Your Cracks Will Not Kill You

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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God and Beauty — an Inseparable, Gentle Force

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I kept a rigid running clock of how many minutes I spent putting on makeup, listening to music, and scrolling through social media — hyperaware of each nanosecond I neglected to fill with prayer, Bible reading, or everything “Christian.”  

As an impressionable, perfection-driven teenage girl living with undiagnosed Intrusive Thought Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, my soul caved on itself the moment my Sunday School teacher made a bold, brass statement:  

“If you spend more time putting on your makeup than reading your Bible, that’s a sin.” 

I spent eight hours at school, three hours studying, two hours at volleyball practice, and one hour crying because I knew I’d have another eight hours of school the next day. A two-minute devotion was often the best I could do.

Following my Sunday School teacher’s agonizing statement, I assumed I was idolatrous — doomed to a merciless schedule that could never prioritize religious activities over academics, athletics, travel. . .anything. Even worse? My obsessive brain relentlessly fought the gnawing notion that I didn’t want to spend eight hours a day reading my Bible, praying, or discussing theology.  

A decade later, as a grown woman, I continued to quietly struggle with the lie that I was never giving God enough of my time, that I was always choosing errands or coffee breaks over my Savior. All those years hadn’t yet granted me wisdom on how to divvy my time so God could take top priority. Believing this lie, in turn, left me confined to a devastating, monotonous routine of feeling like God was always frustrated with me.

But then, at age twenty-seven, I discovered a subtle but wonderful crack in my rigid concept of God. And I found it in a sunrise.  

I’m a Georgia peach, born and raised, so most of my childhood sunrises were blocked by tall pine trees, their leafy green casting a merciful shadow on hot days. But after my husband’s job moved us to southern Colorado — a desert where no plant grows taller than a few feet — I had no choice but to notice the sun in all its morning glory.  

Each morning as I walked my dogs, I was overwhelmed by the tender lavender hues that spilled over soft clouds. Light yellows, baby pinks, and creamy blues draped a waning, weary earth. Gleams of bright light danced off the white snow-capped mountains.

God is beautiful, I finally thought, unable to break away from the awe and wonder as He continued to grace mankind with another twenty-four hours of life and breath.

God is beautiful.

Beauty cannot be separated from God, which means the harmony of violin strings and drum beats speaks of God’s perfect timing. It means eye shadow and mascara showcase the baffling intricacies of the eye…which He created. It means the Great Commission can be graciously fulfilled by the click of a few buttons, hashtagging the Gospel across the world.

God doesn’t require us to log each day’s activities, demanding that our “solely religious” pursuits account for more hours than all other activities and responsibilities. That’s not to say we should ignore Bible studies, skip over praise music, or neglect church attendance. We aren’t given such a grace to spend it so frivolously. However, we are welcomed to see that God invites us to find Him all the days of our lives — all the hours, minutes, seconds, and bits in between.

We can invite Him to coffee, listen for Him on our playlists, or seek His wisdom as we craft stories, paint pictures, or hunt for a new puppy to adopt.

He longs for us to see Him in the sunrise, in soulful music, in the art of blush and lip balm, in the hearts of those who connect with one another through a worldwide internet that holds no candle to the phenomena of God Almighty’s Son. He craves our attention in simple, innocent, daily ways. We aren’t pressed to memorize each Gospel word-for-word, but we are encouraged to carry the Gospel’s power and love into not only chapels but nail salons, ice cream shops, and tattoo parlors.

We are to find God’s beauty, no matter what we say or do, no matter where we go, and no matter the company we’re surrounded by. It’s there; it might be subtle, but it’s certainly not hiding. And as we notice His fingerprints dancing across all things pure, lovely, and righteous, our greatest calling is to whisper to others, “God is beautiful.”

The Powerful Practice of Remembering

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I have loved you with an everlasting love;
    I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.
Jeremiah 31:3 (NIV)

One of the most power spiritual practices is remembering. Over and over in Scripture, God calls His people to remember what He has done! To recall His faithfulness, to tell stories of His goodness to the next generation.

