were the tiny ones that looked like daisies.

Growing up in India, I didn’t have a lot of store-bought toys. I was always exploring nature and creating fun with the things I found outside. Now, before you feel bad for me and imagine scenes from the movie Slum Dog Millionaire, let me give you the full picture. I was actually born into an upper middle-class family in India. I had everything I needed. My dad worked in the middle east and my mom’s entire family lived in the USA. I was attending a private Catholic school and grew up with maids, nannies, and a driver.  I wasn’t really missing anything. But sometimes you don’t know what you are missing until someone shows you.

One summer, my mom’s aunt was visiting from America, and she brought a gift for me; it was a baby doll. It was fair, with big brown eyes and brown yarn for hair. That Cabbage Patch doll became my favorite toy. We were inseparable. I took that little doll everywhere until eventually she was no longer fair, but looked more like me! There is something magical about a little girl and her baby doll. I never knew it until I got her.

I didn’t realize until much later in life that Cabbage Patch dolls were super popular in America around the time I got mine. My great-aunt could have just bought me a random doll from the dollar store and I wouldn’t have known the difference, but she was so kind and generous that she got this little girl who had never seen a baby doll, the same doll that all the other little girls wanted.

Her gift is one that I often think about because it was more than just a doll for me. It was an act of kindness. When we think of kindness, we think of giving someone what they need or want. Kindness is so much more. When we extend kindness to people, we are showing them what they deserve, whether it is dignity, honor, or love. I didn’t need a baby doll or even know to want one, but my aunt believed that every little girl deserves to have one. And she chose the best for me to remind me that I am loved.

So I define kindness as “Love, and then some.”

Jesus lived out this “love, and then some” kindness. When Jesus encountered the woman with the issue of blood, we see this displayed so well. This woman was desperate for healing and her faith brought her to Jesus. “She had heard the reports about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his garment. For she said, ‘If I touch even his garments, I will be made well’” (Mark 5:27-28).

Her act of faith came to fruition, as she got her healing at that moment. Her story could have been over at this sentence but Jesus stops, looks at her, and waits for her to share her story. Jesus was on His way to save a little girl who was on her deathbed — He didn’t have to stop. He already knew this woman’s story because He is God, but He made space for her to share in front of that crowd. Do you see His kindness towards her? Due to her illness, society labeled her as unclean, so she probably lived alone, rejected by her community, and hidden like she didn’t matter. She felt unworthy to touch Him, so she settled to touch the hem of his garment, the part that would have been dirty from dragging on the ground. She came to Him needing physical healing, but Jesus showed her “love and then some” as He extended kindness to give her dignity, calling her “Daughter.”

Jesus gave her what she was really missing.

He does the same for us. Jesus didn’t just die to save us from eternal damnation; His generous kindness, mercy, compassion, grace, and love are with us every single day. In the original language, all of those words are summed up as hesed; the Holy Spirit is the ultimate gift of hesed, because He is God with us, dwelling in us to remind us that we are children of God. As it affirms in Romans 8:16, “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.”

Like the little girl who didn’t realize what treasure her heart had been missing, like the woman who suffered alone for twelve years — we all go through seasons of not knowing what we really need. Whether you are lonely or doubting or in pain, the Holy Spirit whispers your name, Daughter. You are beloved. Lean into His voice today and be filled up with God’s “love and then some.”

 

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Chasing God’s Glory

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“Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory,” Mama sings. 

Glory?, Zayla thinks, wrinkling her nose, “Mama, we talk and sing about glory at church, but what exactly is glory?”

“Well, that’s a good question,” Mama says with a broad smile. “Let’s go look for it.” 

____ 

These are the opening lines to my new children’s book, Chasing God’s Glory. When my three daughters were little, we started going on glory-chasing hunts together. This was the way we would lift our heads to see God at work on ordinary days and difficult days. 

The word glory is mentioned more than 500 times in Scripture. If we study the scriptures that mention it, we discover God’s glory is the very essence of who God is, His character. Glory is what sets God apart. It’s the way God reveals Himself to us. It’s His presence. 

Back in 2014, I chose the word glory as my word of the year. Little did I know that this single, five-letter word would be the thing God would use to transform me, inspire me, lift me, and carry me through the most difficult year of my life. This would be the beginning of tracing His glory story in the most unexpected narrative.  

