Holding On to Hope When We Just Can’t Anymore

Holding On to Hope When We Just Can’t Anymore

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

Until it seemed the only option I had left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet Jesus didn’t lose hope.

Why?

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

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

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

But God’s promise of Himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sign up below to get a FREE full week from Create in Me a Heart of Hope, and order your copy today wherever books are sold!

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I Hope but Help Me In My Hopelessness

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

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

My baby cried. So did I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The expectancy of hope was enough.

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

The expectancy of hope begets hope.

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

The promise of hope begets hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For more simple, honest prayers for when you don’t have the words, Kayla Craig’s book To Light Their Way has a whole section of simple Scripture-inspired breath prayers for when you need to borrow a little hope.

 

Listen to Kayla’s words below or on your favorite podcast player!

Jesus Accepted Help So You Can Too

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Whenever someone offered to help me with anything, my automatic response used to be, “Oh, you’re so sweet! No, I’m good.” Whether the roots were pride or fear, my brain automatically Google-translated any well-meaning “I’d love to help you with” offer into a negative criticism that sounded to me like: “I think you’re falling apart, and clearly, you’re failing at life.”

Once, I wrestled with a dear friend’s loving offer to help me move after prayer and many trusted voices affirmed that it was time for me and my near-adult children to move from our home. My warped Google-translate kicked in as my insecurities fired up. It didn’t take long for me to reply: “Thank you for offering, but I’m good. I can handle it.”

Is your knee-jerk reaction when a friend offers to help the same? What’s puzzling is that most of us love helping others, but we bristle at the thought of them offering to assist us. It’s wild how we can apply one set of beliefs about ourselves yet create a completely different set of beliefs for others in the same situation. How do we give ourselves permission to willingly and joyfully accept help, whether we think we need it or not?

A single question sparked a spiritual breakthrough on this accepting-help issue for me. As I packed up my near-adult children’s books and blankets, tears dripped on the cardboard boxes. I was worried about taking them away from the only home they’d ever known and grieving the circumstances that made our move necessary. Somewhere between stacking one box and preparing another, I heard a clear whisper fill the air around me: Barb, don’t you want your children to see the hands and feet of Jesus working around them on one of the most difficult days of their lives?

The aha moment came when I realized that God didn’t send my friend to help me with boxes and bedsprings. Instead, God was sending her to show my children and me divine signatures of His presence and His hope, which we needed more than a workforce for the move.

In Matthew 4, Jesus endures the trial of Satan’s temptation in the desert for forty days and forty nights. Put yourself in Jesus’ weary place. After that experience, the human side of Jesus would have been worn out. The final verse of that ordeal offers a powerful insight that can reprogram your automatic response if accepting help is hard for you:

The devil went away, and angels came and took care of Jesus.
Matthew 4:11 (NLT)

First, we can always cheer when the devil finally leaves us alone, right? However, the aha moment in this verse is seeing not only that the angels came to care for Jesus but also that Jesus accepted their help. I can imagine them showing up with warm food, a soft blanket, and their compassionate presence. If Jesus were like me, He would have said, “No, thanks, I’m good” or “There are other people who need help more than me.” But He didn’t do that. Instead, Jesus allowed Himself to be ministered to by the angels. His divine nature wasn’t diminished by accepting help from others. Just as God sent those angels to minister to Jesus, today God sends people to minister to us as well.

What stands out to me is this: Jesus accepted help, so we can and should too.

Could Jesus have gotten Himself together on His own? Yes, but God lovingly sent the angels to minister to Jesus anyway. For all the times we pray and ask God for help, He often sends it through others. But the hard part is letting down our guard rails of pride, fear, or embarrassment to receive it.

After my spiritual breakthrough moment and difficult move, I told God that I would say yes to any and all offers from friends over the next thirty days. I wanted to give God every opportunity to reprogram my automatic response and deprogram any lingering pride and fear about accepting help that remained in me. God honored that request and sent more friends to surround us with love and support during that rough time. While we experienced an outcome that I prayed we wouldn’t go through, God sent others to minister to us each step of the way.

As you reflect on the offers of help that come your way throughout the day or during the week, how might God be wanting to convey His love and care for you through others?

 

Check out Barb’s recent Bible study, Surrendered: Letting Go and Living Like Jesus about Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness and how we can learn to let go of control.

 

Listen to Barb’s words in the player below or wherever you stream podcasts!

When You Cannot Hope, Be Heard

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Hope is an anchor for the soul, but the rope to mine sure seemed long. 

I was curled on my side in bed, too exhausted to sit up. And even though the sun was streaming through our turquoise curtains, everything seemed dark. 

Nine weeks. It had been nine weeks since an infection crumpled my immunocompromised body into a heap in bed. Nine weeks since infection toppled one domino after another in my body, leading to three new diagnoses, no substantial progress, and no clear path to getting better.

Week after week I held onto hope that one more specialist visit or one more medication would lift me out of the sea of sickness. But I only saw more waves, and I didn’t think I had it in me to keep treading water. My face was still wet from weeping, and I stared and stared at the curtains and the bare tree branches beyond my window, grieving the gap between me and a life beyond bed.

Some people use PTO to sit on a beach on vacation, but my husband had just called his boss to use some of his to sit by my side in bed. The truth is, I was scaring him. The harder truth is, I was scaring myself. 

I’m a licensed therapist, and I couldn’t reframe or regulate my way out of despair. 

You can have all the coping skills in the world and have been abiding with Jesus through storms of suffering for ages, but when your body suddenly wanders into the liminal land of debilitating illness, it will break your heart because loss is loss. 

Ryan sank onto the linen bedspread next to me and squeezed my hand. “I think we need to call Jordan,” he said. “I don’t have any prayers left to pray.” 

Two hours later, we sat bundled up in our coats in the shade of our church’s bell tower. I gripped Ryan’s hand as our priest, Jordan, walked toward us and greeted us. “Would you like to sit inside?” he asked. 

Ryan helped me stand and we slowly made our way up the last few steps to the church. Jordan placed some folding chairs in a circle in the small entryway. “I’ll just pray silently for you to begin,” Jordan explained.

And in the silence, I wept. I let my priest see me break. I let him witness me at my weakest. 

Big, salty tears poured down my face. Big, snotty tissues accumulated in my hands. Big, quiet hope welled up deep inside.

What is faith if not remembering we have a Witness?

Jordan opened The Book of Common Prayer on his lap and began praying words that have been spoken over the sick for hundreds of years. He anointed my head with oil. My cup of cries still overflowed. 

Then together, my husband, my priest, and I prayed the Lord’s Prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. My words were a whisper, but they welled up from the core of me. 

All our weaknesses can be a wellspring. Whispered prayers on tear-soaked lips can surge with water from beyond. 

