If It’s Gonna Get Done, God’s Gonna Have to Do It!

If It’s Gonna Get Done, God’s Gonna Have to Do It!

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“I can’t take it anymore, God! Why aren’t you helping me?”

The weight of life squeezed out the last shred of belief that God cared about me. What looked like the end of my faith came in the form of a denial from my insurance company. I’d had noticed some developmental delays in my five-year old child. Once my concerns were confirmed, I sprung into mama bear mode, clawing, roaring and looking for the answers to save my precious cub. I learned about a diagnostic test that would provide the lifeline of information we needed. Yes! All of my tireless hard work was about to pay off.

When the coverage denial came a few weeks later, it felt like a bullet too close to my mama bear heart. I slumped on my kitchen floor, crying out, Why God? I’d prayed fervently for God to move the insurance company to approve that test. God must have seen how hard I’d worked to find a solution. All He had to do was move the insurance assessor to say yes. That disappointment turned into a tipping point in my faith. After years of being what I thought was a good Christian, I was disappointed that God didn’t answer my prayer. I wondered if faith was even worth it.

An uncomfortable a-ha moment surfaced when I realized that I’d been treating God like an employee in my problem-solving instead of letting Him lead. Instead of seeking God first before running around for answers, I figured out what I wanted to do and then I told God what I wanted Him to do.

My prayers were more about expecting God to finish my work instead of stopping to seek His will.

In my effort to control the situation, I lost sight of the power, character, and sovereignty of God. This verse is a powerful reminder that God isn’t like us and He doesn’t work like we do:

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.”
Isaiah 55:8 (NLT)

Just as the people God spoke to in the above verse believed that following their own path was best, I’d done the same thing. They ended up in a bad place, and I did, too. My efforts to fix my problems didn’t bring me peace, only anxiety, anger, and what looked like the end of my faith. Yet, God’s words in Isaiah 55:8 are not only a declaration of God’s character, but also an invitation for those of us who’ve forgotten how big God truly is.

On that day on my kitchen floor, I uttered a new prayer that signified that I would remember that God was bigger than my biggest problems. It was a solid first step toward remembering that God was in control, and I was not:

“If it’s gonna get done, then God, You’re gonna have to do it.”

Years later, I’d come to realize that this was my first intentional act of surrender. Surrender isn’t a popular topic. Perhaps, because it’s often misunderstood. Surrender doesn’t mean that we’re giving in to hopelessness or defeat. Rather, surrender is giving over what we can’t control to God, who not only knows more than we do, but is bigger than we are and actually has control.

There’s a bonus: When we surrender, God will give us the gift of His peace.

Is there a problem or person that you need to surrender to God? It’s hard to admit that you are powerless, but it’s even harder to live with the fear and frustration of what you can’t control. If you need to take the first step, you can start with another simple Surrender Prayer: God, I can’t. But You can. So, I will let You.

There’s an interesting end to the story of the day I almost walked away from my faith: A few minutes after praying my surrender prayer, my phone rang. It was the administrative assistant from my child’s school who said, “Oh, I’m so glad that I got you. We wanted to let you know that you don’t need your insurance company to pay for your child’s test. There’s a fund at the school that pays for that kind of testing.” I hung up the phone in shock.

Of course, not every prayer is answered so quickly or in accordance with our desired outcome. But, as I reflect on God’s timing in answering that prayer, I believe He was saying to me, “Barb, if it’s gonna get done, I’m going to do it – and I don’t need your help.” In that gracious moment, God wanted me to be clear that He was bigger and more powerful than my biggest problem and I could trust Him.

Surrender doesn’t guarantee that God will answer instantly, nor does it mean that God will behave as you want. It does mean that you can trust God to be faithful, loving and gracious, no matter the outcome.

 

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

The Lord of Our Memory

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“How are you doing after the death of your husband? Do you feel better?” 

I am sitting across from my friend who I haven’t seen in years — and this is the first question she asks me. I pause before I answer . . . and am a little surprised by my own words.  

“The second year is much better than the first,” I say. “I have more good days than bad, and I’ve gotten used to bearing the pain and living with the loss.”  

Somehow, behind the scenes, God started healing me of the terrible loss I suffered, a loss from which I thought I would never recover. Back home, I thought about all the signs of comfort and healing that God has brought into my life.

One of the most striking signs of healing has to do with my memory. In the beginning, after I lost Thomas, my husband, I could not see any photos of him. Tears welled up in my eyes and a sharp, cutting pain — that I could not bear — stabbed through my chest whenever I saw his face in a photo.

But God is faithful. In the months that followed, God used photos on Facebook Memories and Google Timeline to help me express my grief and find an outlet for it. It was a slow progression; one that, at first, just brought pain and reminded me of my longing for my husband’s presence. Then, after some time passed, the photos began evoking a mixture of feelings. There was still a sharp pain, but there was also a string of happy thoughts and thankfulness for these particular memories.

Then, in the second year after his passing, there was a reversal — less pain and more joy — when I remembered those good moments captured in photos. I even started deliberately scrolling through our photo albums, especially when I desperately missed Thomas and our life together.  

In and through this loss, God has shown Himself as the Lord and healer of my memory. I have experienced firsthand His wonderful ability to redeem a devastating loss by healing the emotional pain and setting me free, enabling me to make peace with what happened.

I don’t know what past or current loss you are suffering through right now, friend, but let me encourage you with this wonderful promise for emotional healing:

“You will surely forget your trouble,
recalling it only as waters gone by.
Life will be brighter than noonday,
and darkness will become like morning.”
Job 11:16-17 (NIV)

Amazingly, we find these words in the Book of Job — a book about a righteous man who lived through inexplicable suffering. These words come from the speech of Zophar the Naamathite, one of Job’s friends. Zophar assures Job that if he searches and follows God, God will bring hope, security, and peace to his life. This eventually becomes true in Job’s life when God puts an end to Job’s suffering and bringing comfort, emotional healing, physical healing, and the restoration of Job’s family and fortunes.

We can find more wonderful promises for healing and restoration in Jeremiah 33. Here is one of these promises: “Nevertheless, I will bring health and healing to it; I will heal my people and will let them enjoy abundant peace and security” (Jeremiah 33:6).

The entire chapter focuses on the powerful promise of “again” because, with God, there will always be an “again” in our life. We will, again, hear “the sounds of joy and gladness, the voices of bride and bridegroom, and the voices of those who bring thank offerings to the house of the Lord” (Jeremiah 33:11).

