The Sandwich I Didn’t Want and the Miracle I Needed

The Sandwich I Didn’t Want and the Miracle I Needed

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On Saturday, May 31, I had the privilege of hosting our first bilingual conference for Anew Ministries. We gathered in Monroe, North Carolina, bringing together 50 multi-generational, multi-cultural women. It was a labour of love and a testament to God’s faithfulness when we give our yes in faith to Him.

I planned and planned for months, securing speakers and volunteers, booking flights and lodging, and checking item after item on my endless to-do list. I felt confident that the planning was on track. However, a few weeks before the event, our caterer unexpectedly called and informed me that he would no longer be able to cater the event. What?! How was this happening? 

I tried to stay calm and quickly searched Google for restaurants that cater in that area. I stumbled upon a Mexican food chain that needed only 48 hours notice. This was perfect because I didn’t want to serve another sandwich. I’m not against sandwiches, but I wanted our conference to stand out by offering something different, and a boxed lunch from another local eaterie was neither appealing to me nor within our budget. Also, by this point, our registrations hadn’t met the minimum number of attendees required for our coffee cart provider, so we lost breakfast and lunch within two weeks — with just three weeks to go before the event.

As the days flew by, the pressure continued to build. While dealing with my own personal struggles and uncertainties, I noticed the registration numbers remained low. Doubt began to set in, and I started to wonder if this event was going to fall through.

Things continued to fall apart. Given the exchange rate (from Canada, where my family and Anew are based, to our event site in the U.S.), unexpected changes, and food selection, costs were significantly higher than anticipated. Out of the blue, I lost two speakers in one week. It felt as though everything was unravelling. 

Discouragement began to replace the faith I had so eagerly started with, and I began to feel so defeated.

Forty-eight hours before the event, I called to place our catering order, only to find out that May 31st was the busiest day for this restaurant and that they were no longer accepting orders at any location in North Carolina. The only restaurant within a reasonable driving distance was a sandwich shop, leaving me no choice but to order a boxed lunch that included the dreaded sandwich. 

My plans were falling apart, but God’s were just beginning to take shape. 

That week, a friend prayed for me to let go of my plans and learn to accept His. It was then that I surrendered this event to the Lord, on His terms, not mine. From the food and speakers to all the elements I couldn’t control, I entrusted everything to God — which wasn’t easy. But I drew strength from every word God had given me and believed that whatever the outcome of this conference, He would provide.

That’s when I stumbled upon Numbers chapter 11, where the Israelites complained about craving meat (among other things).  Reading verses 31-32 blew my mind:

“Now a wind went out from the Lord and drove quail in from the sea. It scattered them up to two cubits deep all around the camp, as far as a day’s walk in any direction. All that day and night and all the next day the people went out and gathered quail. No one gathered less than ten homers. Then they spread them out all around the camp.”
Numbers 11:31-32 NIV

Did you notice that? “A wind went out from the Lord and drove quail in from the sea.” The Lord not only provided meat for the Israelites, but He did it in the most unexpected way – by sending it from the sea! This verse echoed in the chambers of my heart for days to come. If the Lord could provide for the Israelites, could He not do the same for us? I tucked these verses away in my heart. 

The conference was a tremendous success! The Lord showed up beautifully and exceeded my expectations in every way. It was more than I could have imagined or asked for, and He was present in every detail. Though we came in over budget, He wasn’t finished yet.

The day after the event, as our team headed to lunch, I received a call from a friend I hadn’t heard from in a long time. He told me he had been feeling prompted by the Lord for a few weeks to make a donation to our ministry, but it wasn’t until that morning that he made the call. His donation covered all our financial needs — praise Jesus!

Friend, I don’t know what you’re going through today, but let me remind you that our God is a provider. He’s in the details, and He’s your strength and refuge. You can trust Him and the outcome only He could orchestrate.

May our prayer today be “Your will, not mine.”

 

Listen to Ligia’s devotion here or stream the (in)courage podcast on your fave app!

From Beach to Backyard: You’re Never Alone

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“I can never escape from your Spirit!
    I can never get away from your presence!
If I go up to heaven, you are there;
    if I go down to the grave,[a] you are there.
If I ride the wings of the morning,
    if I dwell by the farthest oceans,
 even there your hand will guide me,
    and your strength will support me.
I could ask the darkness to hide me
    and the light around me to become night—
     but even in darkness I cannot hide from you.
To you the night shines as bright as day.
Darkness and light are the same to you.”
Psalm 139:7-12 NLT

Maybe you’re reading this with your toes in the sand, letting the sun warm places you forgot were cold. Or maybe you’re wiping smudges off the kitchen counter for the tenth time today, wondering if anything you do really matters. Or you’re clocking in for another day of a job you love… or one you really don’t.

Wherever you are — on vacation or in the thick of your everyday — this truth remains: God is with you. Right now. Right here.

His presence isn’t reserved for church pews or mountaintop moments. Psalm 139 reminds us that from the beach to the backyard — and every mundane, messy, or marvelous place in between — we are never outside the reach of His love or the help of His hand.

You may feel overwhelmed by the weight you’re carrying: anxious thoughts, parenting struggles, job stress, or just the ache of being unseen. But sister, you are not alone. God sees. God stays. God supports. His Spirit hovers over your chaos like He did in the beginning — bringing light, forming beauty, whispering peace.

There is joy to be found — not because your circumstances are easy, but because Jesus is near. And in His presence, there is always joy (Psalm 16:11).

So take a deep breath.
Look up. Look around.
That patch of blue sky? That giggle from your child? That quiet moment with your coffee?

That’s joy.
That’s Jesus, right here with you.


Jesus, thank You for being with me in every moment. Help me to notice You — to find joy not in perfect circumstances but in Your perfect presence. Today, let me live with eyes wide open to Your nearness and heart anchored in Your love. Amen.

When Darkness Is an Old Friend

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I didn’t know God was with me in the darkness where I resided.

The darkness took me down paths of desperation. It welcomed anxiety and sorrow, rocks at the pit of my stomach. Pain, which would travel into my throat, causing it to sting. Breathing, short and fast. Eyes squeezed shut to try and keep the tears from pouring out. 

Life overwhelmed me. I was hospitalized and medicated, twice. It was me and the darkness and a world with seemingly no purpose — no rhythm and no security — spinning around. 

In my late teens, everything changed when I was introduced to God, a God who loved me, a God who cared deeply, a God whose light broke through the darkness and offered me the peace I had been so desperately seeking. Faith uprooted the constant pressure and overwhelm. Feeling a peace that I had never felt before, the darkness slipped away, taking anxiety with it.

Eventually, I married and had a football team’s worth of babies. I floated through life, God at my side, filled with that peace that surpasses understanding. Those things that had plagued me were barely a memory. Making a home, baking bread, homeschooling, family traditions, walks along the beach, life was beautiful and full . . . until one day, a sibling squabble brought me to my knees.