I had to train myself to notice  God’s glory around me through tragedy and triumph. That was the year my husband was diagnosed with stage four cancer. That was the year my lover leaped into Heaven – the ultimate Glory – leaving me a widow with three small children. That was the year I experienced God’s glory in little girl giggles, home-cooked meals, and road trips. That was the year He showed up for us through our community who served us, fed us, collected money for medical bills, and lifted us. 

God has shown me that glory is the very beginning of the story and also the grand finale. This one word is used throughout the Bible as another word for His presence, majesty, beauty, creation, and heaven. Many of the heroes of our faith from Moses to Mary, from Isaiah to Paul, came to understand His glory in profound ways. 

I heard a sermon where the pastor talked about how we are called to be “glory chasers.” Pastor Mitchel Lee’s phrase sparked something deep inside me. He argued that we humans were put on this earth to discover God’s glory and reflect it back to God and those around us. We are to live and work and run for God’s glory.  

Now nine years later, I’m still a glory chaser. I’m still looking for God in my every day. I’m tracing His faithfulness through every piece of my past. I’m leading others up the trail to unearth His glory for themselves. 

I believe God’s glory is a frame, a way for us to view the Bible and, more importantly, our lives. Jesus tells Martha in John 11:40, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?” This is His way of urging her to seek His glory. 

Jesus knows He is about to perform a miracle. He knows He is about to raise His friend Lazarus from the dead. Martha, like so many of us, is focused on what is right in front of her. 

Now when I am overwhelmed by the breathtaking colors of a sunset waltzing over ocean waves, I count it a picture of His glory. When I see the intricate beauty of a snowflake, I name it as His glory. When I am caught up in a heart talk with a dear friend, I believe the encouragement I find there is just another tangible example of His glory.  

Glory-chasing has become a habit for me. It’s the way I breathe. It’s the way I move forward one step at a time. It’s my new life purpose. I find myself framing everything by these two questions:  

  • How can I trace God working for His glory in my present circumstances?  
  • How can I reflect His glory to others through my actions and attitude today? 

Through this new children’s book, my heart is to teach kids of all ages to chase after God’s glory in the world.  

____

“I think I’m starting to get it,” Zayla says. “Is glory all these things God created?” 

Mama nods. “It’s a reflection of who He is and how He’s working in the world.”

“Chasing God’s glory is fun! Can we do it again tomorrow?” Zayla asks before she drifts off to sleep. 

____

Award-winning author Dorina Lazo Gilmore-Young’s rich multicultural story and Alyssa De Asis’ vibrant artwork make Chasing God’s Glory both a celebration and an invitation as you and your children become glory chasers right where you are!

When Zayla asks her mom to describe God’s glory, Mama knows it’s time for an adventure! Together Mama and Zayla discover how sunrises and dancing, green peppers and daffodils, kind words and loving hugs, are all reminders of God’s glory around us every day.

We’re so excited for this adorable and much-needed message to get into your hands!

Order your copy today . . . and leave a comment below for a chance to WIN one of 5 copies*!

Then join Becky Keife for a conversation with Dorina this weekend on the (in)courage podcast. Don’t miss it!

 

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*Giveaway open to US addresses only and ends at 11:59 pm central on 3/24/23. Winner will be notified via email. Please allow 4-6 weeks for book to arrive.

Church Hurt and the Way Forward

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Church hurt. We’re all familiar with that term these days. The past few years have been filled with story after story of hurt, harm, and even severe abuse at the hands of trusted churches and leaders. If you have been a part of any local church body for any length of time, you have probably experienced some form of hurt. It may have been something that you were able to easily move on from or something that has caused almost irreparable damage.

I met with a sweet friend recently for lunch. We used to attend the same church. I transitioned to a new church almost five years ago. We hadn’t seen each other in years until her family recently visited my church.

During lunch, we had the usual catch up conversation. And then we moved on to talk about how our seasons at our previous church had both ended. The details were a bit different, but the center of it was the same. In many ways and for many years, we both had invested our whole lives into to the work of the church. We served. We gave. We led. We showed up early and stayed late. We did so out of our love for Jesus and for His Body. We did so not expecting compliments or compensation.

But in the end, there was a lack of care for us in our times of need. There was no generosity directed our way. There were no prayers offered up on our behalves. There was no concern for our well being. There was no one showing up to be the hands and feet of Christ to us.

