When the Dark Is Too Dark

When the Dark Is Too Dark

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I am really good about asserting my love on others when they’re having a hard time. I like to fill baskets with coping mechanisms like chocolate, books, or bath bombs, and drop them at their door. I like to pray for them — I really do pray when I say I will. I love to run errands, pick up their kids, or really do anything to help them get through a hard day. But you know what I don’t love? When I’m in a hard place and when I need help. When I have to be vulnerable and tell the truth about how overwhelmed I am with life and let others do the things they are gifted in so that I can make it through my difficult moment. 

The other day I sent a text out to several friends. It was a laundry list of things that are swirling in my heart and mind. Things I am stressed about, family that weighs heavy on me, and new endeavors I’m not sure I’m brave enough for. My dog who’s really sick. Even writing it all out was a release, as if to say to myself, “You know, that really is a lot. You’re not making it up.” 

I have prayed about these things, I have cast my cares on the Lord, and I still need Jesus with skin on through the physical love of those around me. As Christians, we can sometimes believe that we can power through heavy times alone. The problem with this is that we’re not made to do this alone, we are made for community. When we carry the weight alone, it gets darker and darker and suddenly becomes crushing. We spiral into numbing with all sorts of things and sometimes the thoughts get so dark, we may even think it’s better to just end our lives. 

I want to acknowledge this darkness so that we can see what light does when it seeps through the cracks. Bringing your worries and cares to the light means casting your cares on Jesus but also on the people who Jesus lives inside. I have found that this simple act of saying, “HELP!” to trusted friends is a great act of faith. It’s saying, “I’m not strong enough for this.” It’s admitting weakness. And do we know what God says about the weak? They are His delight, His joy, His way to gather glory by turning our hearts back to Him. 

 He said to me, “My grace is enough for you, because power is made perfect in weakness.” So I’ll gladly spend my time bragging about my weaknesses so that Christ’s power can rest on me. Therefore, I’m all right with weaknesses, insults, disasters, harassments, and stressful situations for the sake of Christ, because when I’m weak, then I’m strong.
2 Corinthians 12:9-10

Go on! Brag about your weakness. It’s biblical. God’s ways are not the ways of the world that tell us to posture, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, power through on our own, and fake it till you make it. No, we live in the reality that we’re not always strong. But that He makes a way for us to be carried — like the man in Capernaum who needed healing. He didn’t walk up to Jesus and ask (he literally couldn’t and there were too many obstacles). Instead, his friends carried him on a mat, dug a hole in the roof, and lowered him down. Can you see Jesus smiling when He saw the crack in the roof getting larger and larger, dust falling on people’s heads, light seeping into a dark room? Scripture says “Jesus saw their faith.” Their faith. Not just the faith of the paralyzed man, but the faith of the friends lifting their brother through a most difficult suffering. 

Maybe like me, you need help remembering the collective faith of community and friends who want to bolster your faith with theirs. Reach out today. I wonder what miracles are before us if we would simply say, “Help!”

 

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The Best Little Four-Word Prayer

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For years, my daughter and I have disagreed over the iconic scene in Titanic where Jack and Rose were in the water after the vessel sank. My daughter bristles at Rose’s thoughtlessness. “Mom, how could she not move on the door just a little to make room for Jack?!”  I’ve argued that they would have both sank if he climbed on. We cheered as the star-crossed lovers survived the vessel’s sinking. Then, we waited in breathless hope as Jack and Rose floated in the frozen ocean waiting for rescue boats to save them from the frigid waters. Yet, as the night grew colder and ice crystals formed in Rose’s hair, she clung to that salvaged door and continued to wait.

There are times when we all feel like Rose. All of us watch various ships going down in our lives and we feel like we’re helplessly adrift, clinging to a crudely salvaged, barely-there faith. Sure, we might be alive, but we’re not sure if we have enough strength to not drown in deep confusion, exhaustion, or grief. Like Rose, you might be searching the horizon for some sign that God will rescue you. Also like Rose, there may come a point at which you’re tempted to give up because all seems lost.

If that’s you, I’m glad that you’re here today.

In Psalm 69, King David shares a precious, simple, four-word prayer that you and I need in times like this:

Save me, O God…
Psalm 69:1

This little powerhouse prayer was written at an unknown time in King David’s life. Unfortunately, he had a lot of drama where this prayer could have applied, whether he was running for his life, dealing with his own sin, his sons’ rebellion, or his daughter’s sexual assault. David’s prayer continues as he uses the analogy that the “floodwaters are up to his neck.” Does that resonate with you?  David is having a hard time so he’s not sugarcoating his situation, nor is David beating around the bush about what he needs.

Just four powerful, simple words: Save me, O God.

Try this little prayer out for yourself. Even if you don’t need it right now, tuck these four little words away for the future. Depending on how you grew up, those four little words may not feel like enough. You might be wondering if God will overlook a prayer that small or short.

God isn’t looking for eloquence or length when it comes to our prayers. Longer prayers don’t make you more spiritual. Likewise, fancy words don’t guarantee that you’re praying in faith. Prayer is prayer. So, David’s, “Save Me, O God” demonstrates two principles of what I call “good and gritty prayers”: short and honest. Keep that in mind the next time your desire to pray starts getting hijacked by a fear of praying. Go for short and honest and get that prayer out there to God!

God’s response to David’s “Save me, O God” prayer comes through the prophet Isaiah:

“When you go through deep waters, I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty, You will not drown.”
Isaiah 43:2

Stop and savor these words for a moment, especially if you’ve felt like Rose, clinging to your faith, but not sure for how much longer. Dear friend, God sees you right now. Not only that, but He is present with you in a posture of love, never condemnation. Even more, God promises that His help is on the way. However, He rescues in His sovereign way, not always ours. If you do call out “Save me, O God,” remember that God works differently than we do. Let’s put our confidence in trusting that God will save us, rather than get picky or panicky about how or when He will do it. If you need God’s help today, open your heart and mind wide and be willing to accept God’s help no matter the outcome.

You can be sure of this, God is with you in whatever you’re going through. Whether your rescue looks like repair, restoration, redemption, or eternal resurrection, God will be there every step of the way. That is His promise. So, how should you live in light of what God has declared as His truth?

Take a deep breath.

Remember God’s promises.

Do the next right thing.

Excerpts of today’s devotional were taken from Barb’s new book, Finding Jesus in the Psalms. By exploring six powerful messianic Psalms, readers will discover how the life of King David reveals the life of Jesus and the hope that we have in Christ.

 

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The Key to Shutting Down Shame’s Voice

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What’s wrong with you?! 