In the Old Testament, God’s people built alters of remembrance. In the New Testament, Jesus introduced the Eucharist — a way to commune with Christ and remember His work and on the cross.

Whether you are in a season of struggle or growth, whether God feels far away or close, your soul will be strengthened if you take time to remember God’s presence in your life.

When did you first know God’s love was real?
How has He pursued your heart?
What evidence of His love and kindness do you see in your life?

Take time today to dwell on these questions. And share a glimpse of your story in the comments. Let’s praise God for His everlasting love and unfailing kindness!

 

Learning to Trust God’s Calling on My Life

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“I feel like God is calling me to write,” I explain sheepishly. The rest of the pastoral staff look at me, puzzled. I had just announced that after seven years of being part of this ministry, I’d be moving back home to be near family and to be obedient to God in this new direction He was leading me and that I could no longer deny.

I felt awkward saying those words aloud because I had nothing to show for it. Aside from a few blog posts I’d written, I was calling something into being that I wasn’t even sure about. So I could understand why my colleagues were so puzzled. Some of them had known me for over a decade. They had watched me grow from an enthusiastic college student who had a passion for overseas missions and wanted to marry a pastor into a new stay-at-home mom who became the pastor.

I had always been so sure of my calling to be in church ministry. I was a missionary/pastor’s kid who had served in leadership positions since I was nine, with every skill and gift pointing to a life of ministry. It was what others saw in me and what I saw in myself, and I had no intention or desire to leave it. But it had become clear to me that God was closing that door in order to open a new one that led to mystery and wonder, doubt and a lot of puzzled looks.

I add, “Like on the internet, a blog maybe . . .” My voice trails off, unsure of where it’s headed. And though they—and even I—don’t understand what it all means, we nod together in silence. I want to hide in a hole and forget that I even heard God to begin with.

I second-guess this new calling. I wonder why and ask God again, “Are You sure?” Like Gideon, who questioned and pleaded with God for signs over and over, I beg Him to make it clear.

How could I be called to lead with my words? Throughout my education, my writing was always mediocre at best, and I despised academic essays. I was a hands-on, practical-application type of person, not a philosopher or a scholar. Who was I to think that my thoughts mattered or that I even had the skills to write them?

I position these facts before the Lord, making a case for why He’s got the wrong person. I tell Him I’ll be making a fool of myself—and maybe Him too—if I go down this path. I point out how there are already plenty of talented, well-known people doing the same work, so what good would I be?

He listens to my argument—patient and willing to show me again that He means what He says, that He can give new gifts, new skills, new dreams. In my Bible reading, the story of Bezalel in Exodus 31:1–5 catches my attention. God fills him with His Spirit and gives him great wisdom, ability, and expertise in all kinds of crafts. He is anointed to become an artist and entrusted to create beauty in the tabernacle, the dwelling place of God.

That’s when I realize I’m not actually thinking little of myself but little of God. If He created the world by speaking it into being, how different was that from what He was doing in my life? God’s creative word is powerful, and filling us with His Spirit is a guarantee that He will carry out what He says He will do. Our gifts, like those of Bezalel, are meant to highlight God’s genius and bring others into His presence. So embracing our gifts, whether newly discovered or slowly uncovered, is not arrogance but humbly trusting that God knows what He’s doing.

Even if it starts with the smallest inkling, even if you and others can’t make sense of it, God’s calling on your life isn’t silly or meant for someone else. He wants to make Himself known uniquely through you.

God, in my limited logic, I often make too little of You. Forgive me for putting You in a box and for dismissing Your word to me when I feel unqualified. You are mysterious, and that isn’t something to be afraid of. Thank You that I can trust You and that You entrust me with gifts that will help others experience You. Amen.