In an instant, I felt it. That rock in my stomach. It had been years and another lifetime, but as soon as it came knocking, it was as if it had never been gone.

I was the lyrics from that Simon and Garfunkel song, “Hello darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.” From that point, darkness tried, desperately, to creep back into my life.

Things had been getting more overwhelming. I had been feeling burnt out more often. In the middle of the daily chaos, I was finding it hard to breathe. So many things calling to me. Suddenly, it had all broken me. How was I supposed to mend this tattered mosaic, aka me? 

When I first met God as a teen, I knew I needed mending. There was no shame in it. But then, as a mature Christian wife and mother, I found it impossible to admit that. Shouldn’t I be able to hold things together, do it all, and not focus too much on myself?  

But, if I maintained that mentality, I would be a frog in a pot of boiling water, unaware that I needed to jump out until it was too late. I would break. I had already begun. So, I went back to the beginning. To whispered prayers. I looked for the light in the darkness and reminded myself, daily, of the love of God.

I wrote out priorities that reminded me of Him. He is a God of beauty, order, relationship, wisdom, and creation, and I thought these orienting myself to these priorities would help me connect to Him. I would do one thing in each area every day; five things to help ease my overwhelm, make me mindful of my surroundings, remind me that God wins, that I matter, and to breathe.  

He is a God of beauty, so every day I would bring something beautiful into my life. I’d add something lovely — pick wildflowers, light candles, set the table for a family meal, rearrange things, and create.  

He is a God of order, so I decluttered. The junk drawer, the catch-all table, the unruly garden, the cluttered closet. I’d make change in one area daily, bringing order to the madness, lessening the chaos. 

He is a God of relationship, so I would make an intentional effort in one relationship every day. Date night, one-on-one with a child, write a letter to a friend, or service to someone in my community. 

He is a God of wisdom, so I read books, considered ideas, wrote, and had discussions. Goethe wrote, “One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.” I took this to heart. 

He is a God of creation, so I spent time outside every day. Creation soothes the soul and is calming. Some days I would go to the beach and watch the water, the tide coming in and out. Some days, all I did was step out my front door to breathe fresh air. Watch the birds. Dance in the rain. Marvel at the majesty of nature. 

By focusing on my priorities, I found the darkness fleeing. With deep humility, I realigned with the peace of God. I knew now that I wasn’t immune: I couldn’t keep going without focusing on God and caring for myself.  

God doesn’t want us to neglect ourselves. As human beings, we need to be nurtured, refreshed, and take time to grow. An empty vessel has nothing to pour out. When we begin to tatter, it’s time to find the light and focus on mending.

When You’ve Lost Yourself, God Hasn’t Lost You

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One of my kids was recently tangled in some middle school drama. His phone battery had died, and he hadn’t texted his friend back — leaving them on read and unintentionally hurting their feelings.

“Oh, when I was a teenager, my phone died, and that happened to me once,” my husband chimed in.

“Really?” our son asked. “With which friend?”

My husband smiled.

“Mom. But she wasn’t Mom back then. Just Kayla.”

I laughed — then paused.

“I’m still Kayla,” I said.

The moment has stayed with me.

It’s so easy to lose ourselves. We take on names and roles and responsibilities. We become Mom or Auntie or Grandma or Bestie or Church Lady or Caregiver or Boss. These identities are meaningful parts of who we are, yes — but they aren’t the whole story.

Our truest identity is that we are beloved children of God.

Before we were anyone to anyone else, we were already known and loved by the One who made us.

In 1 John 3:1, we’re reminded of our truest identity: “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” (NIV)

God doesn’t forget that. God doesn’t forget you.

We have a God who moves toward us, even when we feel a little lost in who we are.

Scripture tells us that God is like a shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to go after the one that’s wandered away (Luke 15:4-7). Like a woman who turns her house upside down looking for a single lost coin (Luke 15:8-10). Like a father who runs to embrace his lost child (Luke 15:11-32).

Over and over again, God shows us: Nothing — not even our own wandering — can make us unfindable.

We often talk about losing ourselves in the seasons of motherhood, but the truth is, there are many moments in life when we feel disoriented. After a big move. After a job loss. After a diagnosis. After being let down, left out, or just trying to survive in a completely exhausting season.

When I was in middle school, my family moved from a mid-size town in Iowa to the Twin Cities. I begged my mom to take me to a trendy clothing store I’d heard about in a suburb called Eagan.

This was pre-GPS, and in her attempts to navigate the bustling metro area, my mom got a little (okay, a lot) lost. We ended up in the middle of nowhere at a dusty roadside stand called The Garden of Eagan.

“It looks like God’s been with us on this adventure all along,” she said, smiling.

We laughed. The name — playing off The Garden of Eden — made us chuckle. It felt like a nudge from the Holy Spirit. A reminder that we were never really lost, just… rerouted.

That unexpected detour stuck with me. And now, whenever I find myself on a literal or spiritual backroad, I remember: God is never confused about the route.

Even when I feel like I’ve lost myself or lost my way, I’ve never been far from God.

Our lives are an adventure. Yes, sometimes we’ll take wrong turns, make poor choices, or get knocked down by circumstances we didn’t choose. But when we pause in the middle of our messy days to pay attention to God’s presence, we begin to find our footing again. We remember who we really are — beloved children of God.

The more we reorient our days around sacred listening for the still, small voice of God in the comings and goings of our lives, the more we begin to remember what is true: That we are beloved. That we belong. That no matter where our adventure takes us, nothing could separate us from the love of God.

We don’t just remember who we are so we can feel better, we remember so we can live in the rhythms Jesus shows us. From a place of belovedness, we can extend grace. From a place of security, we can offer kindness. In other words, we love because God first loved us.

If you’ve taken detours or feel like a stranger to yourself, God knows exactly where you are and is always ready to welcome you back.

When you’ve lost your way to yourself, take a minute to pause.

To hear the Spirit whisper: “You are mine. You are my child. And you are loved. That’s who you are.”

 

Listen to Kayla’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

Can You Walk With a Book on Your Head?

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I grew up as a GenX kid in the early 80’s who ran the streets in my small suburban community without a care in the world. Our moms would shoo everyone out of the house in the early mornings, giving a warning not to run in and out all day. We rode our bikes, drank out of backyard water hoses, and ate cheap candy by the pound. Then, I made it home by the time the streetlights came on. Barely. Those were great years!

Frankly, I thought those times would last forever. Then, I turned 12 years old. That was the summer when my paternal grandma, Mama (pronounced Maw-Maw), declared that I slouched too much, and she was going to change that.

Mama was a light-skinned, older Southern Black woman who didn’t tell us what year she was born until a few years before her passing in 2016 at 92 years old. Mama also carried a lifelong disappointment: Her height. At 5’9″, Mama lamented her height regularly. Growing up in the Jim Crow South, Mama’s race made life difficult, but her height made her feel like a target. As far as Mama was concerned, it was tragic that I inherited her height.