The voice whispered in my ear, not audible but powerful, claiming a monopoly on truth. The fact of the matter was that a relationship I cherished hovered on the precipice of disintegration. I rehashed our history, searching for any mistakes I’d made and the many ways I could’ve done better, been better. I felt overwhelmed by my failure. Shame seized the opportunity, and spoke up.

You’re so difficult to love. Is it any wonder? 

The narrative wasn’t nice, and yet I felt powerless to stop it. At the moment, it felt so . . . true. And I’d heard similar intimations before from people who claimed to care about me. Some may be able to let these things go. But my heart felt like velcro and their words seemed to stick.

Isn’t this fallout proof that they were right all along? 

I’m guessing a few of you have been the recipient of someone’s harsh words a time or two. Or maybe it’s not someone else’s voice but your own. You made a huge mistake, unintentional but a mistake just the same. Or maybe you completely overreacted or misspoke or lost all self-control. Whatever it was, you messed up, and the evidence against you piled high. The shame comes at you strong and hot:

You ruin everything. Why can’t you figure it out?  

I’ve absorbed a lot of shame messages in my life. Some words came from people I trusted, while others came from my own self-condemnation. Somewhere along the way, I absorbed these messages and their accompanying shame as if it was confirmation of God’s disappointment. How do you recognize the lie when it comes covered in Scripture? How do you lift your head when the voices you admire look down? How do you counteract the internal and external accusations when you know firsthand how far you fall from God’s holiness?

My journey to living free of shame’s words has been a slow process of untangling, of learning to discern truth from lies and human condemnation from holy correction. Whereas I once believed God shunned me, I now know God embraces me, not because I make fewer mistakes but because He is just that beautiful and good. So what was the secret that helped set me free from shame’s voice?

I decided to let God speak for Himself.

Humans have historically done a poor job of speaking for God. So I went back to the Bible, and rather than elevating the voices of the people around me, I elevated His voice. And this is just a sample of what I discovered:

“The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.”
Exodus 34:6

“Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in his ways. He guides the humble in what is right and teaches them his way. All the ways of the Lord are loving and faithful.”
Psalm 25:8-10

“Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.”
Psalm 34:5

“The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. The Lord is good to all; he has compassion on all he has made.”
Psalm 145:8-9

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
Romans 8:1

“At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy.”
Titus 3:3-5

Notice the words in bold text. Love is the tenor and texture of God’s voice. His words, even when strong, always come bathed in compassion, grace, kindness, faithfulness, goodness, and mercy. He guides with grace, teaches with kindness, and corrects with compassion.

Yes, at times He will call you out. His Holiness will expose all that needs healed in you. But God’s light always comes warmed with His unending love. It will convict, but it will simultaneously comfort. While you may feel guilt, there will be no shame, and even the sting of conviction will feel like grace.

This is how you recognize the correction of God from the condemnation of man. While the latter voice will shame and break you, God’s voice will heal and rebuild you. And love you all the way through the process.

That is the voice to listen to, friends. Then go ahead and ignore all the others.

 

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Love Thy Neighbor

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On Christmas Day, as we sat in our living room and opened presents with immediate and extended family, one of our daughters called out to my husband from the garage. Initially, she sounded calm; when she repeated herself we could tell it was urgent. She’d slipped out to get something and discovered water pouring from the ceiling, running under my car, and then flowing outside beneath the garage door.

After days of sustained sub-freezing temperatures, our pipes burst. Everyone jumped into action, trying to control and evaluate the damage. Our home’s previous owner had expanded the master closet, extending it into the garage on the other side of the wall. When I answered a call for help from that direction, I found two of my sons moving hangers of my clothes from one side of the room to the other as water spilled in around one of the recessed lights. I’m thankful for their quick thinking: I had forgotten it was originally part of the garage. I returned with a bucket and towels and they controlled the chaos in that area.

My husband turned off our water from the shut-off valve at the street and then hurried to sweep the pooled water from the garage so it wouldn’t freeze there; an icy trail snaked down our driveway for a couple of days. Next, he cut into the garage ceiling and found the problem pipe. Neighbors, who arrived when they saw what was happening, told us how they once helped a past owner of our home fix a similar issue.

Fourteen of us were home when our pipes burst. We forgot about opening Christmas presents and did what needed to be done at the time. Later when I drove a carload over to use the bathroom at the neighborhood pool, we found water pouring out below the water fountain between the men’s and the women’s restrooms. I reported it on the neighborhood Facebook group and someone turned off the water. As my niece pointed out, I had effectively cut off access to our only bathrooms.

Thankfully for us, that’s when our neighbors stepped in. One offered access to clean water from a spigot at the street in front of their house and the use of a full bathroom in their basement, which we could enter day or night without disturbing them. When we had a laundry emergency, they ran a load for us and delivered it clean and dry to our door. They invited us over for supper if our pipes couldn’t be fixed by the next night.

Another neighbor texted a plumber recommendation but told us not to expect a quick answer — he’d already received 170 calls. My husband is an accomplished DIYer and hoped he could repair it himself, but couldn’t get parts until the following day since Christmas was the one day of the year when stores were closed.

The next day my husband bought copper pipe, a soldering gun, and other supplies. Every time we thought the pipe was fixed, he turned on the water and it started leaking again. That’s when another neighbor came to our rescue. Because he owns a construction company, he had expensive equipment capable of sealing not only the first pipe but also the other two that burst when the water was turned on again.

Hoping your neighbors know they can count on you and actually telling them are two different things. I would never have asked if we could shower at our neighbor’s house, but we took them up on their offer. Their kindness gave us access to fresh water so we could brush our teeth, use our toilets, and refill our electric kettle.

The Christmas pipe-bursting ordeal is behind us, but I’m still reveling in the gift of neighbors who love well. We have a good supply of firewood because our next-door neighbor is clearing a section of his yard. He and his wife don’t need firewood because they use gas logs, but he cuts them neatly and passes them on to us. Some ladies on our street have a text chat and reach out for help in cooking emergencies; we exchange canned goods and onions in our cul-de-sac. People post pantry challenges in the neighborhood Facebook group if they need a missing ingredient in a pinch, or pass along household items they no longer use. And I’ve built friendships within a mile of my home thanks to book club and Bible study groups.

We’ve only lived here for two years. This isn’t the first time we’ve had good neighbors, but we’ve never been part of a community that’s more connected. Investing in relationships with the people around you isn’t just neighborly, it’s biblical. Jesus said, “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself” (Luke 10:27 KJV).