Goodness and love followed me into that church. Kindness helped me up those stairs. Love met me in my priest’s willingness to welcome my cries.

When we cannot hold onto hope, we can ask to be heard. When we can no longer bear the weight of brokenness, we can let someone hear our sighs and cries. 

Scripture says that faith comes by hearing, but I know it also comes by being heard. 

Despair shuts the book on the story that we are loved, but Living Hope opens the pages and pulls us back into the paragraphs of peace — by the physiological shalom of being seen, heard, and held. Dendrite by dendrite, the distance between despair and hope is bridged in our bodies by the courage to allow our weakness to be witnessed. 

It’s the path of nervous system regulation, but don’t be fooled: It’s the presence of Christ.

That day, my diagnoses were not reversed. I still needed help to walk down the steps of the church to our car. I’m still in the middle of a season of more sickness than I feel like I can handle. But in allowing my cries to be heard, I am remembering I am always held. 

The God who holds all things together by His Word is also the God who allowed His Body to be broken for you and for me. And if your body or spirit are breaking like mine, I pray you’ll hear that a broken spirit God will not despise. 

God doesn’t despise us for our despair. Here, where hope is hard, God comes down into the darkness with us, reaching us with His staff as we risk being heard and found.

 

Listen to KJ’s words below or wherever you stream podcasts!

Introducing Three New (in)courage Contributors!

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We’ve been holding some BIG NEWS close to our hearts for a while now, and we’re thrilled to finally share with you that we’re welcoming three new writers to the (in)courage family! As you know, what makes (in)courage so special is that here you’ll find a beautiful collection of voices from different backgrounds and life stages. It’s like getting to have a cup of tea and hear stories from your favorite aunt, grandma, younger sister, or quirky neighbor. We don’t all look the same, worship the same, or hold the same opinions, but the thing that connects us is Jesus! At (in)courage, we’re all about helping each other know Jesus better and live like Him. To do this, it’s our joy to continue to invite a rich diversity of perspectives and experiences to the (in)courage living room. We know that you will love getting to know and learning alongside our phenomenal new contributors.

Please join us in welcoming Barb Roose, Kayla Craig, and KJ Ramsey to (in)courage! They are so eager to meet you too!

Barb Roose:

Hi everyone! I’m Barb, a lifelong Ohioan who thinks about moving south every winter. However, I change my mind every spring when the dogwoods bloom and I resume my daily walks around my historical Victorian neighborhood.

I’m the proud, empty-nest mom of three adult kids. I have one thirteen-year old dog who lives up the street with one of my kids, and I can tell you lots of funny online dating stories. Our family has changed a lot over the past few years. We’ve celebrated, we’ve mourned, and there’s a lot that we’re still trying to gracefully figure out.

During the week, I’m in my office sipping cups of hot tea while writing or connecting with women in some capacity as a speaker, author, and literary agent. For me, the sweetness and spiciness of chai tea energizes me when I’m on a writing deadline or crafting a keynote message. Yet, herbal teas, like Tazo’s luscious Lemon Loaf, are my go-to when brainstorming book ideas with my clients or working with a conference planner about an upcoming speaking event. On many weekends throughout the year, I pack up my tea and teach at women’s conferences and events around the country. My favorite part of those weekends is hanging out with the ladies afterwards and hearing their stories of God’s power and redemption. It fills me up! By the way, if we see each other at a women’s event, know that I’m a hugger. And if we end up going out to dinner, just know that I’m going to eat dessert first.

For years, (in)courage has been a life-giving community to me. Now, it’s a joy for me to join this community so that I can serve you!

Kayla Craig:

Hi, friends! I’m Kayla. It’s an honor to be here! I’m grateful to join such a warm and welcoming space that holds stories with care. I hope my words help you feel a little less alone as we explore knowing a God who is in all things and is making all things new. I consider myself an extroverted contemplative (or is it a contemplative extrovert?), who gets a thrill from deep conversation and learning from others. My background is in journalism, and I hope to bring curiosity and compassion to how I show up not only as a writer, but as a neighbor, friend, and mother, too.

When my husband and I added four children in five years to our family through birth and adoption, I left my role as a journalist to keep up with our wild, wonderful crew and work from home as a writer. Though I’ve worked in newsrooms and spent time as a magazine editor and podcast producer, these days I’m juggling deadlines at home while navigating my sons’ wayward LEGOs and learning to be an advocate for my disabled daughter. I often write about seeing God’s image in our literal and global neighbor, and I’m passionate about catching glimmers of holy moments in unexpected places. I wrote To Light Their Way: A Collection of Prayers & Liturgies for Parents for you when you don’t have the words to pray in this big world of ours that bears the weight of both our weariness and our wonder, too.

My husband and I recently moved back to our hometown, where we were drawn to raising our family in a racially, ethnically, and socio-economically diverse area — and I fell in love with a magical, big, old house that once was a convent! (If you’re ever in Iowa, come visit  — we have room!) I love thrifting and love getting lost in estate sales, and you can usually catch me sipping the strongest black coffee I can find. We have two fluffy dogs (one big and one little) who are always getting into shenanigans, and I have been Jennifer Lopez’s greatest fan since middle school. I have a tender heart, a loud laugh, and I always have room for old books on the shelf and new friends at the table. I’m so excited to get to know you!

KJ Ramsey:

Hello from Colorado! I’m KJ, and I’m so grateful to get to share stories and words here with you in the (in)courage community. Most days you’ll find me hunting for beauty wherever I can, whether it’s flowers on my coffee table, a sunset at our neighborhood park, or golden aspens in the mountains. I’ve been married to my husband Ryan for nearly twelve years, and together we love offering space and solidarity to those who have been harmed in the church. Books and words have been my safe haven since I was tiny, but I spent a lot of my life hiding from the story I was living between the pages of other people’s stories. I used to treat words like an escape hatch. Now I embrace words as a welcome mat.

I’m a trauma-informed therapist and an author with an uncanny ability to choose to write about things that I end up having to live out more fully than I thought imaginable. My second book comes out in June and is about practicing courage, and let’s just say that most days recently I’ve thought, “Why in the world did I choose to write about this?!” Life’s been demanding a lot of courage out of me lately, especially in coping with some debilitating medical challenges. (Of course, I also wrote a book about this called This Too Shall Last: Finding Grace When Suffering Lingers.)

I want nothing more than to welcome you home to your life — even in a story you wouldn’t have authored this way. I pray my words here draw your eyes back to the goodness and beauty in the life you have, with a God who always dwells with you.

—

Barb, Kayla, and KJ, it is truly an honor and joy to welcome you to the (in)courage living room. We are so glad you’re here!

Friends, make sure to come back every day this week because these remarkable women will be sharing their first articles with us. You will LOVE hearing more from their hearts! Leave a comment to welcome them today!