Thanks to a dramatic growth spurt, I’d become one of the tallest kids in my elementary school. Add in my thick-lensed glasses, large front teeth, and attending a school with only a few African-American students, and there was a lot about me for kids to tease.

It’s no surprise my slouch reflected my self-esteem.

Mama noticed. She determined she wouldn’t allow her long-legged granddaughter to try to hide. While my young male cousins were popping wheelies and playing pickup basketball, I spent my summer inside with a book. Not to read. But sitting on top of my head. Mama’s declaration: “Barbara, it’s time for you to learn how to stand tall.”

That summer, I walked back and forth across her living room carpet with a book settled on top of my head. At first, the book slid off often because I wasn’t aware of how much slouching impacted my posture. Using her refined, slow Southern voice, Mama said repeatedly, “Barbara, straighten your back. Lift your head.”

It took a few days, but I figured out how to do what Mama asked. Then, it was fun to see how many times I could walk up and back with the book on my head. My grandmother knew that standing tall would help me hold onto my dignity in a world where I wouldn’t always be judged by the content of my character but instead by the color of my skin.

Mama’s instructive words spoke freedom into my life. As my head lifted, my view of myself shifted, and my hope for the future increased. While I never had a close relationship with Mama, her words and presence that summer became the gift of a lifetime.

There’s nothing more precious than speaking hope and freedom into the lives of others. Speaking words like, “You can do this,” or “God loves you”  to those with their heads hanging low is speaking freedom instead of reinforcing fear. Our life-giving words are a free gift we can lavishly give to others.

In Galatians, Paul the Apostle writes to believers, encouraging them to disregard the threatening voices that sought to keep them from living fully free and alive in Christ. Paul wrote the following proclamation, and his words would have radically changed the mindset of those who’d never heard these freeing words before:

“For you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus. And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have put on Christ, like putting on new clothes. There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
Galatians 3:26-28 NLT

The gospel of God’s grace brings freedom to all who hear it and receive it for themselves. Do you see how Paul casts a vision for how Jesus brings unity within our vast diversity of life experiences, backgrounds, race, and culture? It’s terrific that you and I have the privilege of sharing that freedom with others.

Speaking of freedom… On this day, 160 years ago, the last American slaves were notified of their freedom. President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation about 900 days before, but it took a special messenger to bring the news to those enslaved people that they were free. While modern debates roar on both sides about President Lincoln’s motives and the politics of slavery, Juneteenth is a day we celebrate in memory of our commitment to freedom for all.

Freedom means so much more when we enjoy it together. God wants to use you to bring good news. Who can you speak words of hope and freedom to today? 

Can you walk with a book on your head? At 5’10”, Barb still can, even in high heels. She loves writing to women about experiencing God’s great adventure of faith and purpose through prayer in her newest Bible study, Matthew: Pray Like This.

 

Listen to Barb’s devotion here or on your fave podcast app.

The Wake Up Call I Didn’t Expect

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Most of my life’s most interesting adventures have come from trying to save money. That frugal mindset has led me down winding backroads in search of hidden thrifty gems — and this particular destination was no different. What I didn’t realize was that it might actually save my life.

A few years ago, my husband told me we had a rare opportunity to stay, free of charge, at a world-renowned five-star resort. I was thrilled. We planned the trip for the week of my birthday and our anniversary. It was only four hours away, so it was a no-brainer.

The only catch? The main reason for the trip was for me to undergo a full physical at the resort’s medical clinic. I was due for a well visit anyway — how bad could it be? I figured I’d be in and out in a couple of hours, then off to enjoy the amenities.

I wish.

Instead, my birthday turned into eight full hours of every possible exam a woman can endure. By the end of the day, every nurse on staff knew it was my birthday — and that my husband owed me a serious redo.

Even so, I laughed a lot that day. It was, without question, my worst birthday ever. But in hindsight, one of the best gifts I could have received. As a healthy, non-smoking, middle-aged woman, I breezed through most of the tests — until I didn’t.

The doctor gave me unsettling news: I needed to see a cardiologist immediately. We all know someone in their 50s who appears healthy, doesn’t smoke, eats relatively well, and then suddenly has a heart attack without warning. That could have been me, if not for my love of free things.

I scheduled follow-up tests and, while I waited, I committed to eating clean, exercising, and taking care of my body like it was my job. I was all in — until one phrase from the doctor stuck with me:

“This is hereditary. You could run marathons and eat vegan, and you’d still have high cholesterol. The damage done can’t be corrected.”

It was, honestly, the worst thing I could have heard. As someone who already wrestles with discipline — both physically and spiritually — it gave me a dangerous excuse. If all my effort wouldn’t change the outcome, why bother trying?

That mindset of resigning when results aren’t guaranteed started to sound too familiar.

And then, gently, the Lord whispered to my heart:

“Isn’t that the same excuse you use with Me?”

I knew exactly what He meant.

I had been doing the same thing with my spiritual life — gradually disengaging while rehearsing a playlist of excuses:

“I just don’t feel close to God.”
“My prayer life is dry.”
“Scripture doesn’t come alive.”
“Quiet time feels like a chore, not a lifeline.”

When I didn’t feel immediate results, I started putting in less effort — not in a rebellious, turn from God kind of way, but in the subtle way we often drift. A slow fade. And isn’t that how we lose our first love?

Jesus’ words to the church at Ephesus cut to the core:

“But I have this against you, that you have abandoned the love you had at first. Remember therefore from where you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first.”
Revelation 2:4–5 ESV

Like the early church, I had grown complacent. I stopped doing the things I did when I first fell in love with Christ: prioritizing time in His presence, seeking Him through prayer and in His Word.

My time with Jesus became a checklist. And then I wondered why I didn’t feel close to Him anymore.

Just like with my physical health, where a cookie became my breakfast of choice, I had fallen into apathetic thinking. If I can’t control the outcomes (of my life or the way I feel about God), why bother? So I stopped bothering. But Jesus didn’t ask for my perfection or control.

He asked for my heart — and He called me to remember, repent, and return.

What I’m learning is this: Through loving obedience, faithfulness isn’t about guaranteed outcomes — it’s about trusting the One who is always faithful. We don’t pursue God to feel something, to get something. We don’t practice spiritual disciplines because we’re expected to. We do it because He’s worthy of our worship. Because He is our first love.

We fall in love with Jesus when we know Him more intimately. It’s the only way. That kind of love deepens through practice, just like any relationship. If we don’t know where to start, find people ahead of us in their spiritual journey to walk with us, teach us, and challenge us. But none of that happens without returning to the basics: His Word, prayer, worship, and community.

This isn’t a work-hard, try-harder religion. It’s a grace-filled relationship. But the reality is, discipline is part of devotion. There’s no way around it.

We don’t chase spiritual growth for instant results — just like we don’t eat healthy or exercise for one perfect lab report (and unfortunately, the doctor informed me I’ll never get one of those). We do it because we have a Savior who says:

“Come back to Me — not because it’s easy, but because I’m worth it.”