Yes, with God, it is possible to heal through the pain of our past and present troubles. We may continue to remember what happened, but we won’t reel in the feelings of pain and turmoil. We can remember and we can be at peace. God can and will redeem our memory if we ask Him.   

What do you need God to bring into the painful places of your heart and memory? Do you need healing, comfort, joy, peace, gratitude, or restoration?

Invite the Lord of your memory into your dark and painful chambers. Ask for His light and healing touch. There will, again, be good things to fill your desolate places.

Immanuel — God Is with Us

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In the sixth month of Elizabeth’s pregnancy, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. The angel went to her and said, “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be. But the angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.”

“How will this be,” Mary asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?”

The angel answered, “The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail.”

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.” Then the angel left her.
Luke 1:26-38 (NIV)

—

For centuries, Mary’s people told the story of a Messiah who would come to save Israel. The promise became a part of the very fabric of Mary’s life. But how could she have ever imagined that God would choose her to be part of His plan for the Messiah?

Mary shook her head in a vain attempt to clear it. Then she stood to walk beneath the olive tree branches as she replayed the morning’s events moment by moment. She was sitting in the courtyard of her home alone, spinning wool into yarn, when a stranger stepped across the threshold to greet her.

“Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you” (Luke 1:28).

With dreadful surety, Mary knew the stranger was no man but a servant of God. She dropped her work and stood to her feet, her legs shaking beneath her in terror. When the angel spoke again, his voice was gentle and full of compassion.

“Do not be afraid, Mary; you have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you are to call Him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David, and He will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; His kingdom will never end” (1:30–33).

“How will this be,” she had asked the angel, “since I am a virgin?” (1:34).

“The Holy Spirit will come on you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God,” the angel explained (1:35).

Mary could only stare at him in stunned silence.

The angel looked at her for a moment and then added earnestly, “Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be unable to conceive is in her sixth month. For no word from God will ever fail” (1:37).

And Mary knew it was true. All her life she had heard the stories of God doing the impossible. Around the hearth on long winter nights, her parents told her how the walls of Jericho fell before Joshua at the sound of the priests’ trumpet blasts. Each Passover as their family reclined around the table feasting on roasted lamb, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs, her parents told the story of how God delivered His people from Egypt. Mary’s God was a God who parted the Red Sea and rained manna from heaven to feed His people. He was a God who led them by cloud and by fire, the great Master of the universe.

Nothing was too hard for God. If God called Mary to serve Him, how could she ever refuse, no matter the cost?

“I am the Lord’s servant,” she said to the angel. “May your word to me be fulfilled” (1:38).

And then the angel was gone.

Mary wandered over to the olive press and stood before the heavy stone wheel, at rest on its stone base. She placed one hand on her stomach where the angel said a miracle was already underway and then bent down to pick up a few stray olives that had missed the crushing weight of the stone.

Would this miracle crush her, crush Joseph, like the tender olives beneath the wheel? Joseph would know the baby was not his. He would divorce her, of course. A scribe would be hired to declare her offense publicly. She and her sweet father would be shamed. What would her parents say when they found out she was carrying a child before she had consummated her marriage to Joseph?

What would she do? Where would she go? No man of any worth would ever marry her. Everyone would know her story, her child’s story.

The other children would call him names.

With terrible finality, Mary saw her cherished future with Joseph swept away. This… would break his kind heart.

Mary knelt beside the olive press, rested her forehead against the rough stone of the base, and turned her heart to the God of the impossible.“I am Your servant,” she whispered through her tears. “May it be to me as You have said.”

—

As written by Sherri Gragg in Advent: The Story of Christmas. Connect with Sherri on Instagram and her website.

Advent: The Story of Christmas traces God’s ribbon of redemption – from Eden to Jerusalem – through thirty-one biblical stories. Sherri Gragg’s unique storytelling, infused with cultural accuracy and color, has been described as “Bible stories for adults.”

Her narrative style offers a fresh perspective on the lives of God’s people, both ancient and modern. Advent: The Story of Christmas will enrich personal devotional time during the seasons of Advent and Christmas.

Today marks the first Sunday in the season of Advent, the four weeks leading up to Christmas Day. Join us here at (in)courage each Sunday during these weeks as we share excerpts from this beautiful book, learn more about Jesus, and count down to Christmas, together.

The Heart of Hospitality Is Caring for Our Community

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I’ll never forget 2020 for many obvious reasons—politics, a global pandemic, and schooling my kids at home, just to name a few. But one of the best things I’ll remember is how in the middle of that global pandemic, I was on the receiving end of incredible hospitality without leaving home or inviting anyone into my home.

That autumn, I had my fourth child. There are five years between him and his next oldest sibling, so it had been a while since we’d had a baby. Plus, this time I was pregnant during a pandemic, which was a strange and lonely experience. I went by myself to every doctor appointment and ultrasound. My husband would drop me off at the curb of the clinic but was not allowed to accompany me inside due to COVID restrictions. While I was in labor, every doctor, nurse, and staff member who entered my room wore a mask and full-body PPE so that only their eyes were visible. No visitors were allowed after the baby arrived, neither in our hospital room nor in our home. No family waited to welcome us home from the hospital. There was no family brunch after our baby’s (socially distanced, masked, outdoor) baptism. There were no playdates with friends. No one outside of our household held him for months.

The last pregnancy and birth I would ever experience was so lonely, so scary, and so raw with fear of the unknown and feeling out of control. It was overwhelming. Until the people in my village got down to business to care for our family.

My coworkers at (in)courage arranged a surprise online baby shower. They invited all of our writers to log into a video call that I thought was just our regular team meeting. They even coordinated with my husband and sister to receive, hide, and then bring out the gifts they’d all sent — and also to bring me dessert!

My sister threw me an outdoor “sprinkle,” a mini baby shower. Complete with my few closest family and friends, who all wore masks and gave only air hugs, there were individually packaged treats, personal serving utensils, and only one game, which we played while sitting in our chairs that were placed at least six feet apart. My best friend, who lives in another state, surprised me by driving the eight hours to attend the party!

After our baby was born, friends from my church committee delivered meals to our doorstep every Tuesday for six weeks. My mom did our laundry, washing our clothes that were covered in baby spit-up and kid dirt. My sister texted me every day for weeks, asking for pictures of the baby because she knew I wasn’t getting to show him off enough to the world. (Such a mom thing to think of, right?) Friends and family phoned, emailed, and helped the kids with their schoolwork via video calls, and countless people prayed for us.