This article was written by Grace P. Cho, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

An Incredible Story of Heartache Turned Hospitality

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Nestled in the woodland of Minuteman National Park in Lincoln, Massachsuetts is an old home. It is brown with white trim on the windows, low ceilings and a fairly simple layout. You can walk through and sense the simplicity of the space, but its history is complicated.

The building is called Hartwell Tavern, owned by the Hartwell family in the 1700’s right before and during the Revolutionary War. Ephraim and Elizabeth Hartwell were married and had five children when suddenly, in 1740, an illness struck the house, claiming the lives of all of their children in a matter of two weeks. The children ranged in age from eleven months to nearly seven years old. Within fourteen days, all five children had perished. Their presence was gone; their voices were silenced. The loss of one child would be horrific enough, but to lose them all? I cannot imagine the heartache.

I wonder if the Hartwell family felt cursed or forgotten. How could they even manage to make eye contact with their neighbors? What would this mean for the child in Elizabeth’s womb who was on the way, suddenly an only child?

Standing inside that old home, listening to park rangers share this tragic tale more than once, my heart feels so very heavy. I wonder what I would do if I was faced with that kind of tremendous loss. And as I continue to hear the story of the Hartwell family, I am shocked to hear what comes next: they started again.

Over the next thirteens years, they had eight more children, five of which were named the same names as those they’d lost to continue their legacy. Over and over again, they mourned and they raised a new family.

I am certain there were days and nights of absolute despair and hopelessness in the Hartwell home. But as time went on, they didn’t let their sorrow cut them off from the world. Instead, they turned their house into an Inn & Tavern, welcoming those who were traveling between Lexington and Concord. And when the British were coming and Paul Revere and his companions needed to get the word out to the town in the middle of the night? They went to Hartwell Tavern. Why? Because in the years since that wave of losses, they had become the heart of the community. They’d built a family, built a business, and represented hospitality to those on the road. And because of this? Word spread to the necessary people who could defend against the British and begin the Revolution.

Historians call Ephraim and Elizabeth both haunted and heroic for their contributions to the community. And that just catches in my chest because isn’t that how we all feel when we’ve been dealt a rough hand? I wonder if the Hartwells felt stuck int the haunted, if starting over again ever felt deeply impossible.

When we have loss in life, Scripture reminds us to check our perspective on what is temporary.

That is why we never give up. Though our bodies are dying, our spirits are[a] being renewed every day. For our present troubles are small and won’t last very long. Yet they produce for us a glory that vastly outweighs them and will last forever! So we don’t look at the troubles we can see now; rather, we fix our gaze on things that cannot be seen. For the things we see now will soon be gone, but the things we cannot see will last forever.
2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (NLT)

Indeed, Jesus Himself was super clear on what this life would hold and the hold He has on our future. “I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

In the face of our tragedy, trial, and sorrow, we have the chance to take a step forward, one after the other, believing there’s something else on the other side of the slow rebuilding.

That’s what the Hartwells did. Their willingness to rebuild their life and invite others in signaled to the community that their home was a place to be trusted. Grief was always part of their legacy, but it unfolded and opened doors and built warm fires and welcomed others in.

It’s a miracle when we see our heartache turn to hospitality, and it’s even more beautiful when it brings freedom to others.

 

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Three Smart Things You Can Do When You Really Don’t Know What to Do

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Have you ever been confused about what to do or paralyzed with indecision because it seemed that you had limited, poor, or no options at all? At some point in our lives, most of us discover what it’s like to be stuck between rocks and hard places; the ordinary but complicated challenges that remind us how little control we actually have.

I’ve found myself in this position at significant crossroads in life, in matters related to health, work, and particularly, it seems, within the context of relationships (parenting, family, and/or friendship). A few examples immediately come to mind—

  • When we were faced with having to live abroad two additional years or walk away from what had seemed like a dream job for my husband
  • The time I suspected (without proof) that one of my children was playing with “fire” and I needed to build a bridge to their heart, not trigger them to lie or completely shut down
  • When I had to navigate emotionally-charged waters among family members who didn’t always agree during my father’s heartbreaking last year of life

Thankfully, through the Holy Spirit’s transformative work, experience can become an incredible teacher. And, isn’t it so true that what we’ve learned from life’s greatest challenges can often equip us to serve and minister to others? This is why living in community is so important — we need each other when life gets hard.