He is always worth it.

Are you in a season where your faith feels dry or distant? Let’s not wait for a crisis to wake us up. Join me in the comments. Let’s start today and return to our first love.

 

Listen to Jen’s devotion here or wherever you stream the (in)courage podcast. 

New Morning, New Mercies

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In September, I started having panic attacks for seemingly no reason. It made me reach out to a counselor and trusted friends for support. I was frustrated because things were going just fine. Why would I suddenly need to pay attention to my mental health?

In October, I started to level out and find rhythms of healing. Peace started to settle in my heart,  but I was still confused as to why this effort was needed. It was like training for a marathon with intention and building stamina, but I didn’t register for a marathon.

In November, we discovered that my little brother was struggling with addiction. Our lives were turned upside down, and supporting my family became all-consuming. He went to rehab, we prayed for it to work, and one afternoon, it hit me:

If I hadn’t been prepared to handle stress, this just might have taken me out.

If you’ve ever loved someone who is an addict, you know the intensity. You are waiting for a phone call that everything has gone wrong. You’re trying to find some semblance of routine, but nothing feels certain. What if they relapse? What if they can’t stay sober?

I prepared for decades of this dance by going to support groups and staying in counseling.

In January, I lost my job and even wrote an (in)courage post about how senseless it felt. Why would God do these things? How can I trust Him when life feels like a whole lot of roadblocks?

In February, I got engaged. And several people said, “You should just get married this spring!” We are in our 30’s and we don’t want a long engagement. The lease on my apartment was ending soon, and without work it would help to combine finances. But something in our hearts, by the grace of God, said, “No. Wait. Get married in the fall.”

My brother went to another rehab program in March.

And in April, he died of alcoholism. We were (and are) devastated. We have been asking questions all over again. Lamenting not only for the brother who died in April, but also for the brother we grew up with for 33 years. The brother who had addiction in his blood and got too close to the flame. The brother with the beautiful voice and incredible talent for music, who deeply loved his wife and children and fought so hard to be there for them. It is a tragedy, no matter how you look at it.

My fiancé and I paused wedding planning and flew home to plan the funeral. My family watched home videos and held on to the community in our small town. We told stories and laughed because my brother was the humor of our family. We wrote eulogies and chose flowers for memorial wreaths. (We chose my wedding colors so that I could dry some of the flowers for my bridal bouquet.) My sister and I slept next to each other every night for two weeks like we were kids again.

My (in)Sisters and I were going to all be together the days after the funeral, but I couldn’t make it because it was all too fresh and so much still needed to be done. Still, they prayed for me and have encouraged me along the way, sitting with me in person and far away, helping me navigate through this unthinkable tragedy.

Friends, I feel like so many of my posts since November have been saying the same thing: I don’t know what God is doing, but He’s doing something. If you go back and read my other articles, you can see me trying to make sense of seemingly random heartaches. But now, on the other side, I can see so clearly how God has been protecting me.

If I hadn’t panicked, I wouldn’t have sought reinforcement before the storm began.

If I hadn’t lost my job, I wouldn’t have had the flexibility to go be with my family on the other side of the country as we buried my brother.

If we hadn’t decided to have a longer engagement, we would be getting married imminently, and my heart wouldn’t have been able to hold such raw grief as I walked down the aisle.

My brother loved Jesus. And he also struggled with a disease that claimed his life. In our last sober and clear hangout, we had lunch. He ordered way too much good food at a favorite Mexican restaurant and insisted on paying. My soon-to-be fiancé and I told him that we were planning to get married. He was thrilled and we lingered over good food and hopes for the future before going our separate ways.

The morning after he died, I texted my dad a common phrase I use: New Morning, New Mercies.

I was trying desperately to hold onto hope in the dark. I pulled up my camera roll and found an image I had snapped during that last meal together and zoomed in on my brother. He was wearing a sweatshirt with writing on it. I zoomed in and read, “New Morning, New Mercies.”

Lamentations 3:22-23 NIV states: “Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

There are days when it feels like losing my brother will consume me. Like the world has stopped being good and beautiful. And then, I start counting the provisions of God in every season and every step of the way. He is near to the brokenhearted, and while it doesn’t make our hearts less broken, His nearness is comfort.

If you are still trying to make sense of the senseless, know that God’s mercies really are new. Keep going. You’re not alone.

 

Listen to Melissa’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast.

When You Think You and Your Work Aren’t Seen

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There are so many things I do in my life, things big and small, that go unseen.

Most mornings, I’m the one who puts the toaster away and sweeps the crumbs into the sink. I replace body wash and deodorant when they’ve been used up — the new bottles magically appearing on the bathroom counter as the person needs them. I order groceries for meals I plan. I sign up the kids for summer activities and fill out registration forms and pay the fees. I turn off lights and refill cereal dispensers and throw towels in the laundry chute.

All tasks that I just do with barely a thought as I roll through the day. All things that are mostly unseen by anyone else (but would be oh-so-noticed if they didn’t happen).

These unseen tasks and times don’t stop at being a household manager or mother. As a fully remote employee, I don’t have water cooler asides, birthday office treats, or coffee with coworkers in the break room. I am only seen through a screen. There are many times I smile to myself, alone in my home office, and do the task — whether it’s been assigned to me or not. If I see it needs to get done, I just do it. No one knows it was me, and they don’t have to. I know it’s complete, and done well, and I’m satisfied with that. It doesn’t get me accolades or awards, but I have a sense of accomplishment just the same, and usually that’s enough to carry me onward.

Until it isn’t.

There are times when I would prefer to be rewarded, noticed, seen. Times I would rather leave the crumbs on the counter and let someone else deal with them. And while it’s not a great look, it’s the truth.

A few weeks back, during the Maycember rush of concerts and programs and track meets and ball games and end-of-the-year festivities, my 4-year-old got an ear infection. Instead of cheering on the other kids at a Scout bridging ceremony and a baseball game (because, of course, they were happening on the same night), my littlest and I got our sweatpants on and cuddled up for a Paw Patrol marathon. My husband would have stayed in a heartbeat, but as the Scout troop Cubmaster, he was leading the ceremony, and as a coach for our son’s baseball team, he was also coaching the game. It had to be me.

As everyone was getting ready to leave, I was having a little internal pity party for myself. I wanted to go to all the things and cheer and not feel left out. I wanted to be seen. I felt selfish and silly because, of course, I was happy to be with my little one who wasn’t feeling well. And I just also wanted to go.

After everyone was in their uniforms and I had told them all I was proud of them, and after my husband had promised to take way too many pictures during everything, and after I’d hugged everyone goodbye, my daughter paused.

She looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Mom, one thing I love about you is that you always step up to stay behind with whoever needs you.”

I mean.

I was, as the youths say, shook.

She saw me.

When I felt like no one would see me, she looked right at me — and then, even though I was missing her special ceremony, she thanked me for staying back.