Choosing to do what’s best for ourselves isn’t hard. It’s easy to look out for number one, right? But when we look out for the best interests of those around us — our neighbors — we fulfill Christ’s intention for how to live in community.

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When Self-Inflicted Scars Speak, Christ’s Scars Speak Louder

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Trigger warning: This is a personal story that contains self-harm content.

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I cut my wrists with a tube of toothpaste.

I was seventeen, and in the white-walled, locked-down psychiatric hospital for the second time. They took everything even remotely dangerous when I arrived, including the drawstring from my blue polar bear pajama pants. But, when you’re a teenage girl in a psychiatric hospital and all you want is attention — and all you know about getting attention is to do something drastic and damaging — you find any means to do so.

In the empty bathroom of my undecorated hospital bedroom — shared with two other desperate, hurting teenagers — I used a tube of toothpaste with a sharp end that worked surpassingly well. Then I walked out with pride, a thin stripe of blood running down my wrist. Twenty-three years later, the faint scar still runs across my wrist.

It didn’t get me attention, though. The people who worked in the hospital were used to stuff like that . . .and since it wasn’t bad enough to warrant medical care, they told me I was stupid and put me on restrictions that made hospital life a bit more unbearable for a little while. While it wasn’t worth it to them, it meant everything to me. I wore my scar as fashionably as the kids back home wore Chuck Taylors and cherry print dresses.

Then, one day, a boy arrived with Robin Smith hair and eyeliner, looking deeply like a walking song by The Cure, and I loved The Cure . . . I immediately took to him. When he was introduced, he told us to call him Tear and then he showed us the cuts on his arm and, what’s an infatuated teen to do?

I cried out, “Your cuts are so much prettier than mine!”

It became somewhat of a game for us, this sharing of scars and stories, of what we had done and why we had been deemed crazy. We all found a bond, the whole bunch of us attention-seeking kids, whose souls were empty and crying out to God, except we didn’t know we were crying out to Him – we just knew that we were desperately empty.

Then came the excruciating night where I sat dwelling on thoughts of my friends being pampered before senior prom and getting dressed as lovely as ever. I pictured my dress — black and gold, flowing and beautiful. My mama and I had picked it out special just for that night, and it sat hundreds of miles away, tucked in my closet, never to be worn. Instead of wearing a gorgeous gown, I was sitting on some ragged, stained carpet, facing a dingy wall — alone. Other patients that night had visitors and all my friends at home were prepping for prom . . .  while I was alone.

Listening to the conversations around me, I became lost in thoughts of what I was missing. As my world spun around inside my head and tears fell, I heard my name, Amy, pulling me out of my pit of depressed thoughts and back into the moment. Slowly, I turned to see Jason, my hospital boyfriend, holding a stunning bouquet of deep red roses. He held them out to me and smiled sheepishly. “Happy Senior Prom.” I was too stunned to move, so he placed them in my arms. “I asked my aunt to buy them for you,” he explained.

Two other patients opened a cupboard and got out a hospital gown. They draped it over my shoulders. “It’s your prom gown!” they said. Someone turned on the radio and there we were, a dozen crazy kids, dancing (without touching) in tattered, old hospital gowns. I cried and laughed. So happy and yet so sorrowful, because these kids, this messed-up bunch of teenagers, came together for me and gave me a prom like no other.

After lights out, I peered out the door at the nurses’ station to see my beautiful roses, the first I had ever received. They were not allowed in my room because, of course, roses have thorns.

Not long after I left the hospital, Christ caught up with me and gave me all the real, thirst-quenching attention a girl could ever need, taking the tattered linen of my soul and mending it beautiful. A year later, after my life changed, Tear came to visit me. He saw the change and asked about it, telling me I had become even more beautiful. He recognized that peace and I had found a way to coexist. How could he get some of what I had found? he wondered.

I told him about Jesus, that Peace and I were, in fact, friends, and that together we were making a symphony of light, of love. Tear hugged me goodbye, wished me luck, and showed me his scars one last time.

Friend, don’t scars remind us of the broken, empty places we once dwelt in? It’s like they whisper to us in the darkness: Remember you are loved, you have been mended, you have been filled. I sit and look at my scars. I remember friends and stories and days of brokenness. We were just a bunch of kids needing Jesus, not knowing that He bled for us so we didn’t need to make ourselves bleed.

Today, my scars might speak of who I was, but His scars tell me who I am.

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At (in)courage, we believe in making space for all stories and experiences. With heartache, we recognize the reality of self-harm. With hope, we share this story — proclaiming the help and healing that can be found in community and Christ. We are here for you, in prayer and in the comments below, should you wish to respond to this guest article. If you are in a crisis and considering self-harm, dial 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline which provides 24/7, free and confidential help for self-harm. You are not alone. There is help.

The Thing We’ve All Got to Remember

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Jesus came near and said to them, “All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth.Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,teaching them to observe everything I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
Matthew 28:18-20

Do you ever find yourself feeling overwhelmed by or ill-equipped for the tasks before you? Let’s look at the first three words of today’s passage: Jesus came near. When Jesus had something important to say to His dearest followers, He came near to them and spoke directly to them. This kind of intimate instruction was not just reserved for Christ’s first century disciples; this is how He desires to communicate with all of us! Through the gift of Scripture and the guidance of the Holy Spirit, God is delighted to come near to us and share His heart with us.

Matthew 28:18-20 is known as The Great Commission: a charge, given to the disciples and applicable for all believers, to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with all people groups. Imagine how those eleven guys must have felt hearing this. “All nations?” they might have asked. “Teaching them everything?” It might have felt like way too tall an order for a ragtag group made up of fishermen, a tax collector, and a zealot.

This is why Jesus’s next words were this: “And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Whatever God calls us to do, He never asks us to do it alone. His presence is permanent, reliable, steadfast. Let’s praise Him for that!

 

Quiet Time

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“Immediately the Spirit drove him into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and the angels were serving him.”
Mark 1:12-13

I’m sitting at my dining room table, country music playing just a smidge too loudly behind me as my daughters have a dance party on what feels like the seventy-third snow day this month. I reach for my Bible, running my hand down the whisper-thin pages, and close my eyes.

Before I can even say hello to God, much less reflect on His holiness, one of my daughters is crying and the other is shouting about how it’s not her fault — she didn’t do anything! This time, I close my eyes, but in frustration, not reverence.

I settle this latest argument and suggest a litany of quiet activities my kids might enjoy for a while. Finally, peace. My hand hovers over my Bible, but – much as I’m embarrassed to admit it – I hesitate. My phone is sitting right there, just waiting for me, begging for my attention, promising to entertain me and numb all the irritations that have cropped up this day.