Here’s what else I’ve learned: Before you find yourself struggling, it also helps to prepare with what you can do when you have no idea what to do. True, you can’t exactly prevent life sometimes going off the rails, but I’ve found a few practices that have helped free me from the pinch and pressure of those rocks and hard places:

1. Pray. I know you know this – we all knowknowKNOW this! – so why is prayer too often our last resort rather than our first response? When we don’t pray, fear can creep in, worry becomes our master, and we end up thinking or talking about our problems instead of actually praying. My wise friend Margaret Ann said something years ago that stuck with me: “If you can fret, you can pray!” This has prompted me to pray when I’m tempted to worry or only talk about the things I’m wrestling with.

When we pray, our circumstances may not change, but God hears, responds, and might even change us. It’s powerful and sobering to consider that sometimes painful or difficult circumstances is a means God can use to get our attention. Thankfully, we can always trust that when He is at work, it is always for our good and His glory. I wonder how much our lives would change if prayer was always our first response?

2. Seek counsel from proven and trusted resources. Scripture and your church’s leadership (not just your pastor) are good places to start. Who are the people who tell you what you need to hear versus what you want to hear? Who will point you to Truth, encourage you from a biblical perspective, and remind you of the goodness of the Gospel? Who has walked in similar shoes? Pursue “older and wiser” godly women whose vast life experience will be a treasure in friendship.

However, encouraging you to seek counsel comes with a strong caution: be careful and discerning about the voices who are speaking into your life and circumstances. We’re living in a post-Christian culture that is increasingly challenging the truth of God’s word. Scripture is reliable but people are not (even when their intentions are good), and popularity isn’t equal to trustworthiness. Always remember that just because a Christian influencer, author, or speaker says something, doesn’t mean it’s true.

3. Seek to understand before needing to be understood. This has become one of my guiding life principles, and I’ve found it especially important in marriage, parenting, and friendship. It even has application in work and ministry — truly whenever other people are involved. It’s a life philosophy that aligns with Philippians 2:3-4:

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.

When I get this in the right order, it makes all the difference in the world. When I get it out of order? When I demand to be understood, when I think about my own interests first, relationships are fractured, walls are constructed, and it’s much harder to recover.

What a grace that when we really don’t know what to do, there are simple but wise steps we can take to move in the right direction. I don’t know what’s going on in your world today, but chances are good that you are struggling with how to respond to a difficult situation right now. God sees you, friend. He’s an ever-present help in our times of trouble, the giver of perfect encouragement precisely when we need it the most.

 

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Sometimes You Just Need to Trust the Process

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A few months ago, I invited my friend to join me for a pottery class at a new local studio for her birthday present. We both love to try new things and were intrigued by the experience of using a potter’s wheel to create something out of clay.

When we arrived at the class, the teacher gave us step-by-step instructions. We each sat down behind a wheel while she passed out a ball of clay to each student. Our first task was to slam the clay down in the center of the wheel to get it to stick. Then we were to wet a small sponge and soak the clay. 

Our teacher encouraged us to gently nudge the pedal to get the wheel spinning. With wet hands, we learned to center and cone the clay. Coning helps to mix the clay and work out inconsistencies or air bubbles before shaping it. We used our fingers to lift the clay into the cone shape and then our palms to push it down again. 

Once the cone was centered well, the teacher showed us how to smooth and shape the clay into a flat disk. She said to make it look like a mini flan. (She had me at flan. Hello, one of my favorite desserts!)

The process of forming clay on the wheel was longer and harder than it looks.

The trick was to keep adding water to keep the clay supple and moldable. We pressed, pulled, and pinched until that ball of clay eventually became a bowl or vase. 

Metaphors for life abound in the pottery studio.