Listen to today’s article via the player below or wherever you stream podcasts!

You Are His, and You Are Forgiven

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A quick note to you friends! For more than 12 years, we have published daily words of empowering encouragement right here. The words aren’t changing, don’t worry! Beginning today, we are leaning into a new publishing rhythm, and you’ll be able to continue reading and listening to words from our writers every single weekday. On the weekends, we hope you’ll join us on our social channels (Instagram and Facebook are our faves!) and catch up on our podcast! Also, tune in on Monday for BIG EXCITING NEWS! We can’t wait to spill these beans! And now on to today’s article:

The Lord is compassionate and merciful,
    slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love.
He will not constantly accuse us,
    nor remain angry forever.
He does not punish us for all our sins;
    he does not deal harshly with us, as we deserve.
For his unfailing love toward those who fear him
    is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth.
He has removed our sins as far from us
    as the east is from the west.
Psalm 103:8-12 (NLT)

The moment I saw the unfamiliar number flash across the screen, I knew what I’d done. My stomach dropped and my heart jumped into my throat as my wide eyes stared at my phone. Do I answer? What do I say? How could I have done this?

As my phone rang, the meeting I’d forgotten about came rushing back to my mind. I was mortified and full of shame. It wasn’t just a casual coffee date I’d missed. I had been scheduled for months to speak at a moms’ group, and though I’d prepared my talk and written the address (and time!) in my planner, it had somehow slipped my mind completely when I got up that morning. A group of women had been counting on me, and I didn’t show up.

I’ve forgotten meetings and missed appointments before that day — and since. But two things from this incident have stuck with me.

First, my immediate reaction to that phone call surprised me — and not in a good way. Understandably, I was embarrassed and disappointed in myself. Anger and shame seemed like reasonable responses in that moment. But as I touched the button to answer the call, my shame doubled when I took note of the list of excuses running through my head.

My first thought, when faced with a mistake, was to lie about it.

Somehow, thankfully, God gave me the strength and character to own up to what I’d done without trying to cover it up. I answered the call from the meeting coordinator and, in a rush, told her that I’d inexplicably forgotten the meeting and was now so, so, so sorry.

I held my breath as I waited for her response. I didn’t wait long because right away, this woman I’d let down assured me that it was okay. She wasn’t angry, she understood that sometimes we just mess up, and she offered me another chance by rescheduling.

That’s the second thing I’ll never forget. As I hung up the phone, overcome by pent-up tears and adrenaline, I sat on my stairs shaking. I’d been perilously close to compounding my mistake with another, willful one — and just as close to condemnation from the person I’d hurt. And yet, I’d escaped unscathed. Forgiven and free, with a second chance to move forward.

Obviously most of us will make bigger mistakes than missing a meeting. But whether we’re facing sins great or small, every single one of us has sinned. We’ve all fallen short of the holy, unblemished glory of God. And only Jesus can pay the price for our crimes.

Only Jesus can — and only Jesus does. Jesus stands in the gap between the reality of our mistakes and the perfection of God, reaching across the canyon we’ve created to pull us back into relationship with our heavenly Father.

Are you caught in your mistakes right now? In between the phone ringing and picking it up to admit what you’ve done? Don’t be afraid, friend. Like the woman who called me, God isn’t angry. He understands that sometimes we just mess up. And through the sacrifice of Jesus, He wants to offer you another chance.

Don’t hide. Don’t brainstorm ways to cover it up. Don’t beat yourself up, either. Look to the Lord and hear Him say, “You are forgiven.” Accept His mercy, grace, and love.

Beloved, nothing you have ever done or will ever do can separate you from the love of God. He loves you, and that will never change.

You are forgiven.

This story was written by (in)courage writer Mary Carver.

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What do you say when asked, “Who are you?” It seems like an easy question, except most of us answer incorrectly. We answer with all the roles we play: “I’m a wife/husband, a mom/dad, a daughter/son, an employee.” Those roles are important, but not as important as who you really are.  

Did you know who you are is a direct result of Whose you are?  

You are a child of God. You are loved, forgiven, known, and blessed. You have a purpose and a reason for hope. Your identity is in Christ. You are His.  

Know that the Lord is God. It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Psalm 100:3 (NIV)

Come along with DaySpring this year on an adventure to experience the truth of your identity. 

DaySpring has a resource that can help remind you exactly whose you are. Their Hope & Encouragement Bible includes twelve life-changing truths that highlight different dimensions of our identity as children of God. For example, you are loved, you are known, and over all, you are His.

Sign up here for a free sampler excerpt from the Hope & Encouragement Bible! We want these truths to sink into your soul so that you may know how loved you really are, so we’re giving away a Hope & Encouragement Bible! Just leave a comment telling us what it means to you that you are loved by God.

Giveaway open until 11:59pm central on 4/4/2022 to US addresses only.

 

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No One Makes It Through Their Struggle Alone

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For some time now, I have been slowly and intentionally working on a project that is very close to my heart. This special project combines art, words, beauty, truth, and encouragement.

I have gathered stories from a variety of women in different stages of life, from different backgrounds, different geographical locations, different upbringings, and with different views of the world. I asked each of these women to talk to me about a specific struggle in their life. Some of those struggles were in the past, and some are still happening in the present. Due to my own struggles, I have seen my timeline for this project come and go more than once. Although that has been disappointing, I also know my own struggles have shaped my heart for this project even more so.

Even though their stories run the gamut, sharing things that are difficult and extraordinary, heartbreaking and hopeful, every single one of them had this thing in common: Not one of these women made it through their struggle alone. Each one saw God meet them right where they were and right when they needed Him to meet them the most. He saw them. He met them. He loved them.

He met them in hospitals, in their homes, at their child’s bedside, while caring for their spouse, while mourning, while addicted, while scared, while hoping for miracles. He was there when miracles were found, and He was there weeping alongside when they were not. And you know what, He loves us either way. He is good either way. There is nothing He won’t see us through.

God is our refuge and strength, a very ready help in trouble.
Psalm 46:1 (NASB)

Their stories have taught me beautiful lessons about sorrow and beauty, strength and perseverance, and how struggles come in all shapes and sizes. Struggles are a universal human experience. They are part of everyone’s story. We are all struggling with realities we would have never chosen for ourselves. We think others won’t understand, but they really do. That has also been the beauty of the community here at (in)courage. We share our stories, and we know we are not alone.

It is an unbelievable encouragement to know that no matter what we go through, God will meet us and see us through. He does it again and again. Because I have experienced this first hand, I know He will continue to be there when struggles arise, and arise they will.

This is the beautiful hope I want to give you to carry and hold on to: He will never leave you alone. He loves you. God is part of each and every story. He is with you, and He is for you.

Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or in dread of them, for the Lord your God is the One who is going with you. He will not desert you or abandon you.
Deuteronomy 31:6 (NASB)

I wanted to leave you with these words of encouragement because this is my last article here as a contributor. If I have done anything in my time here, I want it to be that I have encouraged. I want it to be that someone didn’t feel so alone because they saw themselves in my words, in my story, and that that gave them hope.

It has been incredibly special for me to be part of (in)courage, and it will always have a special place in my heart. I am so very grateful for the community here, for your love and support. Thank you.

If you would like to join Jennifer Ueckert on her journey with art and to keep up with her future projects, sign up for her newsletter here AND get a special discount code for her shop!

 

Listen to Jennifer’s words below or wherever you stream podcasts:

 

First Comes Hunger, Then Comes a Filling

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Here we are: March of 2022 is coming to a close. The first three months of this year have been such a whirlwind for me. Work, travel, working out, church, and trying to be social have been on high speed. If I’m being honest, the last year has hovered at that speed. Don’t get me wrong. I love having a full and active life, but I can sometimes find fulfillment in the busyness. I can even find my identity in it as well.

The more I live in this rhythm, the more I want to live in this rhythm, and the easier it becomes to do so. It very much becomes an insatiable hunger. The past couple of years have been a huge opportunity to set aside every distraction in order to set my gaze upon Christ, but in so many ways, I fell short and missed much of the opportunity. Along with keeping myself busy, I took many occasions to mindlessly numb out and disconnect from life.

My church recently had a conference called The Presence of God Conference. With a name like that, the expectation was set really high. The guest pastor recounted many stories of how God ushered in a mighty revival in his dad’s church throughout much of his childhood. That powerful move of God marked his life in every way. This pastor, now in his seventies, had witnessed the Lord show up in more ways than he could remember. He repeatedly teared up in awe and wonder of what the Lord had done in his life. And it was simply from an overflow of spending intimate and consistent time with Him.

Hearing this convicted me. I began to reflect on the past year, and I realized that my hunger for God had waned significantly. I’d allowed myself to be satisfied with temporary and frivolous pleasures.

The beginning of Matthew 5 finds Jesus sitting on a mountainside with His disciples teaching them what it looks like to manifest Christlikeness. One of the verses that kept coming to mind was verse 6, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” It’s a beautiful promise from God to His children. First comes hunger and then comes a filling.

We were created with a hunger or deep desire, and that desire is met in one way or another. This world offers countless ways to lose ourselves and the enemy of our souls offers even more.

The pastor at the conference shared how holy dissatisfaction is often what stirs up hunger for God within us, and I recognized that I had become too satisfied with what this life offers. It was definitely a wake-up call.

I’ve heard it said that God responds to hunger, and it’s true. In our own lives, we do the same thing. When we’re hungry, we respond and eat. We do this for our bodies, but we are also called to do this for our souls. We have been given Jesus, the Bread of Life and our Living Water. He became broken bread and poured-out wine for us on the cross, and He is the only One who can completely satisfy our hunger. In light of that sacrifice, how could we not yearn for Him above anything and everything else?

As this year keeps going, I want to live a life defined by a deep longing for Christ and Christ alone. I want to be ruined for anything else that claims to satisfy. I want to hunger and thirst for God knowing that He is faithful to respond and move as only He can do.

Have you become satisfied with what leaves you empty? How can you turn back toward God to feed the hunger of your soul?

 

Listen to Karina’s words below or on your fave podcast app:

 

Hope in the Middle of the Storm + a Launch Day Giveaway!

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It’s been a hard season, and we’re looking for some hope. Aren’t you? We’re ready to look at how God offers us hope — real, certain, unshakable hope — because we’re pretty sure that looking at where that hope comes from and what it looks like in our lives will help us understand what hope is and the difference it makes. It will allow God to create in us a heart of hope.

That’s why we’re full of HOPE and joy today to tell you that our newest (in)courage Bible study, Create in Me a Heart of Hope, is now available! Cue the confetti! This Bible study features the real-life, going-first kind of stories you know and love from our (in)courage writers and some in-depth Scripture study — like the excerpt we’re sharing below, written by Mary Carver. Read on for a taste of Create in Me a Heart of Hope:

As evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s cross to the other side of the lake.” So they took Jesus in the boat and started out, leaving the crowds behind (although other boats followed). But soon a fierce storm came up. High waves were breaking into the boat, and it began to fill with water. Jesus was sleeping at the back of the boat with his head on a cushion. The disciples woke him up, shouting, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?” When Jesus woke up, he rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Silence! Be still!” Suddenly the wind stopped, and there was a great calm.
Mark 4:35-39 (NLT)

The story of Jesus calming the storm is told in three of the four Gospels: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Each account describes a trip across the lake after a long day of teaching. Jesus — who was fully God yet also fully human — was understandably tired and took a nap. While He was sleeping, a great storm blew in. Just as the waves threatened to overwhelm the boat, fear threatened to overwhelm the disciples.

We often react the same way, don’t we? We can become overwhelmed by external circumstances (relationship troubles, job loss, debt, too many demands on our time, parenting, caring for elderly parents) or by internal conditions (fear, anxiety, depression, anger, resentment). And when it feels like the winds of those overwhelming storms might knock us down for good, we frequently find ourselves looking around frantically. Can anyone help me? Does anyone notice what’s going on here? Who’s in charge? Where is God in all this?

We can become so overwhelmed with fear or pain that we lash out, looking for anything to stop the storm. We might begin to seek solutions or solace from anyone or anything that offers a substitute for real hope or help. We turn to Google or Facebook, a punishing workout, or a numbing drink. All the while, God is holding us in His hand. He isn’t asleep, and He hasn’t forgotten about us — even when in our panic we’ve forgotten about Him.

Like the disciples in the boat with Jesus, we desperately need hope when life is overwhelming and we’re tempted to panic and forget what’s true. But while we’re all going to falter in our faith at times, it’s what we do next that counts. Will we spiral deeper into panic and doubt? Or will we acknowledge God’s presence and power and turn our focus back to Him?

In Mark 4:39, to stop a raging storm, Jesus utters just three words: “Silence! Be still!” These words echo Psalm 46, which begins with a familiar declaration of hope: “God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble” (v. 1 NLT). Toward the end of that psalm, God says, “Be still, and know that I am God!” (v. 10 NLT). We see a similar command even earlier, in the book of Exodus. As Moses attempts to calm and reassure the Israelites during their escape from Egypt, he says, “The Lord will fight for you, and you must be quiet” (Exodus 14:14). Other translations of that verse say you must “remain calm” or “keep still.”