We’ve all heard that God loves us. That He sees us (Genesis 16:13), never forgets about us, hears our every whispered prayer (1 John 5:14). He never leaves us and has never forsaken us (Deuteronomy 31:6). We are always on His mind (Psalm 139), and we are always beloved by Him (1 John 4:10-12).

But am I the only one who can’t seem to remember that? Am I the only one who looks warily at His face, wondering if He really means it? Because if no one else sees the small things, the big things, the missed concerts and the tiniest of counter crumbs, does He really?

Yes, friend. Yes, He does. And He appreciates every single one.

Listen for His thank you in the face of a friend when you drop a coffee off on her porch. Feel His thank you in the hand of your youngest, held in the middle of a feverish night. See His thank you in the glory of a sunset as you drive a kid to practice, and in the starry sky later as you drive back to pick them up. Look for His thank you in the heart of a grateful partner, child, coworker, all helped by your unseen work. Hear His still, small thank you in the silence when you’re by yourself, but fully known by God.

I know your life is made up of small, unseen moments. So, as my daughter saw me, I see you and I thank you. Thank you for giving of yourself when no one else sees it. Thank you for staying back with a sick kid, a worn-out parent, a sister in need. Thank you for correcting that error at work, quietly and without fanfare. Thank you for sweeping up the crumbs.

If I could give you a big gold star to display on your desk, I would.

But instead, look for the still, small voice of thanks from the One who made the stars. It’s His heart we impress and glorify in our unseen work. And He doesn’t miss a thing.

Listen to Anna’s devotion on the (in)courage podcast below, or wherever you love to stream. 

The Father Our Hearts Long For

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Father’s Day can feel like a mountain of memories — some sweet, some shattering. Maybe today brings smiles and celebration. Maybe it stirs up grief, anger, or longing for what never was. Wherever you find yourself this Father’s Day, take heart: God sees you. God loves you. And God will meet you right where you are.

Psalm 103:13–14 (NLT) gives us a beautiful glimpse into the character of our Heavenly Father:

“The Lord is like a father to his children,
tender and compassionate to those who fear him.
For he knows how weak we are;
he remembers we are only dust.”

God is not distant or disappointed. He’s tender. Compassionate. Attentive to your pain and understanding of your weakness. Whether you had a good dad, a broken relationship, or no father figure at all, God steps in with perfect love.

He doesn’t ignore your wounds — He binds them up. He doesn’t expect you to have it all together — He draws near in your mess.

This is the Father our hearts have always needed.

His love never runs out.
His forgiveness knows no limits.
His presence never walks away.

Psalm 103 also says, “Let all that I am praise the Lord; may I never forget the good things he does for me” (v.2). So today, whether your heart is light or heavy, offer what you have to your Father. Praise Him for His steady goodness. Thank Him for His constant care. Cry to Him if you need to, and trust that He catches every tear.

No matter what Father’s Day means to you, let it remind you of this unchanging truth: You are deeply known, wholly loved, and never alone. God is your good Father. Always has been. Always will be.

Pray with us:

Father, thank You for being the steady presence in my life, no matter how I feel today. Thank You for Your compassion, forgiveness, and faithful love. Help me to rest in who You are, and to praise You with all that I am. Amen.

Tell Your Faith Story: There’s Goodness in It

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I used to think my faith story wasn’t important, so I didn’t tell it very often. It wasn’t flashy or sensational like girl-meets-God-and-the-world-will-never-be-the-same. But, now I’m seventy-two and I’ve told many stories of God and me — stories of faith and failure, disappointment and joy, hopes gone and dreams fulfilled. Through it all, I’ve seen the value in the telling. I learned all our stories count because God is the Hero and when I tell my story, and when you tell yours, we get a chance to show Him off.

You may or may not relate to my story. Even still, because I’m a supporting character in God’s big story, you’ll see a glimpse of Him in my story . . . and that’s a good enough reason to tell my story any chance I get.

I was practically born in the choir loft. My folks were believers and I was number four of five kids, so their faith had steadied and grown by the time I came along. I was baptized at six — and at age eight I asked Jesus into my heart at a Good News Club meeting at our house. 

Our church was in a different town than my schools, so I didn’t get much faith encouragement from friends. Sometimes, I felt like I was two different people: a church-going girl surrounded by folks who believed in God and felt like family . . . and also that girl growing up alongside neighborhood kids and their parents who didn’t go to church or camp or talk about God much at all.  

At age fifteen, I went on my first missions trip. It was then and there I first heard about something called a “life verse.” It sounded very important and I figured I better get one since I was to be interviewed by the deacons. I prayed and opened my Bible with eyes closed and pointing down at the page. And God, in His great mercy, showed me what turned out to be a most wonderful life verse, indeed: 

“And He died for all, that those who live should live no longer for themselves, but for Him who died for them and rose again.”
2 Corinthians 5:15 NKJV

This verse had to do with logic, which is not my strong suit, but . . . it made sense to my insecure, young brain. God had given all: His Son to die for me. What else could I do but give my all in return?

It wasn’t lightening in the sky. It was words on a page, words that God used to guide my story towards Him. The Word is living and slices to the marrow and it changed my life that day, young as I was. 

As I look back, I realize gifting my life to Christ in return for what He did for me wasn’t much of a trade. At fifteen, I wore glasses — the pointy kind. I had dental crowns on my teeth, leftover from a dodge ball incident in third grade. I had freckles. We lived in a wealthy neighborhood but we weren’t wealthy. Our family shopped at Sears, not Nordstrom. We did our own chores. We didn’t get a car at sixteen.

So, no — giving my life to Jesus wasn’t such a big deal in the world’s terms. Jesus left heaven, died on a cross, and gave me life forever. All He received in return from me . . . was me. But I gave what I had — myself, red hair and all. Kind of like the two loaves of bread and five fish; a young boy gave what he had. Not much for such a big crowd. But God made it work.

It didn’t matter I wasn’t a big deal. He died for me. How could I do less for Him?

My friend, Laurie says, “I make myself available, and God shows up.” And whenever He does, that’s a story worth telling. 

Someone you’ve just met may not know that God wants to be the Hero of their story, too. That alone is reason to weave Him in and through daily conversation. Imagine, your best Jesus-friend needs encouragement for staying the course, so you sidle up to her at Bible study and whisper, “I was late today . . . but God had a reason. I’ll tell you right after this is over.” And then you tell her your story, and her faith is stronger for it.

And, of course, seventy-two or not, we forget so readily what God has done. We pray desperate prayers. God comes through and we’re already on to the next desperate prayer. So, remember your stories — and tell them, too.

Stories are like stones of remembrance. They help us remember God’s goodness and that’s worth all the telling.

I’m In My Plant Lady Era. You, Too?

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I didn’t think they’d make it.

I had recently moved from North Carolina to New Jersey, forgetting the difference in the experience of spring. How summer’s heat comes quickly in the Carolinas and how the bitter chill lingers a little longer in the northeastern corner of New Jersey where I live, nestled along the Hudson River with views of New York City.