I cried with gratitude almost every day. It wasn’t about the actual gifts or acts of service, beautiful and needed and wonderful as they were. It was about the hearts behind them.

The hospitality I was shown by my friends and family was a balm. The care and love we received was absolute hospitality, the likes of which I’d never experienced before. And frankly, it changed my view of hospitality.

Defined as “the friendly reception and treatment of guests or strangers,” hospitality often brings to mind images of parties, dinner around a heaping table, or coffee shared at a kitchen counter. It makes me think of holiday gatherings, family getting together to celebrate birthdays, and cheering on our favorite team with friends (and snacks!) during a football game.

Of course, none of this was possible during that season, and yet hospitality is the best description of what I was so generously given. Because my friends were empowered to be hospitable despite the strange circumstances, I was beautifully loved by my community. And because of their hospitality, when I look back I don’t remember a time of loneliness and fear. I remember a time of friendship, home, and love.

When we love others well, we’re empowered to share hospitality in any way we can, blessing both the giver and the receiver.

Lord, may I give — and receive — generous hospitality. Urge me to go out of my way to bless others, and help me to both offer and accept hospitality in all its forms. Give me eyes to see who needs it, and provide me with the means to be hospitable. Amen.

This article was written by Anna E. Rendell, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

Finding Meaning — Even While Shopping

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It’s the start of Thanksgiving weekend, and I’m sure many of you are eating leftover turkey sandwiches, doing a little holiday sale shopping, and perhaps decorating your home for Christmas. That is pretty much what we are doing around our house too! Thanksgiving weekend is always one of my favorites. Good food, time for family, and diving into the joy of the Christmas season.

Growing up, my mom and I began this special weekend with a beautiful Thanksgiving meal, followed by shopping early the next morning. She raised me to be a bargain hunter, and the day after Thanksgiving was our main event. We sprawled out on the floor after dinner and pored over the Thanksgiving newspaper and ads, circling items on our wish list like kids with a toy catalog. In those days, stores opened at the before-dawn hour of 6:00 am.

Mom and I would wait in line at Target, Dayton’s, and Kohl’s, and we would choose our first stop based on the free gifts they were handing out at the door. Yes, they used to do that! Over the years we collected snow globes, stuffed animals, lawn chairs, and fleece blankets. Then we would wander the store, standing in lines with our treasures, waiting to check out, giddily thinking about the recipient’s face on Christmas Day when they would open the perfect gift we got them. On the way home, we’d stop at a gas station for hot chocolate and donuts, our hands cold but our hearts warm from spending time together.

Black Friday shopping was a big deal to me, because it meant one-on-one time with my mom. Years later, she admitted to me that she actually hated getting out of bed to stand in lines in the freezing cold, but she did it because I loved it and she loved me.

The great deals we scored were just the icing on the cake.

These days, I take my newspaper (yeah, I still get an actual newspaper) and sit by the fireplace with my daughters. We browse the ads, making piles and lists. . . and then we shop online. Yes, we do! We’ve still got donuts and cocoa in hand, but we don’t have to brave the bitter cold or change out of our pj’s. We still get quality time and fun, all while looking for great deals on meaningful gifts. It is one way I know that we’re starting to welcome the Christmas season.

Black Friday shopping isn’t what it used to be (gone are the days of free gifts in line, and stores waiting until dawn to open), but it can still be fun, helpful to your holiday budget, and meaningful too.

With that in mind, we’re super excited to tell you that EVERYTHING* at Dayspring.com is 35% off with the code FRIDAY!

Beautiful and created with intentional meaning, DaySpring items make amazing gifts for those near and dear to your heart, and serve as a tangible reminder of God’s love for them. And the best part about shopping these deals at DaySpring.com? You can wear your sweatpants, have your hair up in a messy bun, and you don’t have to leave your couch — all while stocking up on lovely, inspirational gifts for your family and friends. Is there any better kind of shopping?!

During this Christmas season, our goal is to point you back to the hope and joy that Jesus’ arrival brings — and DaySpring is here to help as you prepare your heart and home for Christmas too, with Christmas Cards, Gift Bags & Wrap, Decor, Ornaments and Family Activities, each one centered around the birth of Jesus and the joy He brings. 

Here are a few of our favorites:

Create in Me (in)courage DayBrightener
Reg Price: $10.99
After 35% off: $7.14

 

 

Coffee + Jesus Stoneware Mug
Reg Price: $12
After 35% off: $7.80

 

 

Fully Known, Wholly Loved Sweatshirt

Reg Price: $45
After 35% off: $29.25

 

Step into the season with intention, and focus on the arrival of Jesus, prioritizing Him above all else. As you’re shopping for gifts, choose those that can bring an eternal impact to friends and family, planting seeds of His love. Give a gift with a life-giving reminder of God’s love, no matter who you are shopping for this Christmas.

Simply enter FRIDAY at checkout for 35% off these (in)courage favorites AND everything* else at DaySpring.

Whether you are heading to the mall or shopping from your phone, may your 2022 Black Friday be filled with lots of coffee and great deals on meaningful gifts!

Do you have a special Black Friday or Thanksgiving weekend tradition? We’d love to hear about it in the comments!

Listen to this article at the player below, or wherever you stream podcasts.

 

*some exclusions apply: Hosanna Revival Bibles & Willow Tree Items

With Thankful Hearts

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Let the whole earth shout triumphantly to the Lord!
Serve the Lord with gladness;
come before him with joyful songs.
Acknowledge that the Lord is God.
He made us, and we are his—
his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him and bless his name.
For the Lord is good, and his faithful love endures forever;
his faithfulness, through all generations.
Psalm 100 (CSB)

A posture of gratitude can shift our perspective and our hearts to see God in the present moment. In suffering pain and grief, in dealing with annoyances and inconveniences, in waiting for hope and good news, we can practice being thankful. This seemingly trite exercise has the power to change our groans to praise and to make us aware of God, who is always with us.

Practicing gratitude can look like writing down a list of things you’re grateful for — the beauty of fall, the laughter of children, the gathering of family — or it can be a list of things God has done in the past that you want to remember again. It can be bullet points of God’s promises that you’re clinging onto in the thick of things or how you see God working in those around you. Whatever it is, write it down today or say it — in a journal, on a post-it, or even in the comments below.

And on a day set aside for counting blessings, we want you to know we are so very thankful for you.