When we read these passages together, a clear picture is formed of a God who can win wars and calm storms with a single word. So even though our life may feel like pure chaos as we juggle (and drop) balls in our attempt to manage everything on our own, He is not just offering us a lifeline. He is our lifeline. He is our rope of hope when we are overwhelmed, showing us again and again that He is our best and only hope.

What difference could this kind of heart-strengthening hope make in your everyday life? How have you seen God remain the same through changing seasons or circumstances? 

Isn’t a taste of hope just what we all need right now? The Create in Me a Heart of Hope Bible Study is the first in our upcoming series of four studies, and it’s available wherever books are sold, including:

And what would a launch day celebration be without a giveaway?!

To celebrate the release of Create in Me a Heart of Hope, we’re giving away FIVE gift bundles!* Just leave a comment on this post answering one of the reflection questions above, and you’ll be entered to win a bundle that includes:

We’re thrilled that this Bible study is finally able to be in your hands. Get your copy and let’s learn what God says about hope. Can’t wait to start? Sign up below and we’ll send you the first week of the Create in Me a Heart of Hope Bible Study for FREE so you can start right away!

Join the Online Bible Study today and get your FREE gifts!

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

*Giveaway open until 4/1/22 at 11:59 pm central to US addresses only.

A Life That Stands No Matter the Storms

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The house didn’t look like much the first time we saw it. Overgrown trees and bushes crowded the drive, obscuring the front walk and much of the house itself. The realtor had told us it’d been vacant for more than a year. By the looks of it, the house had been neglected for at least a decade before that.

Leaving the pitiful landscaping behind, the realtor unlocked the door and we went inside. With a quick glance, we realized the interior needed work as well. And several days later, a home inspection revealed the home needed far more than cosmetic help. A new roof. New stucco and exterior paint. An overhaul of the septic system. Repair of water damage to the hardwood floors. Replacement of multiple broken windows and an inoperable air conditioning unit. And those were just the big items.

Even so, we remained undeterred. We’d seen homes like this before. In the years we’d been married, my contractor husband and I have remodeled three homes just like this one.

“It has a good foundation,” he told me, after reviewing all the facts. And that’s all I needed to hear. Because we both knew that what mattered most was not the house itself as much as the foundation on which it sat. As long as a house was solid at the base, we could take care of everything else. And that’s exactly what we’ve been doing in the seventeen months since we moved in.

In Matthew 7, Jesus tells the story of the wise and foolish builders, a story I’ve loved since I was a little girl in Sunday school:

Therefore, everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash.
Matthew 7:24-27 (NIV)

Similar to a house, the life of faith will face storms. It’s not a matter of if, but when. And although day-to-day upkeep matters and a good attempt at interior decorating will transform the inside into a thing of beauty, what makes a life strong and secure has little to do with wallpaper, paint colors, and a good solid cleaning. It is not the cosmetic fixes that hold up a life of faith, but what sits at its foundation.

I have a question for you, and it’s not an easy one. In fact, I want you to spend a few moments considering it, with as much honest self-reflection as you can muster:

If someone performed a home inspection on your life, what would they say about the foundation of it?

As much as I want to believe my foundation would prove sound, I’m not so sure. Any one of the following could be said to be my foundation:

  • A happy marriage
  • Whole and healthy children
  • Ministry and service
  • Hard work and determination
  • Financial security
  • Being a “good person”

Although this list might, at first glance, seem good or even noble, none were meant to be the foundation of a life. Every single one is sand, not a Savior. And if my life is built on these things, if my sense of security and hope is wrapped up in marriage, children, my own hard work, and a daily sense of happiness, all it will take is a storm in one area to take the whole thing down.

Why? None can save me. And not one will last.

As for God, his way is perfect:
The Lord’s word is flawless;
he shields all who take refuge in him.
For who is God besides the Lord?
And who is the Rock except our God?
It is God who arms me with strength
and keeps my way secure.
Psalm 18:30-32 (NIV)

Friends, there is nothing wrong with a life filled with family and ministry, service and kindness. Heaven knows this world could use a whole lot more simple goodness. But make no mistake: none of those things are strong enough to secure your life. You and I need a foundation bigger and stronger. And the good news is there is no Rock like our God.

 

Listen to and share Michele’s words below (or wherever you stream podcasts):

Thanking God in Advance While Waiting for an Answer

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For twenty-two years, I have listened to my dad end his prayers with the phrase, “And we’ll thank You for it, amen.” After respectfully bringing his requests to the Lord, he always closed with that phrase. Whether his familiar voice settled around the family dining table or floated to my back-row seat in the church auditorium, I marveled at his sincere and firm faith to thank God for His answer even before he received it.

During my junior year of college, I struggled with my own faith in God. That year I was given challenges and trials that seemed heavier than I could carry. I felt like I would just be beginning to stand from the battering of one trial, when another one would smack me back down, and I didn’t understand why.

Well-meaning friends would tell me, “Just have faith in God.” But that didn’t comfort me. In fact, it made me mad. I didn’t know what that phrase meant. I didn’t understand what this abstract faith was, and I didn’t know how to pray for it.

One night, I sat in a cold, echoing stairwell, talking to my mom on the phone. She quoted Scripture and gently tried to guide me back to the truth. Through hiccupping sobs, I said, “I don’t know if I believe that God is even real anymore.” I spent countless hours in that stairwell, debating if He cared or even existed. I fought scrappy, ugly battles with this idea of faith, and I never seemed to win.

As I struggled that semester, I read through the gospels several times, searching for an answer. I was angry at God for the things He kept throwing my way. I didn’t read the Bible with a tender heart, searching for comfort; I read them with an expectant attitude, demanding that Jesus explain Himself.

But because God is loving and far more patient with me than I deserve, He didn’t give up on me. One night, as I read my Bible by flashlight, I came across a passage about a desperate, frantic man, and I saw myself in him.

Jesus said to him, “‘If you can’? Everything is possible for the one who believes.” Immediately the father of the boy cried out, “I do believe; help my unbelief!”
Mark 9:23-24 (CSB)

When I read this hurting man’s cry, something resonated deep inside me. I realized that his cry echoed what I had been crying all along. I knew who God was, and I didn’t want to forget the belief that I had based my life on, but my faith was flimsy and fragile.

In the following verses, Jesus answers the man’s desperate prayer, proving that for Jesus to answer me, I didn’t have to have a lot of this faith that I didn’t understand but just an understanding that it existed.

These verses were my lifeline through the rest of the semester, and I clung to them desperately. When trials would press down on me, and I was tempted to feel bitter, I whispered those verses. I was still spiritually in deep waters, but I had something keeping me afloat that helped me finish the semester.

Once I was finally home, I heard my dad pray again at our dining room table. He named his requests, and he ended his prayer just like he always did:

“And we’ll thank You for it, amen.”