A few times, the teacher came over, stuck her hands in front of me, and started to work with my clay. At first, I wanted to take control of the clay myself. I wanted to learn by doing it myself. But soon I realized the value in surrendering to her expertise. In fact, I learned a lot from watching my teacher and her techniques.

The first surprising lesson was that it requires lots of water to make a clay pot on a wheel. Clay is naturally hard and heavy, but water makes it workable. 

Our souls are much the same. We need consistent hydration. We need the living water that only Jesus offers. On our own we are heavy, brittle; we are dust. With Jesus’s living water, we are malleable clay. The very same water that He offered the Samaritan woman at the well has the power to transform us from the inside out (John 4:13-14 NLT). He is our Thirst-Quencher when we are parched, our Teacher when we lack technique, our Shepherd when we need a gentle guide. 

In the pottery studio, I also learned that pushing on the pedal to speed up the wheel does not actually make the work go faster. I had to be slow, deliberate, and intentional if I wanted to make a beautiful bowl.

It turns out in pottery-making, as in life, you have to trust the process. It’s rare that someone would sit down at a pottery wheel and make something perfect on the first try. Oftentimes the clay needs to be reworked, reshaped, and reimagined.

This brings to mind the story where God sends the prophet Jeremiah to the potter’s house to show him something important He wants to relay to the people:

Go down to the potter’s shop, and I will speak to you there. So I did as he told me and found the potter working at his wheel. But the jar he was making did not turn out as he had hoped, so he crushed it into a lump of clay again and started over. Then the Lord gave me this message: “O Israel, can I not do to you as this potter has done to his clay? As the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand.”
Jeremiah 18: 2-6 (NLT)

God uses this visual to remind the people that He is the Master-Potter, molding them like clay. He calls them back to repentance and rest in Him.

The prophet Isaiah uses a similar metaphor of clay and Creator:

“What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator.
Does a clay pot argue with its maker?
Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying,
‘Stop, you’re doing it wrong!’
Isaiah 45:9 (NLT)

These verses remind us that the Potter can do whatever He wants with the clay. He can push out our inconsistencies, transform our too-jagged edges, and smooth us to symmetry. It might feel uncomfortable or too-long in the waiting, but we are not to resist His design work. We are to submit to His molding and making, and behold His creative process embodied in us. 

After the class, our teacher fired our creations in the kiln — a hotter-than-hot oven — to set them. When it was done, I traced my finger along the smooth edges of my bluish-teal bowl. I held it with a quiet sense of pride because it wasn’t fancy, but it was my creation.

That little bowl sits on my bathroom counter now, holding some of my favorite jewelry pieces. It’s a sweet reminder that God is the Potter, and we are but dust mixed with water in His heart-shaped hands. 

For weekly encouragement to discover God’s glory on life’s unexpected trails, subscribe to Dorina’s Glorygram here or follow her on Instagram.

 

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Will You Be a Flamethrower or a Fire Extinguisher in the Dumpster Fire of Internet Comments?

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Several weeks ago, I opened my Instagram feed and noticed some weird activity on a video I had posted many months earlier. Forty-six thousand likes! Have I been hacked? As I clicked on the post, I realized that a fifteen-second video I had made of our neighborhood’s summer block party had unexpectedly gone viral. Wow! This is cool.

The video wasn’t anything special. Just a quick pan of the street from my front porch. Neighbors gathered around folding tables we had set up in the street and kids roamed in packs like happy wild animals. It was my attempt to share a glimpse of our neighborhood magic, and I wrote a quick caption with tips and encouragement to help others engage their neighbors too.

With over two million views, this was obviously striking a chord with people. Again, my first reaction was, “How cool!”

Except it wasn’t all cool.