Those of us working behind the scenes of (in)courage and those of us sharing our words and our stories never once take it for granted that you show up in this place, inviting us into your inboxes and your lives, sharing your own stories and hearts. Thank you for being part of this community.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

 

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

The Cost of True Thanksgiving

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It was two days before Thanksgiving when my life fell apart. The day started like any other, with the mad dash of getting kids ready for school and adults ready for work. In the middle of the chaos, just as I was about to head to the grocery store to buy everything we needed for Thanksgiving dinner, the phone rang. Within seconds, the doctor on the other end of the line told me the news I never thought I’d hear:

Michele, you have cancer.

Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday, ever since I was a young girl helping my mother roast turkeys and bake homemade pies for our family and friends. I love the preparation, the gathering of loved ones, and the absence of commercialism (did I mention the pies?). While Christmas seems to be the pinnacle of most people’s calendar year, Thanksgiving has always been the highlight of mine.

Until cancer decided to show up and put a serious damper on things. As it turns out, pie can’t cure everything.

It’s been twelve years since that Thanksgiving. By some small miracle, it is still my favorite holiday, even though cancer came back a second and third time in subsequent years, again during the Thanksgiving holiday. Maybe that’s precisely why it is still my favorite holiday. As a result of my suffering, I’ve learned a few things about the practice of Thanksgiving, including both what it is and what it isn’t.

When it comes to an attitude of thankfulness, the Bible verse often quoted around the holiday is 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (NIV): “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” Thanksgiving is certainly a good way to approach life, regardless of circumstances. However, too often this passage is misunderstood and misapplied. We think we must give thanks for all circumstances. How exactly are we supposed to give thanks for the death of a loved one? Or for a terminal diagnosis? How do we rejoice in an abuse of power or the trafficking of children? To be thankful for these circumstances feels not only impossible but callous and inhumane.

I have good news for you: We’re not commanded to give thanks for all circumstances but in all circumstances. And there’s a huge difference between the two. So what can we be thankful for in the middle of circumstances that are breaking our hearts? Here are a few reasons I discovered for thanksgiving, even while spending the holiday in a hospital ICU bed:

  1. No circumstance, no matter how horrific, will ever separate me from God’s love for me. (Romans 8:35-39)
  2. Even though I may feel alone, God will never leave me nor forsake me. (Deut. 31:6, Hebrews 13:5b, Matthew 28:20)
  3. God sees my suffering and He carries it with me. (Genesis 16:13, Matthew 11:28-30, Mark 6:34)
  4. Even as He weeps with me, He will ensure my suffering is not wasted. (Romans 8:28)
  5. And one day He will make sure I never weep again. Only joy! (Revelation 21:4)

Thanksgiving in seasons of abundance comes cheap. It’s still important, still a worthy expression of gratitude for what we’ve been given. But Thanksgiving when we have little to celebrate comes at a cost. But the payout is trust and peace.

“The Lord will surely comfort Zion and will look with compassion on all her ruins; he will make her deserts like Eden,
her wastelands like the garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the sound of singing.”
Isaiah 51:3 (NIV)

The ruins are real and mustn’t be ignored. We are not called to dance on graves as if the life we mourn wasn’t actually lost. Instead, we see the God who meets us at our graves and looks with compassion on all our ruins. When we see the love in His eyes and remember His promise to bring gardens from graves, we find a different kind of Thanksgiving, one not tied to our circumstances but wrapped up in a Savior for whom we can sing even while we weep.

 

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The Impact of Each of Our Simple, Singular Lives

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I felt my watch vibrate and glanced down at the words on the screen. My attention focused as I scrolled through the details of the message and then fumbled through my nearby bag, searching for a tissue to dry my eyes. I couldn’t believe the news:

My dear friend Dan had passed away.

Brother Dan, as he was known, was 92 years old — in his case, 92 years young; he could have passed for more than a decade younger. Dan always wore a rascally smile, like he was up to no good (in the best possible way). Call it cliché, but the man’s eyes twinkled.

Brother Dan was tall and strong, a former high school coach of multiple sports, the kind of man you want mentoring your child. His family displayed photos of him coaching basketball, softball, track, and football teams at the visitation the day before his funeral. I’m curious how many lives he influenced, the generations of students who looked up to him and became better athletes (and better humans) because of his guidance. For decades’ worth of Sundays, he served as sideline coach, long-distance spectator, and vocal cheerleader for my family through conversations in the church fellowship hall.

When our oldest son consistently finished second to the same opponent in the two-mile at his high school track meets, Brother Dan mapped out a strategy that enabled him to win his final race. He encouraged people to do their best by playing to their strengths. Brother Dan didn’t change our son physically, but he changed his mindset. Later our son would apply that lesson to the way he played baseball too.

Most of my children have run cross country and track and Brother Dan always asked about their races and followed their seasons. For years, he inquired on a regular basis if I was writing a Western novel for him (always with the characteristic twinkle in his eye); he obviously loved them. It became an ongoing joke. I hated to tell him no, but I don’t think he ever expected my answer to be yes. When he learned I was speaking at a women’s event last month, he asked about my preparations beforehand and then followed up to see how it went after the fact.

As one of my daughters remarked on the way to Brother Dan’s funeral, “He was always so invested in us.”

Brother Dan was an exceptional man, not because of his talent or skills — although he had them — but because he cared for people so deeply. He invested himself in others, encouraged them, and helped them be the best they could be. He was a faithful man of God and used the gifts God gave him to serve others.

As each one has received a gift, minister it to one another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.
1 Peter 4:10 (NKJV)

We all have intrinsic, divine worth and the power to impact the unique subset of humanity that’s been put in our path. Each life bears a unique imprint. No one will encounter the same people in the same places as you will. When we live generously, selflessly helping those around us, we bless and are blessed in return.

We all need coaches and cheerleaders in our lives. People who care about us. People who encourage us. People who bring out our best. People who make us feel seen, the way Brother Dan did. Life is about more than what we gain: it’s in what we give, who we serve, and where (and in whom) we invest our time.

Service to self can leave us empty, but serving others will both fill us and fulfill us. Within the sphere of each of our simple, singular lives, we can make the world a better place.

 

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Your Cracks Will Not Kill You

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So there I am, on the floor in my living room, watching the Magnolia Network because my best friend told me to. The candle is burning and popcorn kernels are bursting in a cast iron skillet on the stove. I snuggle up close to my son and we watch as this family turns a 1923 vintage mercantile store into their home.

The show starts with a DIY-blogger turned designer driving in a pastel pick-up truck on Old Highway 91. Her hair blows in the wind and, all the while, she tells the history of Southern Utah — how people would pass through on their way from California to Vegas in the 1920s.