My heartbeat slowed, as I realized that was it. That was all of it. I couldn’t believe how simple it was. Faith was bringing my requests before God with the complete confidence that I would be thanking Him for His answer, no matter what it might be.

My dad trusted that God heard him, that God saw him, that God was already working on an answer. He trusted Him so much that he was already planning his prayer of thanks.

This realization gave my heart rest that it had never known. There was so much peace going from a stance of defiance and closed fists to one of surrender and open hands.

As I transfer from college into the “real world,” I still struggle with the trials and changes that God sends my way. But instead of getting furious at God and demanding that He change my circumstances, I am learning to bring my requests to God and leave them there. I am learning that faith is a surrendered heart — a heart that prays and thanks God while waiting for His answer.

This post was originally written by Abigail Conway for (in)courage in May 2019.

The Grace That Saves Is the Grace That Sustains

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As a young believer, I found myself corralling grace into a corner — by grace I have been saved. Conversion was the theological boundary of grace in my mind.  By it, I was adopted into God’s family and granted the future hope of heaven, but surely, the hard work — the blood, sweat, and tears — of living for Jesus depended on my strength and ability.

In writing to the Ephesian church, Paul understood the strong human desire to boast, but before he points out the sheer grace that saves all believers, he provides a stunning account of the spiritual blessings that we are granted in Christ — indeed, the grace of God extends far beyond only plucking us from hell!

In Ephesians 1, Paul sings praise to God for His grace in choosing us, redeeming us, adopting and forgiving us. He goes on, giving thanks for the grace of the Holy Spirit’s presence in us, the grace of growing in wisdom and knowing Christ. God’s grace not only saves us but also opens the door for us to know Christ with greater intimacy.

This is good news:  The grace of God that saved me once sustains me now.  Rather than patches of parched land, His grace covers the landscape of my life, and what a holy covering it is.

The beauty of God’s sustaining grace has moved off the pages of my theology textbooks and spread into every corner of my life. For the past few years, we have been losing my father to a disease that is slowly crippling both his body and his brain. This season of prolonged grief and loss continues to show me that grace is not just a divine response for help. As I care for my father, the gift of grace characterizes countless moments throughout my day.

Grace is the precious time I’ve been given with my dad in the face of death. Grace is the encouragement of friends when I’m confused and overwhelmed. Grace is a long peaceful walk, a smile from my dad, contagious laughter with my sister. God’s grace meets me in my tears and in my joy. His grace sustains me. His grace abounds.

With His sustaining grace, I know Jesus is near in the midst of pain and loss.

Yet in this sin-stained world, suffering can hold a commanding presence, and grace can seem more bitter than sweet. Believe me, what is being taken away from my father, from me, from our family, can feel like a greater injustice than the goodness that is coming about through this trial. The tension is strong: I am losing my father to an ugly disease while gaining precious time with him, moments of eternal significance. And this is where grace cuts in, and the presence of Christ becomes more real than ever. Christ may not eradicate this painful situation, but He has promised His presence and the comfort of His Spirit, come what may. Though loss lingers in our home, Christ covers us with His grace.

John celebrates this reality when he opens his gospel with a lyrical description of Christ’s incarnation.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth. For from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.
John 1:14, 16 (ESV)

In Jesus Christ, we receive boundless grace — grace that saves us and grace that sustains us. I am wholly undeserving of this gift, this grace that covers my life. I am left echoing Paul’s words to the Ephesians 1:14: all of this I have been given for the praise of his glory.  I can take no credit. I can make no boast. I can only give thanks to the One who is present with me in the pain and covers me daily with His grace.

For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.
Ephesians 2:8-9 (ESV)

This post was originally written by Christina Crawford for (in)courage in August 2019.

When Your Roots Are Slow to Grow

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I’ll admit it: I’ve cussed more than once over my gardening frustrations in Colorado. Planting in pots offers me great success, yet attempting to grow boxwoods or roses or carrots in the ground brings mostly failure. Our soil is stubborn yet sandy as can be, so planting directions include extensive aids. The prolific deer like to eat every green thing from the top downward, and they laugh — cackle! — in the face of “deer resistant” labels. Voles like to eat everything from below ground upward. We have hail storms that have turned my gorgeously growing plants into pathetic green shrapnel.

While all this may be true, it’s also true I won’t give up gardening. I’m committed to learning what works and what doesn’t. But gardening is just that: work. It simply takes a long time for roots to grow here.

On a similar note, I didn’t think I’d ever grow roots here in Colorado. I know that sounds ridiculous since in many ways, Colorado is dang near paradise. It’s beautiful in that jaw-dropping, mountain-majestic kind of way. I know countless people who grew up here before leaving for college or employment, but they eventually boomeranged right back to the Front Range. People spend thousands of dollars to vacation here. In the military community, Colorado is consistently one of the most highly coveted assignment locations.

When we moved here in 2010, courtesy of the US Air Force, we loved that several other friends lived here as well. So I wasn’t lonely in the same way I had been when we moved to places I knew no one outside my immediate family.

After my husband David retired from the US Air Force, we decided it was best for our family to stay here, and David took a civilian job in the local area. Given all the advantages of Colorado and our personal plans of staying put, I asked myself one question over and over: Kristen, what is your problem that you can’t feel at home here like everyone else? 

Part of that answer lied in the weather. While I like winter more than I used to, I’ll always tilt towards summer, and summers here are short. However, I knew this went deeper than a lack of warm weather. I just couldn’t get used to the idea that this was where we would likely live for the foreseeable future, even though my husband and kids were thrilled.

I wish this was the part of the story where I tell you a big shift occurred, where things miraculously changed and I immediately felt more settled in here. But I can’t. What I can tell you is I sensed God telling me all along the way that even if Colorado didn’t feel like home today, it was home. And it would eventually feel that way too. All I could do in response was to hang my feelings on that peg of faith by believing God meant it.

As I waited to feel like I belonged, I walked through my days doing what I could to affect what was in my control. I reached out to folks — a lot. I showed up at places other women were. My family and I opened up our home to share dinner, dessert, or coffee with other people. I prayed and asked for Jesus’s help a lot. I went outside not just when the weather was warm but also when it wasn’t. I read books, like Jennifer Dukes Lee’s Growing Slow, and I learned it often takes time to grow good things, and God works in powerful ways while I wait.

Slowly, surely, I started forming real connections with others. Not with every person with whom I engaged, mind you. But with enough that it helped me settle in more. I started to look forward to Colorado-specific events and happenings. One apple-crisp fall day, after eleven years of what felt like work through stubborn, sandy soil, I looked at our big, golden-leafed cottonwood at the end of our lane and realized with a little bit of shock, I don’t want to leave here. I said to David, “Ya know, this place feels like home.” And I meant it.