Even if I manage to ignore the pull of my phone, my mind and heart are still so prone to wander.

What time is my appointment this afternoon?
Did I return that message? I should do that real quick, right now.
Why is the cat crying? Guess I better give her fresh water.
That reminds me: I need to refill my water bottle.
Maybe I should try that devotional I bought a few months ago.
I’m just going to pay that bill online . . . and answer that one email . . . and check on that project . . .

When I began studying ways to prepare my heart for Easter, something many know as the season of Lent, I read everything I could find about the time Jesus spent in the wilderness. While accounts can be found in three of the gospels, the brief description in Mark is what resonated most deeply with me.

Thinking of Jesus, alone in the wilderness, being tempted by Satan, surrounded by wild animals was a breath of fresh air to my distracted, weary soul. I feel alone! I’m tempted all the time! And yes, at times it feels like I’m surrounded by wild animals!

When we struggle to quiet our lives and our hearts enough to focus on God, Jesus knows exactly how we feel. And what I know from passages in Matthew and Luke is that despite the desperate situation in which He found Himself, He resisted temptation. The angels served Him, He leaned on His knowledge of Scripture and faith in God, and He resisted.

So what does that mean for me, as I think about one more failed attempt at a simple quiet time? What does that mean for you, as you feel the hunger and isolation of wilderness or battle attacks from temptation of all kinds, as you long for communion with the Lord but feel unable to get there, to stay there, to remember why you were going there in the first place?

It means this: Our Lord and Savior isn’t just the One who can quench our thirst and ease our pain. He is worthy of our praise and adoration, but He also is intimately familiar with our challenges and our struggles. He knows the strength it requires to seek Him and abide with Him, and He knows that, without Him, we will perish in the wilderness.

It means that not only is Jesus our goal when we set aside time for Him, He is our solution for fighting through all the distractions and temptations that work so hard to keep us away. It means that no matter how barren and empty our personal wilderness may feel, we are not actually alone in our search for God. Just as the angels were with Him, Jesus is with us.

Dear Lord, thank You for going first into the wilderness — for showing us how important it is to get alone and quiet, to seek God, and to listen. Thank You for going with us when we face temptation and distraction — for giving us the tools we need to resist. Jesus, You are worth every effort it takes to quiet my mind and my heart. You are worthy of every minute I devote to You above all else. Please meet me in this place. Bind my wandering heart to Yours. Keep my eyes set on You. Thank You, Lord, for never letting me go. 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 Michele Cushatt reads her chapter, titled Staying Curious When You Want to Run Away, from our newest book, Come Sit With Me. Listen at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

How I Find My Way Through the Violence of the World

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I take my time, strolling through the aisles of Costco, snapping photos of the prices of sandwich bread, apples, cheese, paper towels, and everything on my long list of youth retreat supplies to compare to prices elsewhere. I had volunteered to buy groceries and prep the meals for this year’s winter camp, and I didn’t know then how much these mundane tasks were exactly what I needed that week to steady me.

The Saturday before, in the midst of Lunar New Year celebrations, shots were fired in a ballroom dance studio in Monterey Park, California. Eleven were killed. Then, just two days later, another shooting, this time in Half Moon Bay, California. Seven were killed. Reading the news, I felt at once numb to the commonplace reality of mass shootings and unnerved that this was our reality. What do we do with this kind of news? How do we grieve, rage, and preserve our sanity? Do I post about it? Talk with others about it? Is that enough? Is it helpful in the slightest?

I don’t know, to be honest.

I reshare someone else’s post because I never have the right words in these moments and because I’m afraid this sort of news – news about Asian Americans – won’t be widely seen or heard or cared about nationally.

And then, with all the groceries now littering the kitchen counters, I sit down at our dining table with a Korean-style plastic basin filled with garlic heads and start to peel one clove at a time. I could’ve just bought the bag of already peeled garlic from Costco, but I couldn’t justify the price nor loss in flavor. And this is the work my body instinctually knew it needed to be doing.

It’s slow work, but I don’t mind. It reminds me of my grandma. I try to remember if she ever sat with a plastic basin full of garlic heads, but she must have, whether or not I can recall. This is her posture, her movements, her hands that I see in mine. Soon, my mother-in-law joins me to help, and together we sit quietly and peel off the paper-thin wrappings.

This is when I realize: Ah, herein lies the gift, the grace, the goodness. When the world is hurting, when people are fighting, killing, and desperate, the ordinary is where we find God again – in the small acts of love, in the memory of being loved, in the everyday work required to feed and care for one another. It’s holy work, and it brings us back to the presence of our God who sits with us in silence, holding our grief and grieving too. And knowing He understands and carries all of the tragedy and trauma in His hands quiets the flustered anguish inside me. The stillness makes space for sadness and joy to have a place at the table, and I’m grateful to feel again and be grounded once more.

I long for the day when violence will cease and we will no longer be afraid. I keep asking, “How long, Lord?” and “When will it stop?” but there are no answers to my questions for now, perhaps ever. In the tension of the wait, hope for a better world can start to wane and my heart can easily callous over. When that happens, I know now how to find my way through, how to find my way back. I go to the kitchen, gather the ingredients for a simple dish, and settle into the movements of ordinary work. And there, God invites my questions, soothes my soul, and reminds me His love endures forever.

He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever.
and freed us from our enemies.
His love endures forever.
He gives food to every creature.
His love endures forever.
Give thanks to the God of heaven.
His love endures forever.
Psalm 136:23-26

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He Said How Many Times?

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I felt the weight of my morning schedule as it derailed.

Dashing into the Bible study room, I scrambled to find an open seat. I hate being late, especially when I’m the new person, so with a frazzled heart and some deep breaths, I privately celebrated my punctual arrival. Sometimes simply showing up calls for a declaration of success and it was definitely that kind of morning. I’d withdrawn lately and with loneliness settling in, I was finally ready to dig in and connect in community.

Scanning the room, I hoped to find someone I knew, but suddenly my stomach sank. My breath quickened. My hands shook. I can get along with nearly anyone, but there is one person in my lifetime of “peopling” that I wouldn’t choose to see ever again . . . and there she sat. The visceral reaction that occurred in my body and mind shocked me.

I wanted to scream, “Lord, are you kidding me? Of all the people in the whole wide world and it had to be her? In my new Bible study?”

Sensations catapulted me back many years to when this woman maligned my reputation without really knowing me. I’d spent a challenging, extended season clinging to God’s Word, begging He would renew my mind as I detangled emotions over that traumatic situation. I had cultivated a spirit of forgiveness, but all those feelings I’d ushered aside came swirling back.