The camera pans over views of Utah’s red cliffs, straight mountains, and vast desert. Then it unveils the mercantile store: exposed brick walls, wood-beamed ceiling, and wide windows. And, of course, I’m on the edge of my seat, because who doesn’t love a good restoration story? Who doesn’t love a good fixer upper, watching kitchens come to life and backyards become beautiful again?

The designer jokes with her husband, but is also sort of serious when she admits the anxiety she has over one wall that looks as if it’s going to crumble. She wants to preserve the imperfect, timeworn wall the way it is, she says, but she’s also concerned about making sure it’s secure and that the structure holds.

Intent on preserving this bit of wall, she and her husband set out to find some man who knows and understands adobe — bricks made from mere mud. They meet the man and he shows them his built-by-hand home, constructed with adobe bricks that he made from his own land. Then the man visits them at the mercantile store, dirt and water and wheelbarrow in tow.

They show the man a crack along the length of the wall, telling him of their fear and how the crack looks as though it might cause the wall to fall apart. What he says to them gives me chills, even now. I don’t ever think I will forget this.

“It’s a major crack…but it’s a minor detail,” says the man. Then he points out a small hole in the wall and compares it to the long crack.

“This hole is a bigger problem than that crack?” the woman asks.

“Oh definitely,” he says, matter-of-factly, while wetting and filling the crack with mud. He eases their minds with this simple solution, all the while calling this imperfect, patched up wall an ever-changing process, an art.

I am not sure how much popcorn was left in my bowl at that point, but I do remember my heart bursting to life at the thought of all the implications of this adobe building turned home. There were all the ways in which this message was for me — not merely for my dream of someday restoring an actual fixer upper, but for the truth that I, in the here and now, am that fixer upper.

I am that imperfect, timeworn adobe building with gaping cracks. I am ever fractured and ever in need of fixing and filling. Maybe . . . you, too?

Do you ever feel like your cracks are wide and magnified — in your heart, in your skin, in your spine, in your brain? The relationship that fractured or the bones that bruised when you fell on them for the third time in four months (true story). Ever feel like you’re the one harboring and hiding the fearful thought that you’ll one day crumble? Ever fear your feeble frame might break under the weight of burdens? The cracks with trauma trickling through, that medical crisis that won’t quiet, the bills that overwhelm.

Maybe the cracks have been there for years, for decades. Maybe they’ve been boarded up and covered in hopes of keeping them from being exposed. Maybe the cracks have come rather suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere. Maybe they’ve split from the strain of another’s situation. Maybe they’ve fractured under self-imposed pressure.

However long they’ve been there, however deep and wide and long the cracks are, Jesus isn’t threatened. He is not afraid to stand beside our broken walls. He isn’t worried about the cracks caving in. He stands with us, so matter-of-factly, taking mixtures of mud to heal the cracks in our minds, our bodies, our families, our faith.

If I’m honest, I really do feel like that mercantile store with it’s impossible walls wanting to be a home. And I want to hear Jesus say of my broken places: It’s a major crack…but it’s a minor detail.

I want Him to shift my perspective from the things that are imperfect and weak within me to the real places of concern, the places in my heart where faith and hope and grace are lacking.

“This hole is a bigger problem than that crack?” I ask Jesus. This hole in my heart — where I house unbelief and fear — is bigger than the cracks, these fissures that you can fix with mere mud?

“Oh definitely,” I hear Jesus say. I hear Him say to me, to all of us:

Your cracks will not kill you. Though they are big and scary, I can mend them with mud. I am your help and I am healing your every worry and wound. You are an ever-changing work of art — every fracture and fault line, every crevice and crack. Believe in Me. Trust in Me. Look to Me. Lean on Me. I am your maker. And I am your mender. I am your strength. I will sustain you.

“Even to your old age and gray hairs. I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.”
Isaiah 46:4 (NIV)

 

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One Thing You Might Need to Hear Today

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See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!
1 John 3:1 (NIV)

There is nothing better than knowing you are welcomed somewhere, knowing that you belong. We all long to know that we are chosen, that someone delights in knowing us, that someone wants to love us. While we hope that our family of origin, the community we live in, and our local church would be that kind of place and people for us, that isn’t always the case. We face disappointment, rejection, fractured relationships. People let us down. Places that should be safe are not.

But God.

What two beautiful words! But God loves us, chose, us, and calls us His children.

Maybe that’s what you need to sit with today. Hear God say to you:

Daughter. Daughter. You are my child and I love you lavishly.

When We Tire of Doing Good, God Will Help Us

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So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Therefore, whenever we have the opportunity, we should do good to everyone— especially to those in the family of faith.
Galatians 6:9–10 (NLT)

My oldest daughter heard a news report about refugees and asked me about it. I shared with her what I knew, then we looked up more information. We talked about how hard it must be to leave your home and travel to an unfamiliar place, and I reminded her that God commands us to help others. That’s when my younger daughter—who happened to be in the room and apparently was all ears—chimed in.

“Mommy! We need to help them! What can we do? I want to help!”

Immediately, my eyes filled with tears, and my heart grew about three sizes. I was so proud of my little girl and moved by her generous heart. But it wasn’t long before I also felt myself sighing deeply. How could we help? I didn’t know! What I did know was that figuring out how to answer her was going to take time.

I hugged my daughter and told her how happy I was that she wanted to help. I promised to find out how our family could help “the people who left their countries,” as she called them.

My experience in working for nonprofit organizations and ministries had taught me that not all help is actually helpful. I’d learned that sometimes helping hurts, and I didn’t want to be part of that. I also didn’t want to simply throw money at a problem (though as a former fundraiser, I know how crucial financial contributions are). I wanted to find a tangible way for my family to help someone in need, something we could do that would truly make a difference in the life of another. But it turned out that was easier said than done!

I googled and made phone calls and sent emails and asked friends on Facebook. How can we help? And every day when she got off the school bus, my little girl asked if I’d found an answer yet. I told her I was waiting for someone to email me back and that I would do another internet search. I told her I was trying.

And I was. I wanted to help too! But I also had a full calendar and a long to-do list, and I was starting to feel a little less warm and fuzzy every time my daughter asked me again how we could help. So I began shrugging off her (and my) desire to do good. Coming up with a plan to help got pushed to the edge of my proverbial plate, and for days at a time I completely forgot about it. Then my daughter brought it up again.

How can we help? Did that lady email you back? What can we do?