We each walked away hurt and angry and disillusioned by the group of people that we believed to be family. When we are wounded by those we consider family, it hits us differently than an acquaintance or stranger. It hits deeper and lasts longer. My friend and I have walked an all too familiar road that many of you have walked.

It’s a long road, full of questions, doubts, worry, and tears. But, this road doesn’t last forever. There is actually a light at the end of this road. It’s the light of hope. It’s the light of Jesus.

Several years later, my friend and I are further down this road, further into the light, further into hope. She and her family took time together and let the Lord bring healing. They are now on a journey with the Holy Spirit to find a body of believers where they can belong, be equipped, be encouraged, be loved, be challenged, and serve.

The way forward down this road isn’t quick or easy, but it is filled with the grace of God. His grace empowers us to not be overwhelmed by our suffering. His grace equips us to learn how He desires His Body to function. His grace enables us to not become bitter at His sons and daughters. And His grace shows us how to show love and grace to those who have hurt us and to those in His Body who have had nothing to do with hurting us.

I began thinking of how the Lord has walked me down this road of healing over the past few years. I want to be able to share the truth of His Word that has brought such hope and healing to me.

There are several Scriptures that remind us that the Body of Christ is one Body, but made up of many members. First Corinthians 12:12 says, “For just as the body is one and has many parts, and all the parts of that body, though many, are one body—so also is Christ.” 

The older I get, I know that we are never called to live life with Jesus entirely alone. We are called to live in community as Jesus did. He lived with parents and siblings. He lived in a town. He lived with the twelve disciples as they did life and ministry together.

Jesus experienced hurt from people throughout His whole life and yet He never wavered in His call to be in community. He never let bitterness or offense or anger determine His level of involvement with His Bride. He loved unconditionally and served joyfully despite what His human feelings may have been leading Him to do.

Colossians 3: 12-16 describes the Christian life: “Therefore, as God’s chosen ones, holy and dearly loved, put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another if anyone has a grievance against another. Just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you are also to forgive. Above all, put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity. And let the peace of Christ, to which you were also called in one body, rule your hearts. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell richly among you, in all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another through psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts.”

Regardless of what others do to us, we are not responsible for their actions. We are only responsible for our own. This looks like not seeking revenge or slandering or gossiping about people or churches or ministries. It looks like praying for them and showing them kindness even when we don’t want to. It looks like being patient and forgiving when it’s easier not to. We can share our pain with trusted friends while still showing honor to those who have caused the pain.

Even though there are times when I’m not crazy about people, I know I need them. I know that God’s heart for us is to be in fellowship with one another. Though hurt may come, we also know that Jesus has suffered all that we have. We can rejoice in the fellowship of His sufferings.

If you have walked through any form of hurt from the Body and need healing, I’d love to pray for you! Leave a comment below.

 

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God Loves to Help

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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. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought. People who “worry their prayers” are like wind-whipped waves. Don’t think you’re going to get anything from the Master that way, adrift at sea, keeping all your options open.
James 1:5-8 (The Message)

These might be some of the most relief-giving words in the Bible. “If you don’t know what you’re doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help.” So often in life we don’t know what we’re doing! We don’t know what we’re doing with our career, with parenting a difficult child, with finding the right treatment for a daunting diagnosis. We don’t know how to help a friend understand our perspective or how to move forward from past trauma.

What Scripture is assuring us today is that it’s okay not to know! Because God is here to help.

The NIV translation says it this way, “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you” (James 1:5).

Raise your hand if you’re lacking wisdom today. Ask God for what you need! He is so kind, generous, and faithful to give it. 

 

A Lenten Prayer

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Merciful and loving Father, 

I come to You broken, open, and laid bare. You have searched me and stripped away everything that’s kept me from You, and I’m grateful. You have shown me my sin and reminded me of Your sacrifice for it, and I give You all my thanks. I don’t want to be proud, Lord; banish any remaining pride from my heart. 

This is holy ground that You’ve allowed me to touch, God, and I don’t want to leave. I want to abide in You, to remain in Your presence, to turn away from anything that might come between us. Please keep me humble, Lord. Keep me watchful for the ways the world tries to distract me, and keep my eyes open for opportunities of service so I can display who You are to others. Protect my heart; remind me every day that You are God and I am not.  

I don’t want to leave this season of Lent unchanged, Lord. I don’t want to return to my proud ways, my distracted days. I want to stay right here with You, with not one thing pulling me from You. Please help me stay in this posture, this mind-set, this holy communion with You forever. 