That night, an internal dialogue played over and over again as I lay awake in bed. The details of how she unjustly wronged me. The apology never extended. The raw wounds once scabbed and scarred over now pricked back open. I fought to take those burdensome thoughts captive, but I couldn’t quiet my mind. I tossed and turned all night. Finally, as the sun broke, I pondered Peter’s question on forgiveness.

“Lord, how many times must I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? As many as seven times?”
Matthew 18:21

I bonded with Peter over his frustration. I mean enough is enough. Surely there must be a limit. Peter offered a number he assumed was overly generous. To forgive seven times — the number of perfection amongst the Hebrews. In fact, the Jewish rule mandated one only had to forgive another person three times before moving on. It was the law, so Peter intended to go above and beyond the cultural norm in forgiving his enemy, but Jesus pushed those limits. He turned everything upside down when He commanded us to not only forgive “seventy times seven,” but to love our enemies and lay down our lives for each other as He did.

Candidly, I wasn’t quite ready for this. Did Christ understand the sacrifice? The steep ask of our vulnerable heart? He did. More than anyone, Jesus is keenly aware of the mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual implications when we allow seeds of bitterness and resentment to fester. I thought of my sleepless night. If I was already exhibiting ramifications from one evening, how much deeper the impact might it be if I didn’t uproot any lingering unforgiveness or bitterness?

This process didn’t happen overnight. Every week I saw her, and often toddler tendencies resulted in my internal kicking and screaming of, “This isn’t fair!” But I brought my disappointment, frustration, and heartache to the Lord. My varied emotions didn’t catch Him by surprise. I trust that He ordered my path to intersect with hers for His ultimate purpose. While I often wondered what that might be, I begged Him to transform me along the way more into His image.

At times it feels impossible, but when we step forward in love toward those who have wronged us, it is undeniably of God. And while we aren’t usually put in situations where we literally have to give up our lives for another, we are called to surrender. Surrender our frustrations, our pride, our need to be right, our bitterness, our justifications and excuses for why we shouldn’t have to because of all they’ve done to us. We are commanded to lay aside all that for others, for her, for the ones most difficult to forgive. It’s where we allow the Holy Spirit to tutor us on loving amidst undeniably painful situations. This is how the world knows that we are different. It’s how the world will know we are His disciples.

I don’t remember much about that Bible study, but I kept going back when I wanted to run. I never did receive an apology, and honestly, I don’t really like her, and that’s okay. The Lord did major heart surgery on me because it expanded with love for her that I never expected. It’s still a minuscule seed of love, but it’s love, and that’s a start.

Are you struggling with unforgiveness? You’re not alone. Sometimes it’s just so hard. I’d be honored to link arms with you in the comments.

 

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You Are Not Stupid

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She told me I’d been doing it wrong. All this time, the days folding into months, I’d been placing it in the wrong spot and at the wrong angle, therefore targeting the wrong muscles and stretching the wrong curves in my spine.

She continued telling me about the solution, how we could fix this, easily, with just a tweak here and a tweak there . . . but I couldn’t follow what she was saying. I wasn’t ready to talk about solutions. She was a hundred miles and a day ahead of me while I was still stuck at the problem.

I hesitated, mumbled a few incoherent syllables, and then let the words cascade out of my mouth like a confession.

“I feel so stupid,” I said. Tears gathered in my eyes.

“No,” she reassured me. “You’re not stupid. You’ve worked really hard.”

“But I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve wasted all this time,” I insisted. Then, I sat there, crying in the chiropractor’s office.

I have pain that’s anchored in the lower left side of my back — a few car accidents, inflammation in the hips, and leg braces as a kid will do that to you. And so, I do everything I can think of to stop this pain and address the root strain from which it all stems.

I stretch, I rub arnica and peppermint oil, I research, I drink water, I drink teas, I pray, I supplement, and I shelve out money I do not have for the relentless rounds of chiropractic appointments, week after week after week after week.

I do everything in my power to not only heal the pain, but to prevent and alleviate the strain it will put on my body in years to come. I learn what I need to learn and do what I need to do. Strategically, I think and plan ahead, always cognizant of the possibilities that can and will come in the future of my tomorrows.

I have to heal now so that the pain doesn’t persist.
I have to stretch to be strong and keep up with my kids.
I have to fix what is broken so that it doesn’t break me.
I cannot make mistakes; I cannot waste time.

Crying in the chiropractor’s office was the first of many miraculous moments, like a seed taking root in the soil of my soul, crawling and climbing out of darkness and into the light. I began to see within myself an insecurity, not merely in regards to my abilities but more so everything to do with my capacity.

I know that I am brilliant and bright — I know that I have ideas that sparkle with innovation and ingenuity. I know that I’m a learner and a logical thinker. I know that I can solve problems, create systems, and dream up new solutions. But somewhere, somehow, a lie crept in. It’s not the first time I’ve said it aloud or whispered it under my breath. In the last year, or so, I’ve unconsciously repeated it like a mantra.

I feel so stupid, I once confessed to my friend as I told her about how I didn’t prepare for a crisis that I never even saw coming. I’m so stupid, I’ve whispered within myself as I thought through the many twists and turns of my life, pondering how I could have prevented them.

Only now am I beginning to see a trend in this train of thought: I want to fix broken things and, deeper still, I want to prevent things from breaking. And I crumble, altogether fall apart, anytime I realize I cannot fix everything . . . nor can I, in fact, prevent things from breaking, or failing, or persisting with pain.

Proclaiming, I am stupid, is a sign of faith coming out sideways, a sign that we’ve come to trust in our own limited capacity rather than God’s unlimited one. It’s a sign that we’ve lost sight of His sovereignty, the fact that He is and has always been in control.

I often ponder how Peter felt after he disowned Jesus and the rooster crowed three times. I often wonder if that moment of bitter weeping was filled with flashbacks, Peter flipping through memories in his mind like a Rolodex, thinking through the ways in which he wished he could go back in time. Would he do things differently? Would he have tried harder at preventing that whole scenario from playing out?

As I think of Peter’s guilt, I can’t help but think of God’s grace. I think of the love in Jesus’s eyes, always full of mercy for the moments — in both our sin and in our insufficiency — when we know not what we do.

I need that grace, I need it right now and I need it every day. Do you? I need the reminder to relinquish my control, to put my trust in God who holds all things — all hurt, healing, hardship, and hope — in His hands.