It was one of those moments when faith became sight.

This past summer, I invited a gardening expert out to our house to give me specific advice on what to plant where. At one point, I lamented to him that I thought I needed to move my lilac bush to a different location because it wasn’t really thriving.

He asked me, “When did you plant it?” I responded, “About two years ago.” He stooped down to look at the plant more closely. Looking up at me, he said, “It generally takes three years for plants to become established, if not a bit longer where we live. Think of it as ‘sleep, creep, then leap’ kind of progress. There is new growth on this lilac bush, and next year you will see a good deal more. I would leave it where it is.”

With spring still a little ways away, I can’t yet report if it will hold an explosion of lilac blooms. I’ve done what I can to nurture the plant, so I’m hopeful. But if it does need more time to grow roots before it takes off? No matter. Sometimes, it simply takes a long time for roots to grow for plants . . .

and people.

 

Listen to and share Kristen’s story below, or on your fave podcast player:

Releasing Ourselves From the Trap of “If Only” Thinking

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Recently, we cleaned out the garage and moved boxes up to the attic. I was tasked with sorting through them. I got sidetracked with a box of photo albums from the old days when we actually got pictures developed instead of just scrolling through Instagram. I thumbed through yellowed photos pasted into faux leather albums, remembering.

I’m often nostalgic for the past. I’ll think back to the times when life seemed more full of possibilities and less full of lived experiences. I’ll remember what used to be — before kids or marriage or sickness, before the mundane weariness of days where I am neither a world changer nor crisscrossing the globe as I’d once hoped. I didn’t accomplish half the things I dreamed of when I was the girl in the picture, tanned and smiling into the sunshine, unaware of what the next thirty years would hold.

Instead, I am a wife and a mother — someone who defrosts chicken for dinner and pays the mortgage. Someone who lathers on sunscreen because instead of that tanned girl in the picture, she now has wrinkles and age spots and skin cancer to consider. Someone who adds ground beef and paper towels to the grocery list and wakes up every day to do it all again.

Or I am a woman who pines for the future. Everything will be different once school starts so we have routine, once school is out for summer so I can rest, once I finish this to-do list, once I have more money or time or sleep, once I get well.

Some days, I have nothing but sorrow for what used to be or what might have been or what could be, if only.

Where is the balance between holy discontent and the desire to live a fuller, more robust faith? The kind of itchy passion that stirs things up and leaves us hungry and desiring more beauty, more wonder, more of Christ in our everyday? And the siren song that woos us with promises that our life would be so much fuller if only things weren’t so ordinary, so hard, so unspectacularly not what we had hoped for?

Sometimes I get stuck in the flux of that timeline, and I lose my place entirely. I wish I were as certain about things as I was in my twenties when everything seemed black and white and I dealt with the blows life dealt with a surety that the right faith and the proper theology could deflect. If I followed the rules, I’d pass go and collect $200. But I landed in the wrong spots again and again. I don’t really wish to play that game again because those were the years when I was so sure of myself, of my mind, of my own strength and abilities, of my turn to win, and so very unsure of God.

I was going to change the world, but really it’s me that needs changing. 

I’m confronted by the discontented soul of now. I want to unhinge the call to be content from my everyday and latch it onto better times, either to come or long past.

I don’t want the uncertainty of unanswerable things, of perseverance, of faithfulness to a present-day where I must abide — often with no solutions, often with no answers.

We wish for mountain-moving faith when instead we are an immovable stone, unwilling to be broken — because tumors grow, mouths go hungry, wailing children get ripped from their mother’s arms and replay in sound bites on the news, marriages fall apart, prodigals don’t return. Right now is hard.

But we prayed, Lord! And what do we do with faith when the answer doesn’t come back down the line from heaven with a resounding “As you have asked, it will be done”?

My faith’s been small, the kind that sits in the backseat not making a scene, the kind of faith that doesn’t want to be presumptuous. But these years, I’ve prayed with grasping hands and learned that the faith God builds happens now.

And that may be one of the hardest things of all. Because our obedience will always be more important than our effectiveness, and yet that’s not what we crave. It’s certainly not what I had hoped for all those years ago when I asked God to take my life and make it His. And yet, our lives being His requires that relentless release — not my will but Yours.

My day-to-day opportunity is to bear witness to God — right where I’m at, no matter what’s happening. Full stop. 

All I have is now. What has God tasked me with for today? What thanks can I give? What beauty can I behold? What grace can I share? What prayers can I pray? What injustice can I right? What forgiveness must I ask? What bitterness must I confess? What joy can I feel? What sorrow can I cast on Him? What faithfulness rests in my now with laundry to be done, bills to pay, and floors to mop? What is God’s strength when my kids have needs more than I can meet? How do I abide?

I’m letting go of “if only” and clinging to “What now, Lord?”

This article was originally written by Alia Joy for (in)courage in August 2019.

 

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My Farewell Is Not Goodbye Forever

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I was a Girl Scout back then, and my troop was at summer camp. At the end of every day, as the sun slipped behind massive mountains to the west, our camp director arranged us in a circle. Then, as the American flag was lowered, we sang farewell to another beautiful day:

Day is done . . . gone the sun,
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky;
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

“Taps,” as the song is often called, is the first farewell song I ever learned. So, when I hear it played at a military funeral — or sung at a scout gathering — the tears start to fall. Indeed, it’s tough as nails to say goodbye.

Yet that is what I’m doing here today. I’m saying goodbye, and in five decades of professional writing, it’s one of the hardest departures I’ve ever made.

First, I’m not a person who leaves — not casually. I’m still married to the same crazy, goofy guy after forty-six years when, at more than a few times, I might’ve said goodbye. I still live in the same house, on the same block, where I’ve lived for thirty years, next to the same wonderful neighbors I’ve had — most of them from the beginning.

I still live in the same metro area and state where I grew up, still co-own (with my same wonderful sister) our late parents’ same home, still know lots of the same amazing people, still have lots of the same friends, some known and loved since kindergarten.

Dan and I did leave our longtime church three years ago, but you can guess what happened. We went back. Our return, as we see it, was one of the best reversals we ever made.

Does that mean I fear a new thing? Not always. Still, I know this: I don’t pick up and leave easily. Life has to take an odd turn.

That turn came my way in recent months. After a short three years at (in)courage, where I’ve met all of you with your lovely and kind friendships, I hit a wall. Why? Not enough hours in the day.

One reason is that I don’t say no easily. So, my workload kept piling higher and deeper. Many of you may know that feeling.

With ongoing deadlines, I wrestled to keep up. I started my days earlier, ended my nights later, burned the candle at both ends while trying to look and act as if I wasn’t overloaded.