The day I planted my zinnia seeds (the same seeds I harvested, preserved, and sorted from the flowers I watered, grew, and tended to . . . all on my own) was the sunniest it’d been since winter. For a moment, I felt that I should save some seeds. You know the old adage: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

But the weather was warm and the sun was bright and, after a few days of this summer-like weather, it felt like we’d finally turned the corner, leaving winter behind. So, my sons and I scattered all the seeds, ignoring the thought that maybe I should save some just in case. We watered them and eagerly watched them until, wouldn’t you know, a frigid frost came just a few days later.

Rookie mistake, I know. But the lesson got me thinking about the seeds we sow in the lives of those we know, and how the seeds either fall in good places or not-so-good places. Jesus said it Himself:

“A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”
Matthew 13:3-9 NIV

Truth is . . . I’m no farmer. I’m just a woman who loves to watch beautiful things grow. I’m a woman who wants to believe that seeds, when buried, can endure and survive long seasons of darkness. I’m a woman tending to her plants as a prophetic act of belief in what can be true of people, too. That, of the seeds we sow in the world and in the lives of those we know, those planted in fertile soil can and will take root and flourish abundantly beyond anything we can fathom.

When the bitter wind blew and the ground froze cold, just days after I’d scattered my zinnia seeds in the ground, I didn’t think they’d make it. In fact, I literally verbalized my disbelief out loud, rehearsing sentiments like, “They’re not going to make it,” and, “I can’t believe I just wasted all my hard-earned seeds.”

But then, God touched my heart and, stronger than my own utterances and interior thoughts, I began to sense the gospel truth echo and take anchor. Instead of repeating declarations of doubt, I prayed, pleading, “God, please . . . just one. Let even just one seed survive and thrive.”

Weeks later, wouldn’t you know, my sons and I saw not one but seven zinnias sprouting from the soil. Considering the frost (some areas were even hit with snow), it was a miracle. And also? The metaphor isn’t lost on me.

The intelligence and the intention of God is that He uses our professions, passions, and pursuits to call us towards eternal purpose. Here and now, while I’m in my plant lady era, Jesus is speaking to me, calling to me, inviting me to take on His mission and embody His ways.

Come, follow me, and I will make you fishers of men, Jesus said to Peter and Andrew.

Come, scatter seeds of gospel truth, I sense the Savior saying to me.

Come, tend to the soil of hearts, Jesus invites us all. Come, pray for souls to be saved even when all seems bitter, broken, barren, and beyond repair.

Are you in your plant lady era, too? Let the Lord lead you to sow seeds of eternal hope. Are you a teacher? May Jesus use you to unravel the mysteries of God. Are you a homemaker? Allow your hospitality to point to the relentless welcome of God.

We cannot control the conditions of the soil of hearts, or the circumstances that surround us, or the chaos of the world. We cannot control the choices of the ones we love and serve; we cannot make them come or sprout or follow or understand or believe. We can only be faithful to steward the seeds of truth as held in our hearts and as sown from our hands. Whatever your season, whatever “era” you’re in, know that Jesus is calling to and through you.

May you have ears to hear His invitation, courage to keep casting seeds (or nets or whatever “thing” is yours to be or do), and faith to follow the only One in whom we’ve been created and called to bear much fruit.

Friends — I’d love to hear how these words touched your heart — and I’d especially love to hear if you’re tending to any seedlings. Comment below and let me know what you’re growing in your garden!

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

Resting in God’s Presence

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Need some rest, time to be still, or peace? We get it, and we’ve got just the ticket — DaySpring’s new Devotional Coloring Book: Finding Peace in God’s Embrace. We’d love to share an excerpt with you today! Relax and let your heart be refreshed. 

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to Me. Get away with Me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest.”
Matthew 11:28 MSG 

Life can get incredibly hectic, leaving you feeling worn out and overwhelmed. Maybe you rush from one task to the next, forgetting to take a moment to simply breathe and rest. But God invites you to find true rest in His presence. What is true rest? Imagine lying in a hammock by a serene lake, its gentle sway and the calmness of the water bringing peace to your soul. This is the kind of rest God offers you — a deep, soul-refreshing peace.  

In Matthew 11:28, Jesus extends a beautiful invitation to come to Him, to find true rest in Him. He understands your need for rest and offers you a place of refuge in His presence. Just like the hammock by the lake, God’s presence provides a safe haven where you can let go of your worries and simply be.  

Think about how you feel when you settle into a peaceful place or wrap yourself up in a warm blanket. Think about the way comfort cradles you in this safe space or how a gentle breeze surrounds you and helps you relax. This is a way to imagine how God’s presence envelops you, giving you the rest you so desperately need. In these quiet moments with Him, you find your strength renewed and your heart refreshed.  

No matter how busy life gets, take time to rest in God’s presence. Let Him cradle you in His love and peace. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and let His presence restore your soul. You’ll find that this rest is not just a pause from life’s demands but a source of true renewal and peace. 

Lord, help me to find rest in your presence. Remind me to pause and seek you when life gets overwhelming, so that I can be refreshed and renewed by your peace. Amen. 

Reflect on the peace and abundant love that is found in God’s embrace. The Finding Peace in God’s Embrace: Devotional Coloring Book provides the perfect excuse for stopping to enjoy the wonder of God’s majesty through comforting Scripture verses and more than 75 devotions matched with beautifully illustrated coloring pages, all hand-drawn by DaySpring artists. It’s an opportunity to pause your busy life with a purpose, as you indulge your creativity, quiet the world around you, and connect with the loving God.

Finding Peace in God’s Embrace: Devotional Coloring Book is a perfect way to savor your early mornings, tame your overwhelming afternoons, and wind down on restless evenings.

Pick up some art supplies, head to a quiet place, and spend time filling your soul with peace and God’s Word.

We LOVE this devotional coloring book, and we think you will too… so we’re giving away FIVE copies*! To enter, just leave a comment below.

*Giveaway open to US addresses only, and closes on 6/15/2025 at 11:59 pm Central.

Giving Thanks for Storms

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We’re laughing like loons out in the middle of a field of corn. The Farmer’s got hold of the seat of his combine like he’s being shot to the moon. It’s harvest time, and a time of thanksgiving, and the corn keeps on coming.

“How in the world?” I can’t take my eyes off the combine’s yield monitor. Stunned wonder isn’t an understatement. We had a drought this year. The sky had locked up hard about the middle of June.

The Farmer had said, “I’ve never seen any crop look so desperate on this farm. If God doesn’t give rain by the weekend, there’s not going to be any corn this year.”

Come November, the digital screen of the combine monitor calculating the number of bushels per acre this field of corn yields, flashes out these little black numbers that are huge, making no sense. The numbers are a bit stratospheric. Grace is most amazing of all, defying what makes sense.