Most of the comments rolling in were from complete strangers. Some of them were encouraging, but as the video went more viral, the comments became anonymous and cutting. For the next several days I had to be really vigilant to delete spammy comments like “DM me and I’ll send you $3,000 tomorrow!” and biting comments like “Must be nice to live in an all-white neighborhood.” My gut reaction was to spew back defensively that my husband is the first Filipino homeowners association president the neighborhood has had and that my Asian kids are the ones on the scooters there to the left. I want to point out Ms. Christina, who goes to the Asian market and brings us special candies and tiger balm every week.

But as I scrolled through nasty comments and messages about our neighborhood, our race, our demographic, all the unimportant and untrue things being assumed as fact on a post that was meant to stir up kindness, I realized I had to decide how I wanted to treat this dumpster fire.

I could defend myself and add fuel to the blaze. Or I could take a beat and let my pause extinguish the flames.

It seems like more and more, anytime we open our phones and computers, we see someone’s extreme opinions about the latest hot topic — which appears to be almost everything. What a time to be alive, when you can communicate your inner thoughts to pretty much anyone with the click of a Send button!

Chances are you’ve also experienced this phenomenon of the unfiltered response.

I miss not being anxious about relational stress as we approach yet another election year, yet another global health issue, yet another this side versus that side. And before I can even formulate language to describe this anxiety, my body responds for me: I wear my shoulders as earmuffs. My breath quickens. I wince. My brow furrows, blood rushes to my cheeks, my stomach hurts. If you watch the news or have social media or talk to a neighbor, you probably know what I mean.

I close the computer and think about it all day. And “it” isn’t just my video gone viral. It’s all the backhanded comments and jumping to false assumptions. It’s the tearing down and creating us-versus-them categories for every possible issue. It’s using our words as weapons and calling it normal. It’s all of it.

I can’t help but think, I wish she hadn’t mentioned that. I wish he hadn’t said it in that way. They make me so mad. Why are people like this? Why can’t we just stop treating each other like this?

And let me say, when I’m about to actively run into an argument after reading Cousin Fred’s entire comments section in his latest fire-breathing post, I instead take a deep breath and consume truth that comes from a living and active God. A God who loves me but isn’t afraid to ask me to check my perspective.

So I pray, I am the problem. Forgive me, Lord, for wanting to murder this person with my words, for believing I am more worthy of Your gift of grace than he is. Give me the supernatural power to love someone I think of as my enemy. I can’t do this on my own.

As believers, we should be people marked not by fear, hatred, or murderous words but by peace. We should desire unity instead of actively seeking out division with our words. We should have the markings of self-control and love, not unbridled tongues that have the power to set the world on fire (see James 3:5–6). I don’t know if I really believed that until the last couple years, but haven’t we all witnessed the destruction caused by our tongues and how they hold the power of life and death?

We each have personal accounts of our own fractured relationships and devastating losses. But lest this all start to feel a bit depressing, we actually do have great hope. Jesus tells us, “I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 ESV).

Hear Jesus speaking it to you: “In Me you may have peace. Take heart.” Notice how your body responds to the truth. It’s quite different from scrolling through a social media feed. Maybe, if you’re like me, your shoulders come down and your breath slows. As the words of Scripture settle into my heart, I can see things more clearly: We are too quick to scroll conversations and comment threads and assume we are the only ones who know the correct path. But God is our Good Shepherd. He actively searches to bring us back to Himself, reorient our hearts toward Him, and give us the peace of His guidance, care, and protection — even from ourselves.

We are not on our own when we face difficult circumstances and interactions or when we have to navigate complex relationships and complicated feelings. When we see ourselves and others with the right perspective, we remember that our words, whether written in a comment or spoken out loud, have the power to attest to a better word: God is our only hope in this world. And what good news that it doesn’t rest on our human shoulders!

Ask yourself: Where am I tempted to use my words to tear down or divide instead of to build up and bring peace?

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.

 

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When You Think You Have Nothing in Common

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A couple years ago my family took a long road trip. At the time, my husband and I were so at odds that I was terrified of having so many hours together, in a van, with nothing to distract us from each other and our differences. We’ve never had an easy marriage, but politics and a pandemic had pushed us further apart than we’d ever been — far enough that I wondered if we could ever bridge the gap again.