“Be nice to you,” said my chiropractor, handing me a tissue and then hugging me. “You’re not stupid.”

I breathed in the words until I believed them, taking hold of the truth that tells about God. I can almost hear Him say . . .

You’re not stupid. What you are is limited in your capacity to know and to solve everything. You cannot see into the future. You cannot shield yourself from every failing or fracture. You are not stupid, but you are fragile and finite. You are made from dust and to dust you will return. Trust Me, turn to Me. Look to Me, lean on Me. Focus on Me, follow Me. When life and health and love and dreams fall apart, fall on Me.

 

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Wisdom Is Learned Through Understanding Knowledge

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I held the small catechism book in my lap and traced the letters of its title with my fingertips. The bumpy texture of the cardstock cover reminded me of the feel of braille, and I pleaded with God that the words I had obediently highlighted in pink would help me see the truth. I kept my thumb on the first page, constantly flipping the booklet open and closed because the wording of each question and answer was awkward. My mind struggled to understand how these words were supposed to help me in my faith, so I simply strung them together side by side, like a puzzle I’d understand when all the pieces were snapped together at the end. I repeated the questions and answers over and over again, like a prayer that could get me to heaven:

Q.1. What is man’s primary purpose?
A. Man’s primary purpose is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever.

Q.2. What does the Bible primarily teach?
A. The Bible primarily teaches what man must believe about God and what God requires of man.

Q.3. What is God?
A. God is a Spirit, Whose being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth are infinite, eternal, and unchangeable.

Instead of learning who God is behind these theological concepts, I simply committed the words to memory through repetition, knowing I’d only be asked to recite them correctly in Sunday school — not to understand them.

This was my spiritual education in my youth group and college days, gathering and hoarding knowledge. And eventually, like a sheep without a shepherd, I regurgitated what I knew and fed it to the youth group students who came after me, faithfully following in the footsteps of those before me.

My prematurely formed theological knowledge became the foundation on which all my beliefs were grounded. It was the soapbox on which I’d stand to look down on anyone I deemed unenlightened. It was proof that I was wiser than my peers, who had the audacity not to care. It became the ten-foot pole I used to measure people’s worthiness, including my own, and I was thoroughly disappointed in all of us whenever we didn’t meet the standard.

I remember the intensity of those days and how exhilarating and powerful it felt to know so much. Even now I can almost smell the acidity of the thick paper from that sturdy little booklet, and I can instinctually recite what the chief end of man is. I was shaped by those catechisms, by the teaching and culture of my church at that time. And while I’m grateful for what I was taught and for the pastors and teachers who passed on that knowledge to me, I’ve come to realize that not everything I learned was good and right or even true. I’ve had to live through the consequences and take responsibility for the ways that ingested theology shaped the way I saw myself, how I treated others, and what I thought about the rest of the world.

My theology has changed and expanded, re-formed again and again over the years. I’ve learned to sift through everything I was taught, to examine it in sober judgment, and see if it holds true not just for the elite but for everyone. I’ve learned that knowledge without understanding builds a flat, often unlived faith that lacks nuance and grace for self and others. And though knowledge can be good in and of itself, I’ve learned that the way we use it, why we believe it, and how we live it are what can lead to wisdom.

Recently, my husband and I bought and set up three bookshelves in our room to better organize the (possibly unnecessary) plethora of books we’ve accumulated over our lives. I began the satisfying work of sorting them, perfectly lining up the spines in just the right way, and tossing the ones I didn’t need anymore into a donation box. When I got to the stack of books I had read during those formative years growing up, I paused. I thought about the ways they had been both helpful and harmful and how much fuller my library had become since I had read them.

I decided to keep them on their own shelf as a reminder of where I’d come from while acknowledging that so much of life and faith isn’t clear-cut and categorical the way I’d thought it was. Instead of spouting knowledge as a way to position myself, I now try to take things in more mindfully, chewing on the information slowly and deliberately, seeking to understand more deeply. I’ve become comfortable with telling people, “I really don’t know the answer,” and letting uncertainty hang in the air. I trust that wisdom will come not because I amass knowledge but because God will help me understand what I need to learn.

God, thank You for not expecting me to know everything in order to know You. But I also recognize that in order to know You, I need to understand more. Help me digest what I read in Your Word and what I learn about You from others through books, sermons, podcasts, or my community. Let what needs to sink in, sink in, and let everything else float away according to Your wisdom for my life. Amen.

Isn’t wisdom just what we all need to seek right now? (Raising my hand high!)

That’s why I’m so excited to share with you Create in Me a Heart of Wisdom.

It’s the third in our series of four transformational Bible studies. If you loved Heart of Hope and Heart of Peace, you’ll love this! But you can also just jump right into Heart of Wisdom, which is now available wherever books are sold, including:

This Bible study was heart-and-life-changing to write, and I believe it’s going to help you encounter God and fall in love with His Word in fresh ways too.

Get your copy now because our online Bible study started THIS WEEK! (I can’t wait to talk together about all things wisdom and Jesus on Thursday!) FIND ALL THE ONLINE BIBLE STUDY DETAILS HERE. And be sure to SIGN UP so we can send you the first week of the Create in Me a Heart of Wisdom + a printable Scripture page for FREE!

Join the online study and let’s seek hearts of wisdom — together.

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

Where Do You Look When You Can’t See Past Loss?

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During my sophomore year of college, one of my best friends and I came early to every theology class so we could score front-row seats to best take in our favorite professor’s every word. After class, a group of us would hurry over to the wooden booths of the cafeteria where we’d pore over our notes while drinking terrible coffee and ask the questions about God that most haunted and hallowed our hearts.

Katie and I were always the last ones at the table, lingering long over the wildness of things like perichoresis and union with Christ. As two cradle-conservative Christians, it was the first time in both of our lives that we were realizing our female perspective on God wasn’t fundamentally flawed. We had no idea that wonder was widening the space where we could later show up as our full selves. We had no idea that our collective awe was a bridge into a belonging that later pain could never topple. We just knew we were astonished by the mystery of a God who dwells with us.

Looking back, I know we were gathering courage as we gathered our notes and books and swallowed the dregs of our coffee, preparing ourselves for the day our thoughts about God would reach much, much farther than the confines of that wooden cafeteria booth.

One afternoon we decided that we weren’t satisfied with everyone’s normal way of ending conversations. Friend after friend had filed away from our booth with a “See you later!” or “Have fun!”, both of which we decided were not sufficiently deep enough parting words for us. (If you are not rolling your eyes yet, you have permission to do so now.)

Look up.