“Get out of here!” I’m slack-jawed over the high monitor spikes and the Farmer looks like he is right out of here and straight over the moon. I slap at his chest like the flapping loon that I am and he grins giddily.

“I know, I know!” And all over again, he’s that laughing teenage boy that made me blush silly.

“Who would ever have thought?” I can’t stop shaking my head.

“You know . . .” He leans over the combine steering wheel, glances past me, past me to the wagon filling with corn. “I don’t know what to think — so maybe I just thank?”

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his faithful love endures forever.”
Psalm 118:1 CSB

The corn’s running like flashes of glory into the wagon, streaming in and I can still see the lightning that came right after Sunday preaching way back in July. I remember the gusts of wind and the thickening black to the west. I remember the thunder that rumbled hope and how we stood on the front lawn and begged that rain to come.

And I remember how it went north. Twice. And how the Farmer had stood there, watching the rain come down only two miles away, and I’d whispered wild to him, “What if we get nothing? What if we lose the harvest?”

And he’d said it steady and certain, with the rain coming down right there, two fields over and so far away, “When you know your Father’s loving — what can you fear losing?”

“Let those who fear the Lord say, ‘His faithful love endures forever.’ I called to the Lord in distress; the Lord answered me and put me in a spacious place. The Lord is for me; I will not be afraid.”
Psalm 118:4-6

The rain kept falling to the north and he’d stood in this startling surrender. And then, just before supper, the sky had darkened with hope and opened up to give us our prayers. We all danced on the lawn in that rain.

I turn to him now in the combine, “It was that storm.” Gratitude follows grace as thunder follows lightning. “The storm gave us this yield. The storm was grace.”

There’s no harvest without a storm.

Gratitude follows grace — as thunder follows lightning. And the storm is grace because whatever drives us to God, is a grace from God. It’s all grace.

God gives grace, and ours is to give thanks. This is God’s unconditional demand: That we live thankful.

“This came from the Lord; it is wondrous in our sight. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
Psalm 118:23-24

And I can feel it — there’s corn. And there’s sky and food and family and a God in heaven and a love we don’t deserve, and there’s grace that comes as storms, and the only answer to God’s unending grace is unending gratitude. When you live in a covenant of grace, you can’t help but live out a covenant of gratitude. The Farmer whispers, “Thank you, Lord,” and I murmur it too.

The way grace and gratitude echo to each other through everything . . .

“You are my God, and I will give you thanks. You are my God; I will exalt you. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his faithful love endures forever.”
Psalm 118:28-29

This devotion is by Ann Voskamp, as published in the (in)courage Devotional Bible. It has been edited from its original form.

The CSB (in)courage Devotional Bible is an invitation for all women to find their stories within the tapestry of the greatest Story ever told.

The CSB (in)courage Devotional Bible features over 300 devotions from writers you love and specialized Bible reading plans to help you dig into God’s Word and find daily courage for your soul. Buy yours here or wherever books are sold. 

 

Listen to today’s devotion here or anywhere you stream the (in)courage podcast!

When You Need Hope That Is Not Pretty or Calm

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Sometimes I love the worship at my church. Sometimes I… don’t. But personal musical preferences aside, I quite frequently grow emotional during worship, as it’s one of the ways I best connect with God.

Recently during church, I was moved to tears — but not in the usual way. This time, I felt angry. And my anger only grew as the song went on.

The worship leaders sang the repeating chorus, “This is how I fight my battles.” The meaning, as far as I understand it, is that we fight our earthly battles with confidence in a supernatural Lord who loves us and never leaves us. We can endure and even overcome challenges through faith and prayer. This, they sang, is how we fight our battles. Over and over they sang those words in the calmest voices.

I’d heard the song before. I’d sung the song before, and it had been encouraging! But on this particular day, I was not having it. Instead of singing along, I wanted to scream.

Oh, that’s how you fight your battles, is it? IS IT? Just that simple, right? Think positive thoughts and all of a sudden life is manageable? I guess if I’m struggling, I must have forgotten that God is with the brokenhearted, that He will never leave or forsake me. Is that it? My faith must be small if my battle seems big, huh?

These thoughts, these cries of my heart, came fast and furious. But while a storm raged inside me, the pleasant music continued playing as if those women and men on stage hadn’t a care in the world. They’d fought their battles, after all — so it seemed.

Now, it’s quite possible that the song didn’t play on a loop for an interminable amount of time, the way I felt it did.

It’s probable that the music wasn’t nearly as happy, simple, life-is-good-and-easy as I felt it was.

And I recognize, truly I do, that every other person singing that morning may have experienced the song in a meaningful way.

The way my brain and heart interpreted it, though? It sounded like a broken record of a smiling children’s choir chirping, “Jesus Loves Me” — not from hearts weathered by war, but from ones that had never even seen a battlefield.

The notes were in tune, but to me, the whole thing was tone deaf.

I’m not criticizing the worship team at my church now, nor did I on the day the battle song stoked my internal rage. They’re great, for the record! But what I knew in that moment and have continued to think about is that while it may sometimes be enough to meditate on an encouraging verse or sing a chorus at a completely calm, acceptable volume, often our battles require so much more.

Sometimes what we’re facing is too much to bear. Even with all the faith we can muster in a good God who loves us. Even with the support of a community, with a Bible full of verses, and a heart full of song. Even with the hope of eternity, we can sometimes be overcome with grief or rage or fear. Or all of the above. It’s still too much.

When that happens, we may lose our voice for praising the Lord in song. But while that’s certainly been my experience at times, leaving me speechless and soaked in tears during worship, that wasn’t how I felt on this particular day.

When I heard those words, “This is how I fight my battles,” I wanted to growl. I wanted to scream and groan and maybe even spit a little. I wanted someone (the Lord, but also maybe a friend a few rows up or my husband standing next to me) to hear my pain and understand its depth. I wanted my shredded insides to be reflected in the sounds that came out of my mouth.

Emily Dickinson famously wrote that “hope is the thing with feathers.” She described hope as a bird singing through the storm, a sweet tune that kept her warm and never asked anything of her. And maybe that’s how hope feels to some of us, some of the time.

But hope is also a locked jaw that won’t quite close after another night spent holding back sobs. It’s a fire that rages one minute, then is all but doused the next, leaving just one pitiful spark to cast light into the weighted blanket of darkness.

Hope is the gravel in a voice that’s screamed in an empty car, and it’s the twitching eye that betrays a desperate attempt at, “Fine, how are you?”

Hope is a straightened spine and a bended knee. It’s shaking hands and a fierce hug. It’s the gulping of water like a dog run ragged and it’s the cardinal that flies into my office window over and over again, refusing to accept that he cannot break through the glass.

If you’re barely hanging on today and this version of hope sounds familiar, you’re not alone.

There are many of us with deep faith and clenched fists. We’re fighting brutal battles with busted knuckles and weary arms and hoarse voices.

Maybe your battle cry doesn’t sound like a song right now. Maybe it’s a scream, a sob, or the silence between shallow breaths. That’s okay. That still counts. That is how you fight your battles. And even there, the Father surrounds you.