Instead of rolling my eyes and sighing in frustration (which I may have been tempted to do), I closed my eyes as I took a deep breath in and breathed out God’s name. In that moment I was asking for patience and motivation and guidance. I was asking Him to give me the desire to do good for my daughter and, with her, to do good for others.

Finally, I was spurred back into action. Giving up on the organizations I’d emailed to offer help (who, strangely enough, never did respond), I widened my search and asked another group of friends for ideas. Before I knew it, I had a long list of ways we could help others in our community — plenty of ideas to keep us busy doing good all year long!

Doing good isn’t always easy or convenient. We can’t always figure out a simple answer to the world’s complicated problems. And sometimes feeling too busy or too tired saps our energy for adding one more thing to our list. But God doesn’t ask us to do anything He won’t make possible. So when doing good feels impossible, it’s time to ask God to give us the desire to help, the wisdom to choose how best to help, and the time and energy to make it happen. We ask Him to work in our hearts so we don’t get tired of doing good.

Out of obedience and an overflow of God’s goodness to us, we press on to goodness. He loves us, so we love others. He helps us, so we help others.

Lord, thank You for inviting me into the good works You have prepared for me to do. Please give me the desire to do good and the follow-through to keep at it. Use me to show others how much You love them, and may they see You through me. Amen.

This article was written by Mary Carver, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

Empowered: More of Him for All of You, by Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell is designed to incorporate the five major components of our being — physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual. The sixty Scripture passages and devotions invite you to see from different angles how God empowers us, and each day ends with prayer and reflection questions to deepen the learning. Grab a copy now. We pray it blesses you.

Exchanging Envy for Celebration

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I brought a rush of hot, summer air with me as I walked through my friend’s front door. I turned the corner down her hall, and there they were: my friend, just a handful of days postpartum, and her tiny child sleeping wrapped against her chest. Tears blurred my vision. I often cry when my friends have babies.

When she first told me she was pregnant, I had burst into tears.

“You,” I told her with utter sincerity, “are going to be a wonderful mother.”

It was true — motherhood was embedded in her DNA. But I wasn’t sure if it was embedded in mine.

Now, my friend stood up from her chair, a smile stretching across her cheeks, and placed the baby in my arms. I sat on her leather couch and stared at him, overwhelmed by his presence despite how little space he took up in my arms. He was light, precious. I couldn’t get over how tiny his nose was, or how I could feel his lips blowing the smallest stream of air each time he exhaled.

For the next hour she recounted her birth story. She wasn’t tired like I expected. She was vibrant and energized, as if motherhood had given her distinct purpose and a reason for being on this earth. Her face was awash with color; she bounced around the room even though she had given birth just a few days earlier. She was a woman who had partaken in the miracle of childbirth, and the adrenaline was still coursing through her body.

I held her son in silence while she spoke, my heart racing as I listened. I grew increasingly overwhelmed as she talked — like the very air was closing in on me.

With each word she spoke, the lurching in my chest grew tighter and more pronounced. I didn’t know what to say. Even though neither of us had acknowledged it, I knew everything had suddenly changed. I didn’t know what she needed now that she had a baby. I didn’t know what our friendship would look like now that she was a mother. A chasm had formed between us that I didn’t know how to cross. My envy was thick, and the depth of my loneliness felt inescapable. My friend didn’t know it then, but I wanted everything she seemed to have: a husband, a house, and now, a baby.

I wanted to celebrate with her, but I also wanted to leave. I sat on my hands instead. Eventually, I collected my purse and told her I should go. Her eyes were still radiant. She was in her own beautiful world, and she couldn’t help but glow.

I hugged her, kissed the top of her child’s head, and assured her to call me if she needed anything. Then I climbed into my car and cried.

My envy, pain, and loneliness crowded out my capacity for celebration. I didn’t know how to hold my envy and her happiness together in my hands. I was watching the hopes and dreams I had for myself play out in someone else’s life, and I was terrified that was the way it would always be.

I put my car in drive and cried the entire way home.

I would’ve liked my envy and loneliness to be fixed with a marriage and children. I would’ve preferred God to hand me a husband the way someone hands me French fries at the drive-through window. For so long I kept my eyes fixed on my friends’ lives. I felt like God was making all of their dreams come true and had somehow forgotten about me. Instead of keeping my eyes on Jesus and on the adventures He might have in store for me, I focused on what I didn’t have.

The apostle Peter had a similar experience. In John 21, Peter and Jesus share a deeply personal moment that offers much healing and redemption. Near the end of the chapter, Jesus gives Peter a glimpse of how he’s going to die. Talk about intense. Peter doesn’t know how to handle what Jesus tells him, so he awkwardly looks over at John and asks, “Lord, what about him?” (v. 21).

I imagine Jesus keeping His eyes on Peter as He replies, “If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you? You must follow me” (v. 22).

I do this a lot. I look out at the world, and I see my friends getting married and having babies, and I feel my heart shatter a little with fear and loneliness, and I ask Jesus, “What about her? Why is her life going the way she wants it to? Why are her dreams coming true?”

And I think Jesus keeps His tender eyes trained on me and says with kindness, “What is that to you? You must follow Me.”

You must follow Me.

Jesus hasn’t called me to follow my friends. He hasn’t even called me to necessarily follow my dreams. He’s called me to follow Him.

When we trust Jesus, we become free.

Free to live the lives and dream the dreams He has for us.
Free to celebrate what He has in store for our friends.
Free to rejoice instead of envy.

Even if it still hurts a little (which, in all honesty, it does), I can keep my eyes on Jesus through the pain. I can celebrate and rejoice with my friends over what God is doing in their lives—because I can choose to trust Him instead of envying others. Trust is more powerful and brave than envy anyway.

Envy is self-centered. Trust is generous.
Envy is fearful. Trust is courageous.
Envy sees only the negative. Trust chooses, over and over, to see the good.

I can cross our new life-stage divide with arms wide open, ready to celebrate all God has for my friend, and trusting Jesus has adventures in store for me.

And if, in the midst of my celebration and trust, the envy and pain and loneliness still sneak in, I’ll bring every ache into the light of Jesus. Because no matter what happens in the lives of the people around me, I’m choosing to follow Him.

Hey friends, if you resonated with my story, or if you are dealing with relational tension of any kind, you’re going to want to get a copy of Come Sit with Me. In addition to my story, you’ll find 25 other (in)courage writers going first with their own faith wrestling and hope wrangling. I love how this book helps us to:

  • delight in our differences
  • honor and value others even when we disagree
  • connect before we correct
  • trust that God is working even when people disappoint us

Discover how God can work through your disagreements, differences, and discomfort in ways you might never expect.