That’s the phrase we landed on. We wanted to carry our theological imaginations with us from that table with an imperative. We wanted to lift our eyes to the hills and expect that God would help. We wanted to look up to the cloud-covered mountain of all we could not understand about God and grace and grief — where paradox is a peak rather than a problem.

We were (and are) such nerds. But the thing is: that phrase has now been lifting my head for sixteen years.

I didn’t know then how much I’d need our sophomore wisdom for the suffering that was to come. And I didn’t know then how those two simple words were actually a summons into wholeness right within my own soma — my body.

The next year of college, pain became a daily part of my life. Katie’s words echoed in my head when I was too sick to get out of my dorm bed. Look up. A sliver of sky, a cloud passing by — looking up became medicine.

Our parting words paved a path in my imagination, giving me a way through pain, through problems, and into the presence of the God who is already here. Sight made my life sacramental. What began as words to remember God became a way to watch for Goodness and Love everywhere I went — especially when I felt stuck.

Sight is one way we can get unstuck.

What I didn’t know as a college sophomore is that our eyes are part of our brains and offer the fastest path back into safety when we feel stuck, ashamed, or stressed. Our retinas are always responding to our environment to regulate how awake or activated we need to be. By looking up and out for beauty and goodness, we can work with our bodies to shift out of stress and into connection.

You need glimmers of goodness to remember God cares. Simple, straightforward, and free visual cues can remind you — on a physiological level — that Goodness is here.

You need to see the smile of a stranger to feel safe enough to show up in your life. You need to notice the colors of the books on your bedside table and the way the light gilds dust to gold to sense that your life is still enchanted by Love. Sight speaks a kind sermon for anyone willing to look up.

Last week I got to sit in another booth across from Katie. Over much better coffee, I listened as she shared that she got her dream job as a tenure-track psychology professor, a job she’s worked towards all these years in the midst of deep grief and massive challenges. I was there in Michigan to speak to a crowd about my newest book and told Katie how much my own vocation has surprised me with joy. We both looked up at each other with tears in our eyes.

We remembered (and laughed at) the college sophomores we were — who latched on to looking up. We honored the women we became — who both saw so much suffering in the years that followed. And we sat there in awe of the grace in each other that led us forward even when we couldn’t see past the season we were in.

When we hugged in the diner parking lot, Katie turned around with a twinkle in her eye and said, “Look up!”

 “Your eye is a lamp, lighting up your whole body. If you live wide-eyed in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in greed and distrust, your body is a musty cellar. Keep your eyes open, your lamp burning, so you don’t get musty and murky. Keep your life as well-lighted as your best-lighted room.”
Luke 11:34–36 MSG

Light of the World,

You said wonder
will fill us with light.

May we look up
to watch for the wonder
that is already here.

Though some say
to keep heaven in mind,
the way to heaven
is straight through our eyes.

Amen.

A prayer from KJ’s new book, The Book of Common Courage: Prayers and Poems to Find Strength in Small Moments.

 

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How to Hear His Voice in a World Full of Noise

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It’s been three months since we brought home a little flock of Katahdin sheep. Only seven of them, but already they are making themselves at home and weaving their way into my heart.

I’ve always been a farm girl, having spent the first ten years of my life on a dairy farm with a myriad of animals ranging from pigs to chickens and a few ornery goats. All these years later, I find myself stewarding a little farm with a handful of chickens and guineas and now . . . this tiny flock of sheep. As simple as they are, these Katahdin sheep are teaching me something about what it means to follow Christ and recognize his voice.

When the sheep first arrived at our farm, they were wary and skittish of me. I was not their shepherd. Their previous shepherd was now thirty miles away from where we are. As we left the sheep farm that day, the young man who had been their shepherd since they were born said to me, “Don’t worry, they’ll get to know you. Just spend time with them . . . and a few sweet treats wouldn’t hurt either.” I’d hoped he was right.

Each morning, as the sun greeted a new day, I came to the sheep paddock, calling to each one with sweet treats in hand. Each evening, I returned to check on them, adding fresh water to the trough and, at times, moving them to a fresh paddock of grass. As time went on, I found myself pausing to sit in the field with them — talking to them softly and watching them graze the green grass.

One by one, they began to approach me on their own. First the older and more experienced ewes, followed by the spring lambs growing bigger and stronger.

Every time they came close, I held my breath, internally willing them to trust me. Day after day we sat like that, me and my little flock of sheep. Each day, they willingly came closer and closer as I, in turn, came to know them individually by their own unique markings and quirks.

One morning, as I hopped out of my truck, I gave them a call, just as I had done every morning before. But unlike the other times, this day was different. Instead of just lifting their heads and going back to grazing, the oldest ewe let out a bleating call and ran to the gate to greet me. As if on cue, the other six followed suit and before I could even get the gate open, they were crowding one another to see who could get closest. As a new shepherdess, it was a wonderful feeling to know they finally seemed to trust me. I wondered if it would last or if they would go to simply anyone holding sweet treats in their hands.

A few days later, as I pulled up to the sheep paddock, my daughter Anna popped her head out of the barn while working on a few of her own animal chores. As we chatted, I told her about the response of the sheep to my arrival a couple days before. I shared how excited I was that they were starting to come to me when I called, yet still wondered out loud if they only came because of the sweet treats in my pocket.

Anna paused from her work, looked at me and said, “No, Mom. It’s you. They recognize you and they know your voice.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because . . . when I got to the barn, they lifted their heads. But when I came up to the fence and called them, they went back to eating. They never came over to the gate . . . until they saw you and heard your voice. Then they all came running! They know your voice, Mom. You’re it. You’re their shepherd!” said Anna.

In that moment, I realized that my sheep knew my voice — really knew my voice! Today, not only do they come when I call, but now they literally follow me across the field, through the gate, and down the lane as I lead them to new grass. Now, as I sit in the field with them, they immediately gather around, pressing their noses to my hands and grazing close as we co-exist in that green field together.

In the quiet moments of sitting with my little flock, I am profoundly reminded of what it means to be shepherded by my own heavenly Father. In a world full of noise and so many voices, I want to be a woman who knows my Father’s voice and responds without hesitation. Not only do I want to know His voice, but I want to draw so close to Him that I know His character and trust Him without hesitation as He leads me to new places.

In a world full of noise, do you know His voice? He’s calling you — draw close, be seen, be known by the very one who created you just as you are.

“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.”
John 10:27 (ESV)

A Prayer for When Everything Breaks

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My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
    but God remains the strength of my heart;
he is mine forever.
Psalm 73:26

Lord, thank You. Thank You that even as our bodies are failing and our spirits are broken, our hearts can thrive because of Your strength. This world will falter and fail and change. But You, Mighty God, remain faithful! You are the same yesterday, today, and always.