 

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

And be sure to share with someone who needs a dose of gritty hope. 

Exercising Patience Through Active Endurance

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When people discover I have eight children, they often say, “You must be so patient.” My husband would be the first to tell you that patience is not a virtue I possess. If I ask for help with something and he’s busy, I usually proceed without him, even if it’s unwise and yields mixed results.

I can’t sit tight and wait.

I’m learning, however, that patience can be developed and practiced. It’s an act of will, and often in my best interest.

I’ve been working on my first novel for two years — one year to write, and another to edit drafts two, three, and four. It feels like an eternity. Family situations and shattering my right humerus, which required major surgery, slowed the process.

My manuscript has now been sent to an editor, and I am holding my breath, awaiting her feedback, which typically takes six to eight weeks. Last fall, I registered for pitch sessions at a writers’ conference in May, confident I would have an edited, polished novel by then, in case an agent requested it. Although the timeframe sounded reasonable when I booked my ticket, I’m behind schedule.

I’m happy to say that I left the conference with an agent who requested to read the first thirty pages of my manuscript! My first instinct was to race to my laptop and send it immediately, but when I mentioned I’d hired an editor, the agent told me her request wouldn’t expire and that I should feel free to wait.

It’s the smart thing to do: receive professional guidance, edit as needed, and submit the best possible sample of my work. I get one chance, and as the song says, I am not throwing away my shot. But this time, practicing patience doesn’t feel like biding my time. It requires restraint. It feels like work.

I showed my pastor a verse about patience and asked for his thoughts; he explained that the Greek word used means “active endurance,” not “passive waiting.”

When our hopes are high, patience can be exhausting. 

But Romans 12:12 (KJV) also tells us to be “patient in tribulation.” Last year, when I broke my arm and needed surgery, there were so many basic things I couldn’t do well or at all — my life ground to a halt. I couldn’t maneuver my arm through a sleeve, wear a bra, or zip or button anything. My wardrobe consisted of shoulderless tops and elastic-waist bottoms. I slept propped up because I couldn’t lie flat on my back or on my side. I couldn’t drive. Although I’m right-handed, I brushed my teeth, applied make-up, and did everything else with my left hand. Family members had to wash and dry my hair for me. 

Patience wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity.

In situations where patience is an option, it can be a gift: evidence we have time and freedom from the tyranny of the urgent. When my daughter went past her due date with her first child this spring, her medical team didn’t rush to schedule an induction. My daughter was swollen, tired, and ready to meet her son, but I knew the relaxed approach was a good sign. 

On the other hand, we recently had to make a decision with huge implications in a matter of minutes. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or evaluate the small details or the big picture.

Patience is like a muscle. When we exercise it, the Lord stretches and grows us as we actively endure, not passively wait. 

My manuscript will improve through deliberate editing rather than a hasty submission.

Maybe that’s true for something in your life, too. Are you rushing when a slower pace is needed?

Some circumstances, like my broken arm, take time to mend. No amount of disappointment or desire will speed them along. Have you allowed an unavoidable situation to frustrate you?

Is there a situation in your life that tries your patience? Can you see the freedom not to hurry as a gift, rather than an irritant?

God often does deep, refining work in the waiting. Instead of striving to push forward on your own timeline, lean into the stretch of patience and trust that what’s being formed in you is worth the wait.

 

Listen to Dawn’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast.

Seeing Our Bodies Beyond the Mirror and Through God’s Eyes

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I remember standing in the mirror in the dimly lit cabin we rented. The morning was a whirlwind of, “Who has the shampoo?” and, “I need more conditioner!” Steam everywhere, three girls were trying to share one mirror for the first time.

As I turned sideways, I caught myself doing something I’d probably done a thousand mornings before — that critical once-over we women seem to master by about age thirteen. But that warm morning, something stopped me. As sunlight streamed through the window, highlighting my perceived flaws that would soon be exposed in swimsuits and summer clothes, I noticed them . . . and I did not despise them.

Through the mirror, I saw the eyes of my stepdaughters watching me — not just my movements, but my relationship with my own reflection. In that moment, I realized that every word I spoke about myself, every gesture of self-criticism or acceptance, would echo in their minds as they stood before their own mirrors in the years to come. So, I quickly straightened my shoulders, ignored my urge to analyze my rounding curves and put the focus on my smile (and theirs) in the mirror.

The years that followed brought plenty of moments less graceful than that first morning. Like the morning I found myself telling my daughter, “You can flood this bathroom floor with your tears, but none of that will make my curling iron and dry shampoo re-appear.” I cringe a little remembering my dramatic delivery on that one but, honestly, those curling iron battles became part of our story. These weren’t just squabbles about beauty tools; they were moments of learning how to love each other through the everyday chaos.

We had our share of clothing debates, too. I remember saying things like, “Your shorts can’t be shorter than mine because mine are already too short!” And my youngest, bless her heart, never met a rhinestone she didn’t love.

It’s funny how these little moments stick with you. God was teaching us something deeper about seeing ourselves as His children first, about finding our identity in being loved by Him rather than in our reflection. As Psalm 139:14 reminds us: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” 

Years later, we found ourselves preparing for another summer day, but this time, I was the one watching as my daughter gazed at her reflection. Her shoulders were straight, her smile confident — not because she’s perfect, but because she knows whose she is. She’s a woman now, pursuing the purpose God has written on her heart. 

My daughter doesn’t fret about how her body will look in a swimsuit. Instead, she’s excited about building sandcastles, snorkeling with her siblings, feeling the warm sun on her skin, and using the strength of her legs to wade through crashing waves. Her body isn’t something to hide or criticize — it’s a gift meant for living and loving well. 

In that moment, as she applied her sunscreen and a touch of makeup, I noticed what she didn’t do — there was no subtle sucking in of her stomach, no critical tilting of her head. Instead, she saw what God sees: a beloved daughter, created in His image.

And, in the mirror’s reflection, I catch her eye and we share a smile, both remembering all the moments that led us here. 

Sometimes the most real changes happen in these everyday moments, in bathrooms with foggy mirrors and borrowed curling irons, in choosing to see beauty through God’s eyes instead of the world’s lens. Through all of it — the borrowed makeup, the late-for-school mornings, the tears over teenage insecurities — we were building something real. Something that went way deeper than curling irons and rhinestones. 

Perhaps the greatest gift we can give our daughters isn’t perfect bodies or flawless beauty advice, but the freedom to see themselves as God does — as vessels of purpose and love, designed not for magazine covers but for serving others with the unique beauty they bring to the world. Their worth measured not in inches or pounds, but in the love they share and the purpose they fulfill.

Looking back now, I realize those early mirror moments weren’t just about getting ready for the day. They were about getting ready for life, about learning to see ourselves and each other through eyes of love instead of criticism.

And that view? It’s better than any reflection in any mirror could ever be.