In Jesus’ name I pray, 

Amen. 

Excerpt from Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter by Mary Carver.

It’s not too late to have a meaningful Lenten season. Let us send you a FREE sampler from our Lenten devotional, Journey to the Cross! Journey to the Cross: Forty Days to Prepare Your Heart for Easter was written with women of all stages in mind so that we can all better experience the power and wonder of Easter with intentionality and depth. Also, join us daily in our Instagram stories for a brief passage, prayer, or Scripture from Journey to the Cross. We hope it will bless your Lenten season.

Get your FREE sampler from Journey to the Cross!

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Today on the podcast — a bonus episode! Listen in as host Becky Keife has a conversation with Melissa Horvath, author of the Go For It! devotional. Listen at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

Hope for the Tangled and Exhausted Soul

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I wake up from a solid eight hours and I feel like a wreck. Again, shadows of once full-color dreams linger at the corners of my mind. I can no longer make out the precise shapes but I know they were jagged, intense, chaotic, oppressive.

In my middle-of-the-night turmoil, I fluttered awake just enough to realize that I was covered in sweat — again. The nape of my neck wet, perspiration dripping between my breasts. Was this because of the dreams? Am I starting perimenopause? Is my anxiety medication not working?

I spy a sliver of dusty blue sky out the window. The world is rising and I’m wrestling. I know hope awaits me away from this mattress but I’m so exhausted that I just keep laying here. Keep checking the white numbers on my phone as they slowly change digit by digit. Soon my three boys will be asking for breakfast.

I eventually wrench myself out from my cozy covers, shuffle to the kitchen, turn on the kettle, go to the bathroom, and flinch at my reflection. When did I start looking so haggard?

The couch welcomes me and my favorite cup of lemon tea. I open my Bible at the ribbon bookmark and start reading. Slowly I exhale. I didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath. This is so nice. So peaceful. Why didn’t I get up sooner? It’s my daily refrain.

I hear the creak of my son’s bunk bed as I read, “Rest in God alone, my soul, for my hope comes from him” (Psalm 62:5).

My twelve-year-old thunder stomps down the hallway. He’s still learning how to control his man-sized feet.

I read the verse again like I’m coaching my own soul. Rest in God alone. Your hope comes from Him.

It’s hard to feel at rest when you’re tangled up by invisible strings.

Elias now joins me under my gray fuzzy blanket and rests his wild bedhead on my shoulder. I keep reading.

“Trust in him at all times, you people;
pour out your hearts before him.
God is our refuge.”
Psalm 62:8

Trust in Him. I do trust God. But the Spirit gently pricks my heart and asks, Yes, but what else are you trusting? The list comes quickly: My determination. Someone else’s ability to change. Hope that we can turn things around. Just a little more sleep. A little more self-control. Enough boxes checked off.

Trust in Him at all times. All times. Not when I’m healthy and my kids obey and I keep all the balls in the air and I like my hair. God invites me – us, yes He implores us — to trust Him at all times. When sleep eludes or exhausts us. When people let us down or break us open. When that dream keeps getting one step further out of reach or there’s no friend to catch your tears or money in the bank. This is when we get to trust God.

Elias is asking if I’ll put frozen waffles in the toaster for him. I tell him he can do that himself but when they pop I’ll put the peanut butter and syrup on the way he likes it.

Pour out your hearts before Him. Could this be the answer to my tangled soul? The way to rest? I ask the question but I already know the answer because I’ve lived it again and again. God works in our hearts when we take our worked-up soul and bear it all before Him. He knows it all anyway. But there is something sacred and sanctifying in the intentional unraveling of every knot and jumble. It’s where God’s compassionate hands meet us and take over the real work.

Noah does his teenage shuffle out to the living room and plops down on the other couch. I know I better get up, start the coffee, and wake up Jude. But not before I read this:

“God has spoken once; I have heard this twice:
strength belongs to God, and faithful love belongs to you, Lord.”
Psalm 62:11-12

I push myself up off the couch, weak and weary. And it’s okay. Strength belongs to God. He will carry me today in His faithful, loving arms – not minding my dried sweat. I can already feel my soul starting to rest. Can you feel it too?

Becky shares more real stories and hope-filled Scriptures for anxious and weary souls over on Instagram. Follow her at @beckykeife. 