Thank You for Your steadfast presence. Thank You, Jesus, for being Immanuel — God with us. Thank you, Holy Spirit, for making Your home in our hearts. As You dwell in us, help us to dwell in You.

Father God, You have chosen us as your forever children. We choose you forever too. Amen.

Giving Your Not-Enough

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To live what I like to call the simple difference, we have to exchange the way we see our not-enough for the way God sees it.

I can’t help but think about the boy who gave his small lunch. You probably know the story: A huge crowd — five thousand men, plus all the women and children — has been following Jesus and His disciples, eager to see Him heal the sick. They are in a remote location. It’s getting late, which is problematic because there isn’t enough food to feed the crowd and no easy place to get some.

The disciple Andrew points out, “Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?” (John 6:9). In essence he’s saying, look at what we have — it’s something, but it’s not enough. Have you ever done this? You’re aware of a huge problem or predicament, you want to do something to help, but the resources available to you fall painfully short.

We don’t know if the boy who gave up his meager meal did so willingly or begrudgingly. What we do know is that Jesus transformed what was not enough into more than enough.

“Jesus then took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed to those who were seated as much as they wanted. He did the same with the fish. When they had all had enough to eat, he said to his disciples, ‘Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.’ So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten.”
John 6:10-13

Scripture doesn’t say if the boy was hopeful that his little lunch would help or if it felt like an empty gesture toward a lost cause. But here’s the thing: how we feel or what we think about the resources we have to give doesn’t dictate or limit God’s power to use them. It wasn’t up to the boy what became of his food. It was up to him to be aware of the needs around him, assess the resources available to him, and respond to the opportunity to make a difference.

This miracle of multiplication was fueled by God’s power! Only He could take a total lack and turn it into total satisfaction. But the spark that started the blaze of provision was one small act of obedience.

Time and time again I’m faced with what I perceive as my own inadequacy and lack. What I have to give rarely feels enough for what is needed. A friend needs help moving, but I don’t have a truck. Someone needs a babysitter, but I’m buried with work. A family can’t pay rent, but what I have to give can hardly make a dent. In times like these we need to remember that iGod’s power fills in the gap.

We have the delightful opportunity to show up, give freely, and put the responsibility of the outcome squarely where it belongs — in God’s sovereign hands.

TODAY: When a need feels too big to meet, just give exactly what you have.

-Written by Becky Keife, adapted from her (in)courage book, The Simple Difference.

 

When the world’s problems loom large and your ordinary life stretches you thin, is it still possible to be a difference-maker? Absolutely! One small, intentional, extravagant act of kindness at a time. The Simple Difference: How Every Small Kindness Makes a Big Impact by Becky Keife will help you to stop getting buried in busyness and distraction and discover countless opportunities for impact right where you are.

Rather than trying to do more, learn how to see more: more of the people in front of you, more of God’s lavish love for you, and more of His power within you. Grab a copy of The Simple Difference now. We pray it blesses you.

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Today on the podcast — a bonus episode! Listen in as Jami Nato reads her chapter, titled Will You be a Flamethrower or a Fire Extinguisher in the Dumpster Fire of Internet Comments?, from our newest book, Come Sit With Me. Listen at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

Tired of Trying to Make Everything Okay? Here’s a More Peaceful Way…

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I’m sitting in a drive-through line pondering a situation I can’t seem to control. My husband and I are in snowy Colorado coming home from a trip with family. We’re catching a flight in the morning, which means staying at a hotel tonight and fast food is the only nearby option. In a quest for comfort, I order the same meal I did as a kid — filet-o-fish and hot fudge sundae (don’t judge).

Our time here has felt magical — skiing, sledding, making snickerdoodles, cozying up under warm blankets. But I’ve been vaguely distracted by a situation back home. “I can’t figure out how to resolve it,” I tell my husband when he asks what I’m thinking. I’ve fixated on this particular problem for months, looked at it from every angle, broken it apart and put it back together. But I can’t find peace.

Now, even on vacation, there’s no rest inside my mind. I feel weary, so tired of worrying, exhausted from carrying the weight of what I can’t seem to make right. I pause and pray these words:

God, give me the wisdom to know what work is mine to do today. I release everything and everyone else to You. Amen.

I feel a shift within my soul as soon as I finish. I realize I thought I wanted a solution but what I really needed was to surrender. Stop fighting what I can’t change. Start focusing on my own life instead of what I can’t fix. Release responsibility for other people and return to what God has asked of me.

I was doing work that wasn’t mine.

Work that isn’t ours:

– Trying to be responsible for everything and everyone
– Telling ourselves something is our fault when it’s the result of a broken world or someone else’s choices
– Carrying more than our share of the emotional weight in a relationship
– Forcing an outcome rather than taking the next small step of obedience

Work that is ours includes taking responsibility for our thoughts, words, feelings, actions, desires, and needs. It involves taking care of our hearts, souls, minds, and bodies. It means we “run with endurance the race God has set before us… keeping our eyes on Jesus” (Hebrews 12:1-2).

The funny thing? The second I said “amen” the person I’d been struggling with sent me a text message. I’d been holding on so tight and when I finally let go, it seemed to unlock something in a way beyond what my human mind is able to comprehend.

Of course, I still want to try to take control again. The situation isn’t fully resolved and I want to put a nice checkmark next to it. I want to clean it up, put it in a category, make it neat and tidy. I don’t want to deal with the mess, the uncertainty, my absolute inability to cause things to turn out the way I want.

I’ve had to pray the same little prayer I did that night in the drive-through over and over again. I’ve said it at least five times this morning and it’s only 9 a.m.. I might say it a hundred times before I go to sleep tonight.

After I say “amen” I ask, “What is my work to do right now?” Then I clean up the kitchen, hug my husband, walk a few steps, or pull out my laptop and type words that will remind me of what is true, and hopefully do the same for you.

(Confession: I don’t always want to do this. Sometimes I’d much rather whine, pout, and try to take charge again. Sometimes that’s exactly what I do. And that’s okay. Surrender is often a process, not an event.)

If you’re worn out from trying to control something or someone, I’m inviting you to say this prayer and ask this question with me too.

Today let’s do our work, and let God do His.

If you struggle with anxiety or would like a little extra encouragement today, the first 3 devotions in Holley’s newest devotional, What Your Mind Needs for Anxious Moments are free! Enter your email here and you’ll receive the devos in your email inbox right away.

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