Come Sit With Me is now available wherever books are sold, and we’d love to send you the introduction and the first two chapters for FREE! Sign up here. You can also get a free peek with our YouVersion Come Sit With Me Bible Reading Plan! Have you read Come Sit With Me yet?

 

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Sitting in the Tension of Gratitude and Grief

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I’ve been sitting in a delicate tension of both gratitude and grief this week as I think about recent gatherings of family and friends gathered.

With her faithful father by her side, my niece floated down the venue stairs. Robed in white, her shimmering eyes sparkled with a kind of innocent joy that’s rare these days. She glanced at her dad with adoring eyes and then stepped toward her future groom, clutching his hand with a little excited squeal thrown in for good measure.

Long before my brother knew the name of his daughter’s future spouse, he had been praying about the possibility of this day. From start to finish, it was the glorious affirmation of all they’d prayed for — the good and the beautiful that is at the heart of all covenantal wedding days. It was pure joy and my heart burst with gratitude at God’s faithfulness.

But my weekend also included one of life’s greatest sorrows — the tragic loss of my dear friend’s child. I was at my niece’s rehearsal dinner when I received her text. My crying gasp was audible, so I quickly walked away so as not to dampen the celebratory mood. As I was doubled over with grief, music and dancing, laughter and giggles echoed all around me. But on the other end of the phone, my friend’s heart was splayed open from the devastation of her loss. Her daughter was gone too soon, never to have a rehearsal dinner or dancing. A searing reminder that we have no guarantees.

Laughter and lamenting. Toasts and tears. All the “firsts” amidst such finality.

How could such emotions coexist? How was I suppose to function? With fourteen people staying in our home for the wedding, followed by a Sunday worship service (held in our backyard) for young families we mentor, I spent the wee hours of the weekend flushing out Ecclesiastes 3 in my heart. As I begged the Lord for wisdom on how to hold the grief and the joy, I was granted a gift.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens . . . a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.
Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4 (NIV)

As I texted my grieving friend on the morning of the wedding, I shared that while I’d have to compartmentalize my feelings in order to celebrate, my heart wouldn’t be far from hers.

Her response came from someone who has spent decades deeply rooted in a biblical worldview that laid a solid foundation for her theology of suffering. She was understandably angry, completely devastated and living a parent’s worst nightmare, yet she also desired that through her darkest hour her Savior would be glorified.

She texted back, “Jen, go rejoice with those who are rejoicing. We will have plenty of time for mourning later.”

My memories of that wedding week are so complex, but they’ve taken me to a deeper level with the Lord than I’ve experienced in a long time. We want happy fairy tale days, and though our Lord does graciously give good gifts to His children, we are not guaranteed a life without grief and loss.

I’m choosing to not allow worry to be used as a weapon to harm me. Satan is trying his best, but I’m taking every single worry for myself, my dear friend and her family, and for our future, and wielding it as worship with my eyes fixed on the only Waymaker.

He is here amidst our laughter and lament, amidst our worry and our worship. I know this to be true and I will choose to continue to anchor my heart in His Word.

We’re all walking through such varied seasons right now, but one thing is certain: God is intricately involved in both our suffering and celebrating — our gratitude and grief.

And as we enter a week full of declaring gratitude and choosing to see all the ways His goodness intertwines amidst our grief, there, I find grace for myself, and there is grace for you too.

 

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Mystery Isn’t Something to Be Afraid Of

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I get into my minivan and attach my phone to its magnetic mount. I type in the address of my destination, even though I had been there just a couple of days before. I know the general route, but I find comfort in having the Google maps lady guide me the whole way. She tells me it’ll take an hour and thirty-five minutes with traffic that’s heavier than usual, so I settle in, turn on a podcast, and start my drive.

I’m about to get on the highway when I go through my mental list of the things I needed to bring with me that day. I rummage through my big purse, checking each item off the list as I touch them. And that’s when I realize I forgot to bring my battery charger for my phone. With my phone dying halfway through the day every day these days, I desperately need to have my battery charger with me wherever I go.

I panic. It’s too late to drive back home, and I know using the maps app and listening to a podcast will drain my battery even faster than usual.

So I do the unthinkable: I close all the apps, and I drive by memory alone and in silence.

How did we navigate the road and keep ourselves company before our phones?! It boggles my mind that this was life not too long ago, and now we can’t imagine driving any distance without these little machines.

I thankfully arrive safely and on time to my destination and have enough battery juice to get me home at the end of the day. I’m weirdly proud of myself for having made it there and back without depending on the Google maps lady.

Pausing my dependence on her for the day made me think of how dependent we often are on the plans we make and the paths we intend to take to get to our final destinations in life. We like to know all the facts of every possible route so we know we’re taking the right ones and the most efficient ones. It helps us feel like we’re in control and prepared for what’s ahead and to know how to respond to the roadblocks we’ll face.

It feels like the responsible thing to do, and most of the time, it is. But when our dependence on our best laid plans and preparation is based on fear and worry over what we can’t control, we leave little room for mystery.

Mystery isn’t something to be afraid of, I’m learning. Mystery is something to be curious about and to welcome. Of course, the unknown can be scary, but mystery is the glint in someone’s eye when they can’t wait to give you the gift you’ve been longing for. Mystery is love waiting for you around the corner. Welcoming mystery means we anticipate goodness and hold out for hope knowing that we have a God who embodies both.

We like to talk about how God is in control and how He has plans for our lives, and these truths help us to stand steady. But we also have a God who is mysterious. The hows and whys of His ways constantly – and for our good – evade our logic, and therefore, we must live by faith. We must trust, and we can trust Him because He is love.

I still like to drive with my Google maps lady telling me where to turn and what highways to take, but after that day of driving without her, I’m okay with not knowing too. I’m more open to finding my way as I’m on my way knowing I’ll eventually get to where I need to go.

 

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How to Choose Wholeness Over Letting Others Define Your Worth

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The sun danced with a tangerine-skirted cloud against a peach and periwinkle sky. A fire blazed between us, warming our still-bare toes against the growing chill of the mountain air. It was July, and my best friend and I stole away for one night to make sure we didn’t go another summer without camping together. 

We lost the week’s stress in fits of laughter and found old threads of our stories in questions ranging from silly to serious traded across the loom of the night. And, as usual, the best questions came from Mish:

“Would you rather leave Cheeto dust everywhere all the time OR have everything you eat taste like licorice forever?”

“What is the moment you became an adult?”