 

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You Don’t Have to Perform to Be Loved

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I schlep a diaper bag over my shoulder as I navigate my daughter’s wheelchair down the aisle, doing my best to inconspicuously herd four children from the church lobby into the back of the sanctuary. I can see the heads turning and feel the eyes on us. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I whisper, “excuse us” and “pardon me” as my circus scoots into the last row. After morning feats I can only describe as acrobatic, I’ve finally gotten everyone to church.

I glance at my watch. We’re four minutes late, but it feels like a victory all the same. My six-year-old son is ready to perform with the choir for the first time. (They’re called the Church Mice. Yes, it’s adorable.)

I fan myself with the church bulletin as I whisper “good morning” to my parents, who are there to cheer on our budding singer. I wonder where he’s supposed to find the rest of his micey mates. Aren’t they supposed to be gathering toward the front? 

I realize something is off. My eyes dart around the sanctuary, and I spy children dispersed among the pews, already sitting with their families. I remember my husband (the newly-hired pastor) sharing that the kids would sing first thing. My heart drops. I whisper, “Have they already sung?” My mom gives a gentle nod.

I fight tears.

Why can’t I be more put together like everyone else? I wonder.

Another question lingers beneath it: Why am I failing?

It’s easy for us to assume that everyone else has their stuff together. To believe the lie that nobody else is ever late, or misses a deadline, or that not one single other soul is as much of a hot mess as the one you see when you look in the mirror.

A few days after my Church Mice fiasco, a friend told me something over coffee that made me do a spit-take: “I don’t know how you get everything done. You’re so put together.”

Once I was done wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes, I reflected on a hard – and honest – truth:

I’m too hard on myself. And my guess is that you are, too.

As women, we constantly fight external pressure to be the ones that hold things together and present ourselves in a certain way. If we’re not careful, we can even feel the pressure to perform our way into God’s love. This pressure can often lead to deep self-doubt and self-criticism that lures us into the trap of comparison.

Whatever season of life you’re in, chances are you’re holding a lot of things together. You’re doing your best, and if you’re honest with yourself, you feel like it’s not enough – that when you look around, everyone else seems to have cracked the magic code, and you’re still stumbling around, sweaty, and showing up late.

Whether you’re comparing yourself to a neighbor or a stranger on the Internet, it’s all too easy to compare yourself to another (without knowing their full story) and heap all sorts of shame upon your shoulders – the weight pushing you down until you can barely stand.

If you feel like you’re not measuring up, I have good news: You don’t need to.

God’s grace tells us we don’t need to perform our way into belovedness. We do not have to get everything right all of the time. (Spoiler alert: nobody does!) We do not have to present a sheen of perfection. As beloved children of God, we are freed from those trappings.

In Colossians 3:12, we’re told that we are “holy and dearly loved.” And that in light of this, we should clothe ourselves with “compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

What would life look like if you had compassion for yourself? How would it reorient your days if you approached your imperfections with kindness and humility? What if you were gentle and extended patience to yourself?

No one is perfect. We all fall short sometimes. But when we hold ourselves up to an unattainable standard and tell ourselves the story that everyone else is nailing it while we’re flailing about, we’re not honoring the truest thing about ourselves: That we are holy and dearly loved.

The next time you realize you’re being tough on yourself, take a breath and consider what God says about you. There is nothing that you could do that would make God love you any more or less. You do not have to hit any certain achievement or spin a billion more plates to gain the love of Christ – His love is a gift freely given. 

The next time you look in the mirror and start silently listing all the ways you’ve failed, remember that you are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are a child of God.

The next time you’re marveling at how “together” someone else is, remember that everybody struggles. Nobody is immune to the aches of this world, to the groans of humanity.

And if you’re feeling really brave, maybe you can sit with this question: God isn’t demanding you to perform your way into being loved – so why are you demanding it from yourself?

An interesting phenomenon happens when we stop being so hard on ourselves. We start having a lot more grace and understanding for others, too.

I’ll likely be late to church again. Our family life is filled with chaos and unexpected shenanigans – and sometimes I fail as the ringmaster. But when I am gentler with myself, I’m gentler toward my kids. When I remind myself that the truest thing about me is that I’m holy and dearly loved, I remember that truth about others around me, too.

You don’t have to perform any certain type of perfection. You are already holy and dearly loved.

 

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