To remove the opportunity for arguments or awkwardness, I looked up “couple conversation starters” and saved them on my phone. I downloaded a kids podcast that would, at the very least, entertain our girls and give us something neutral to talk about. And I begged God to please, please help us keep the peace and even enjoy our time together. All my preparation worked for a while but inevitably one of us would step on a conversational land mine that led to whisper-shouting at each other or sitting in frustrated silence.

But then we drove by a small town, and we both noticed a row of houses sitting very close to the highway. Our eyes met, confused and amused. Almost in unison, we both exclaimed, “Why on earth would you build your house so close to the highway?! I would never!”

We laughed, and I breathed deeper. I found a country music station on the radio and relaxed a bit as we began to sing along.

Now, clearly, our similar views on house-to-highway proximity and our shared love of Garth Brooks didn’t resolve all our issues. In fact, those issues are still present today, though they’re not quite as sharp or strong. But realizing that we still had some things in common — even if they were the smallest things — was enough to shift my perspective and my attitude. It also created momentum, prompting me to look for and remember other, more significant things we still shared; a start to healing some of the rift between us.

It reminded me of a song called, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” In this song, a couple is close to breaking up as they realize they no longer have anything in common. But then they remember how they both loved the classic movie and that one detail changes the tone of the conversation.

“Well, that’s one thing we’ve got.” This last line of the chorus is so hopeful to me, as if it’s a place to start again. We’ve got this one thing; surely we can find or create others.

When we’re at odds with family, friends, co-workers, or neighbors, finding one thing in common can truly change the tone of a conversation and even the direction of the relationship. Sharing something, anything at all, can relax our posture into something a little less defensive and a little more welcoming. It can give us a pathway back to one another, refreshing our affection and even respect for one another.

Unless we can do this, we’ll continue growing apart. We’ll keep believing the other person is in complete opposition of everything we are and believe in. We’ll fail to trust them, we’ll refuse to respect them, and our love for that person will become withered and weak. And then what?

At that point, will we be able to change their mind about the thing we’re disagreeing about? Will our disappointment and disgust convince them our way is the better way? In a relationship that damaged or distant, are we able to show them God’s light and love?

No, no, and no.

In Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth, he says he is “all things to all people” (1 Corinthians 9:22 CSB). The context of this statement is that he’s defending his lifestyle choices and the sacrifice of some of his rights to the Corinthians, explaining that each of these decisions has been an effort to connect with people who need the good news of Jesus. He attempts to be as least offensive as possible to each person he hopes to help. Therefore, he says, he becomes all things to all people.

For a long time I felt Paul’s approach was deceitful or even weak. Why would he pretend or simply give into what other people want him to be or do or say? Be yourself, Paul! But Paul wasn’t not being himself. He was simply putting aside his own wants and needs for a bit in order to find common ground with people he wanted to connect with. As a matter of fact, the New Living Translation puts it exactly in those words!

I try to find common ground with everyone, doing everything I can to save some.
I Corinthians 9:22

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t trying to save my husband in the story I shared. But in a way, rediscovering common ground and choosing to plant ourselves there has saved our relationship. And I wonder if it might help you with some of the hard relationships in your life.

Think about that coworker who criticizes you in front of the boss. Or that neighbor who flies a giant, offensive flag in their yard — or just lets their dog do its business in everyone else’s yard! Think about your aunt who rants on Facebook or your friend whose parenting choices are always the exact opposite of yours.

Can you find common ground? A football team you both root for? An appreciation for cat videos? A crispy hotdog and gooey s’mores around the fire pit? An old band or new movie? The color turquoise or Taylor Swift’s new album or the coffee shop downtown? Can you find something and then linger there? Begin there? Build from there?

It’s true that some people grow apart and some relationships end. But for the ones that still have common ground somewhere underneath the rubble of conflict and pain, healing can take place and good can be done.

Let’s commit to finding — and standing on — common ground.

 

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