“What’s the first time you can remember choosing having a good life over being seen as good enough?”

I can’t remember if that was Mish’s exact prompt, but I do remember the way her curiosity curled like a question mark, guiding me to a disconnected dot in my story — to the day my first big dream died.

I had two loves in childhood: books and sports. Books were my safest place as a kid. Stories were my safe haven in the shouting matches that were the soundtrack to so much of my childhood. But sports — sports, were one place I felt seen. 

Sweat, fight, and hustle were the ingredients of intimacy in my family. My dad was once a semi-professional hockey player, and the ice or pitch were places I knew I could make my parents proud. Sports gave me an arena for the attention and affirmation that often went missing under the burden of other needs in my family. 

My dream in high school was to get a college soccer scholarship. I came to soccer late, after spending my earliest years on the ice learning salchows and axels, spiraling in sequins that didn’t exactly fit my personality. I made up for all the AYSO games my peers played, slide tackling my way into more yellow cards than were necessary and hustling on multiple teams through the months of both snow and sweat and everything in between to earn the dream. 

So many of our dreams sprout in the soil of our good and real need to be seen. 

And this dream shot right up. After a summer practically spanking myself with daily training following the US Women’s Olympic Team’s regimen, I arrived at my small Christian college eager to prove my pennies were worth the school’s investment in my scholarship . . . and ready to make my parents the proudest. 

Those of you who played college sports know that your team is essentially your life. You wake up at dawn and practice before breakfast, which you go to together. Then you go to class, practice more, dunk yourself in an ice bath, eat together again, go to study hall — of course, together — and then get checked on by your team captain at curfew to make sure you’re in bed in time to do it all over again. 

This would have been awesome, except for two problems. My body wouldn’t cooperate with our twice-a-day practices and seemed to be staging a daily mutiny in painful knee inflammation that no amount of ice baths could fix. And I despised my teammates. Like, I truly cringed being around them, felt perpetually on the outside of an inside joke, and most of all, hardcore judged them as not being serious enough about both God and school. (Bless my younger self. She was so intense.)

I got my dream. And I didn’t feel safe to be myself on my team.

Maintaining my dream required disconnecting myself from discovering who I was becoming. I was so busy judging others and shutting down inside that I spent my whole first semester of college nearly friendless and entirely exhausted. The dream was downright disappointing. I was slowly realizing that I wanted the joy of my hidden loves more than the glory of achievement on the field. 

There are moments in each of our stories, some meager and some mighty, when we decide to choose wholeness over continuing to let others define our worth for us. 

Often, these moments come in the death of a dream. 

When our dreams are not planted in the soil of adequate relational safety, they drain the life inside us. When our dream of making others proud — including our families and God — does not include the dignity of being able to delight in our actual lives, we become divided and discouraged. We were made for wholeness and our bodies and hearts won’t settle for anything less. 

In our younger years, and often to this day, we find ourselves in a dilemma between maintaining attachment and seeking authenticity. Belonging is not only a beautiful word; it’s a basic human need for survival. 

We often reflexively trade in our authenticity for maintaining attachment with important people in our lives. To get belonging we learn to belittle the parts of ourselves that don’t get applause. We seek connection, but sometimes how we seek it ends up crushing us. 

It sounds so good it won’t feel true: God in Christ is handing full belonging to you. 

The great task of adult faith is receiving that God desires our wholeness more than our work, and our presence more than our performance. In Christ, we are given an attachment to God that no amount of authenticity can revoke.

After months of ice baths and physical therapy and being afraid of disappointing my dad, one night I crawled into the corner of my dorm closet, called my dad, and through tears, told him I needed to quit the soccer team. He was confused and disappointed, but at the end, he said, “I love you no matter what.”

I needed to learn I was loved even when I lost the title of college athlete. I needed to choose a life I liked more than a life that sounded lucrative. I needed disappointment to break open the husk of the seed of my truer, stronger self.

And maybe you do too. 

 

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What Can You Do When Someone You Love Is Grieving?

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The church is in the center of a small town, the kind that’s a combination of boarded up windows and cute boutiques selling soaps with ribbons around them or antiques repainted turquoise.

The foyer smells like hymnals and old coffee, the conversation is at a level just above a murmur, the sentiments shared sound like, “I’m sorry for your loss” and “He was a good man.” The funeral service is sweet, the music country, the eulogies short and tearful. Then we all eat casseroles with cream-of-something in them because that’s how southerners comfort each other.

Later, as we’re all standing around making awkward small talk, someone says they wish they could stop the widow from feeling this loss. Someone else says gently, “She has to do her own grieving.”

This strikes me as true in my bones. “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy,” said wise Solomon (Proverbs 14:10 NLT). It’s a hard truth because we want to take on or take away each other’s sorrow. We want to say, “Here, give me that pain, and I’ll feel it for you.” We want to offer, “I’ll shed those tears in your place.” But we all have to skin our own knees, make our own mistakes, and put people in the ground that we love then walk back into our ordinary lives.

When we refuse to embrace that we each must do our own grieving, we end up desperately trying to make each other feel better. We start spouting off spiritual cliches, becoming rescuers in unhealthy ways, or carrying around the weight of the world until it almost snaps our souls in half. One of the toughest parts of being human is coming to understand we can’t protect each other from pain all the time. But this doesn’t mean we can’t do anything at all.

We can still show up and be present in the pain. We can say, “I see you. I hear you. I know this is hard.”

We can let people express their emotions in our presence. We can bear witness to the tears, anger, or longing without judgment or hurry.

We can ask, “How can I love you well right now?” and listen, really listen, to the answer. Then do whatever that is, whether it’s mowing the lawn or making someone laugh, calling once a week or giving space, hugging with both arms or bringing a pan of warm brownies.

We can be patient and remember healing is a process not an event. We can stay in it for the long haul because hearts don’t keep track of time; it takes as long as it’s takes.

I was at a funeral that day but all of this applies to any type of loss — a dream, relationship, opportunity, hope, job, anything we’re attached to and must let go. To be human is to release what we long for over and over again. To be human is also to take hold of the people we love and say, “We are in this together. I cannot do this for you, but I will do it with you. You are not alone.”

At the end of the reception I walk outside into a blue-sky day. “How can the world just go on?” my husband asks. I don’t know, but somehow it does. And, inexplicably, so do we.

We love.

We grieve.

We keep walking each other Home.

Anxiety and grief often go together. One resource that can help with both is Holley’s new devotional book, What Your Mind Needs for Anxious Moments. Download the first 3 devotions for FREE here.

 

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