Just this morning, an editor at another ministry thanked me for my latest articles, three of them due to her last night, adding: “I don’t know how you do it all!”

My husband said those exact same words a few minutes later when he noticed an online ministry’s morning devotional was penned, yep, by me. “Great article, sugar pie. But I don’t know how you do it all.”

In fact, I don’t do it all. Sure, I try. With Christ, I’m grateful to make a humble contribution to His kingdom. But this pace takes its toll and something had to go.

But my (in)courage position? Oh, I tried hard to stay. This is a beautiful and encouraging ministry. I’ve been honored to be a part of it. I’ve written on hard things sometimes, and you didn’t ask me to leave. To be honest, I’ve loved seeing my photo included with the (in)courage team. There I was, lined up with some of the best, most courageous writers of faith in the world.

However, if I left, would I even be remembered? Would the community see me as an ungrateful interloper who bailed, not bothering to stay around for the long haul?

But I had to stop worrying about those things. The right question I needed to ask was, do I trust God? Do I believe I can leave and commit to doing fewer but still good things in Him, knowing He’s already in my tomorrows?

In answering those questions, I made the decision I knew I had to make. So, I ask for your kind farewell as I offer my goodbye today. Moving aside makes room for new voices. Doing so also points us, graciously, to Paul who closed his final biblical letter with this simple but lovely farewell:

The Lord be with your spirit. Grace be with you all.
2 Timothy 4:22 (NIV)

Moses, taking his leave, urged this:

Be strong and courageous . . . for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Deuteronomy 31:6 (NIV)

It’s Moses, in fact, who wrote the final words that I will share here as a regular (in)courage contributor. Given to Moses by our Heavenly Father, the words were meant to be shared with Aaron and his sons. Now, in farewell, I also share these words, in love, to each of you:

The Lord bless you
and keep you;
 the Lord make his face shine on you
and be gracious to you;
the Lord turn his face toward you
and give you peace.
Numbers 6:24-26 (NIV)

That may sound like a farewell, but as I wave so long, please accept it not as a closed door or a final goodbye but as a warm amen.

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Hope When You’re Waiting

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The single pink line on the pregnancy test mocks me from the bathroom counter: You’ll never be a mother. I drop it into the trash — along with my hope.

“God,” I whisper, “why does this have to be so hard?”

That scenario repeated itself for almost a decade of my life. I know what it’s like to wait for something that feels like it’s never coming, to ugly cry, yell into your pillow, fight the urge to give up. Maybe you’ve been there too? Maybe you’re there right now.

What I came to understand through that season is this: God can handle whatever we feel. The hard questions. The tough emotions. Our doubt and despair. Through it all, He’s still there.

With the help of His relentless love, my heart began to slowly, unexpectedly heal. One night at our church small group, just after I’d had a miscarriage, I couldn’t hold it together any longer. “I’m not okay,” I told them. Instead of being dismissed for being too emotional or rebuked for not having enough faith, I experienced comfort and acceptance — and it felt like coming in from the cold.

God also began changing my perspective on motherhood. One morning I read the third chapter of Genesis, where Eve is called “the mother of all living.” In that moment God seemed to whisper this truth to my heart: All women are mothers. Because all women bring life to the world in some way.

I realized I brought life into the world through my words. I birthed books. I was a mother.

Embracing that truth gave me new hope and helped fill the hollow space in my heart.

Years later I sat in my living room watching a documentary about kids who age out of the foster system. The narrator explained that when these children turn eighteen, they’re often simply told, “You’re on your own.” The story touched me deeply, and when people asked if we’d considered adoption, I started answering, “If I adopt, I’ll choose a twenty-year-old.”

One time when I gave that response, a friend of mine asked, “Have you heard of Saving Grace?” It turned out that a transitional living home for foster girls aging out of the system was being started right there in my town. I connected with the founder, and when I told her my dream, she didn’t look at me like I was crazy.

Life got busy and more years passed before I was invited to attend a banquet celebrating the accomplishments of the girls living at Saving Grace. God had impressed on my heart that my word for the next year of my life was love. And the night of the banquet I met my daughter: Lovelle.

How old was she? Twenty, of course. Lovelle and I had lunch together a few weeks later, and she asked me if I had kids. I gave her the short version, and before I left she said, “Well, you can just be my mom.” She met my husband, Mark, and slowly, over many months of building trust, we became a family.

Fast-forward to a few days ago. My granddaughter Eula races around her backyard. The world is full of color this afternoon — yellow dandelions, the pink polka dots on her shirt, the blue sky above. She points out her favorite things to me. “Bird! Wagon! Dommi [the dog]!” When she finally pauses to catch her breath, I find myself in a state of wonder. How did I end up in this moment?

I think back to a decade of infertility for Mark and me, a lifetime of difficulty for our daughter, and how God brought us all together. I think of Lovelle’s wedding day when she wore a white dress and danced with her dad. I think of being in the room when she gave birth, holding her hand and telling her again and again, “You are strong. You are brave. You can do this.”

I think of the first time I held Eula, how she looked at me with her wide, curious eyes — the same ones staring at me now. Almost seven years have gone by since we met Lovelle, and it feels as if we’ve always been a family.

During my infertility, I struggled with thinking that God’s timing must be off or that maybe circumstances in my life had somehow slipped out of His control. Maybe I wasn’t good enough for Him to answer my prayers. I cried in the bathroom, shouted in frustration, found it hard to pray sometimes. Where was God? Why wasn’t He doing what I wanted — and doing it now?

August 28 is the day we legally changed Lovelle’s last name to ours. We call it “Gerth Day” and celebrate it every year like a birthday. And what day was Eula born? August 28 — Gerth Day. When I held her for the first time, I knew deep in my soul that God’s timing had never been off. He had always been in control, and He had better plans than all my demands.

I don’t believe God caused my infertility. But I do believe that He is always working out His good plans for our lives, that there is so much more going on than what we can see with our eyes, that hope is a powerful thing, and that the desires of our heart will not go unmet — even if the answers to them look totally different than what we expect. We all go through seasons of waiting. We can’t determine what will happen next. But we can have hope because our story is not over. There’s still so much I don’t understand, but I know this: the Author is good, we are loved, and He alone holds the pen that gets to write “The End.”

This story was written by Holley Gerth, as published in the Create in Me a Heart of Hope Bible study.

What a powerful story of real, deep, raw hope. This piece appears in the new (in)courage Bible Study by DaySpring, Create in Me a Heart of Hope, available now for preorder. With stories like Holley’s woven together with scripture study by Mary Carver, our prayer is that our new Bible study will help you see the hope God offers each one of us.

We are SO excited to see how God will use it to speak to your heart. Sign up below to get a FREE full week of Bible study from Create in Me a Heart of Hope and order your copy today!

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