A Life That Stands No Matter the Storms

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.

 

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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.

 

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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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You Have a Story to Tell

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There’s a game I like to play, and it never fails to catch people by surprise. Here’s how it works: I invite someone to grab coffee and once we’ve found a comfortable seat, our hands wrapped around a cup of something delicious, I look into their eyes and say these words: “So, what’s your story?”

Almost every time, they hesitantly respond, “My story? What do you mean exactly?” I then offer to go first, to share with them the pages God has given me to live, and for the record, I don’t sugarcoat a single thing. By the time I finish, I can see the relief in their eyes — not because I have masterfully woven together life experiences into a beautiful story but because I’ve been honest, I’ve shown the mess of it all, and I’ve dared to say that the scars that remain are signs of His grace. My tests have truly become my testimony, my mess turning into my message.

After I finish the telling, I turn it over and ask again, “Will you tell me your story?” And this time, instead of uncertainty or panic, there is peace. You become a safe place when you share your story, both the broken and the beautiful, with another.

And so they begin, and every time I’m in awe of the broken-off pieces and the jagged scars from the hurting places — not because they’re messy but because His grace is enough for us all, running in and washing over, healing and mending, changing and cleansing.

We’ve all walked roads that have battered and bruised, wounding us deep. We each carry scars. I used to hide mine, the one on my head from brain surgery and the ones on my heart from the times community walked right out. But not anymore. I’m learning that scars tell the stories of battles fought and won, of fears conquered and dreams chased, of mighty healing and of Jesus meeting us in the dry valleys.

Your scars tell your story, and although you are more than your past, more than what you have experienced, gone through or done, every moment has been used to shape you into a new creation, redeemed and made whole, holy and blameless in the eyes of Him who sees your scars, your burnt places, and your struggles to join Him and walk on water.

Too often we compare our beginning to someone else’s middle, our behind-the-scenes to someone else’s highlight reel. It’s easy to get caught up in comparing our painful places to someone else’s promised land, forgetting that we’re still journeying and we can trust the unknown of the future to the God we know is authoring its pages.

Every sentence He writes is written with the purpose of pointing people to the Friend who is always walking with us. We’re invited to live and tell our stories, giving Him all the glory. Paul said it this way in 2 Corinthians:

We don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside, and what we see is that anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life burgeons! . . . God has given us the task of telling everyone what he is doing. We’re Christ’s representatives. God uses us to persuade men and women to drop their differences and enter into God’s work of making things right between them. We’re speaking for Christ himself now: Become friends with God; he’s already a friend with you.
2 Corinthians 5:16-20 (MSG)

We have been given the task of telling everyone what God is up to in our lives. He has given us a story to live, and it may have twists and turns, roads we would rather not walk, and ampersands (in-between seasons) we would prefer to hurry through to the other side, but He calls us to speak from those places and glorify Him on every page, daring to say He is beautiful and true, loving and kind, no matter what story the next page may tell.

This is an excerpt from Even If Not: Living, Loving, and Learning in the in Between by Kaitlyn Bouchillon. If you’re facing a chapter in your story you wouldn’t have chosen, you’ll find encouragement and hope in Even If Not.

 

Listen to Kaitlyn’s story below, or wherever you stream podcasts:

Chocolate Cake and Giving What You Have

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I sat at my kitchen desk on a Monday morning, hunched forward, concentrating on an email. (My computer posture leaves much to be desired.) It was a full day of meetings and managing projects; I was trying to maximize every minute. I glanced at the clock — twelve minutes until my next online appointment. In the midst of my mental flurry of deciding which item on my to-do list could be tackled in twelve minutes, I thought about my neighbor.

It had been a couple weeks since I’d seen her. I know that consistency is key when growing a new friendship. I didn’t want too much time to pass before reaching out again, but as I looked at my calendar, I just didn’t see where I could squeeze in a coffee date anytime soon.

That’s when I saw the chocolate cake.

My aunt and uncle had come over the night before and brought one of those delicious, super moist, chocolate bundt cakes from Costco. It’s so big and rich we only made a small dent in the dessert. And the thought came to me, “I could take a piece of cake to Christel.”

I’ve been on a journey of looking for simple ways to live out intentional kindness. Through that, I’ve learned the importance of embracing the power of now. The power of now is about taking immediate action. It’s so easy to say, “Oh, that’s a good idea. I’ll get it to later when I have more time or more energy or more [fill in the blank],” but then never do it.

Hesitation often causes good intentions to fall by the wayside of inaction.

I now had ten minutes left so I got up and cut a big slice of chocolate cake. I put it in a disposable plastic container and grabbed a pretty napkin I had leftover from a party. I walked across the street and rang Christel’s doorbell.

“Good morning!” she said, opening the door.

“Hi! I was thinking about you today. I had some chocolate cake, and I just wanted to pop over and bring you a slice.”

Her beautifully wrinkled face lit up.

“Oh, what a wonderful surprise! I will enjoy this so much. Thank you!”

I hugged my neighbor and walked back home, sharing her smile. I got back to my desk just in time for my next meeting. Delivering chocolate cake wasn’t on my to-do list, but I couldn’t have chosen a better way to use my twelve minutes.

I share this story as much for my own heart as for yours today, friend, because we’ve got to remember kindness doesn’t have to be flashy or elaborate to make a big difference. Making this mental shift has made all the difference!

I used to think that to show someone I cared I had to go all out. That a kind gesture needed to reflect a lot of time or money or be Instagram-able in order to be truly meaningful. But guess what? People just long to be thought of. People just long to be seen and cared for.

I didn’t spend hours baking a cake. I didn’t even buy the cake! I simply looked at what I had and saw an opportunity to share it and bless another.

Another thing that used to hinder me from embracing the power of now and offering simple kindness was the plague of what-ifs. They might sound like this: What if she doesn’t like chocolate? What if she’s allergic to gluten? What if she’s not home? What if she feels nervous about germs and sharing food? We can easily “what-if” ourselves out of simple kindness.

Here’s what we have to remember: God calls us to love in action! Ten times Scripture reminds us of the second greatest commandment, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” And there’s no shortage of explanations of what that looks like! For example, 1 John 3:16-18:

We know what real love is because Jesus gave up his life for us. So we also ought to give up our lives for our brothers and sisters. If someone has enough money to live well and sees a brother or sister in need but shows no compassion — how can God’s love be in that person? Dear children, let’s not merely say that we love each other; let us show the truth by our actions.

We are responsible for our obedience — God is responsible for the outcome! Even if Christel didn’t like chocolate cake and took my gift straight to the trash, I would have still done my part and she would still know that she was thought of.

What do you already have today that you could share with someone to show your love? Here are six simple ideas:

  1. Drop off an extra portion of soup or leftovers from dinner to a friend who is sick.
  2. Cut flowers from your yard or pick fruit from tree and take them to a neighbor.
  3. Spend ten minutes between tasks texting someone to tell them you love or appreciate them.
  4. Pack an extra snack for a friend or coworker.
  5. Ask a friend if you can pick up something for them at the store you’re already going to.
  6. Clean out your closet and think about who might be blessed by the items you no longer need.

Kindness doesn’t have to be complicated. If all you’ve got is twelve minutes and leftover cake, give it joyfully. The same God who made much of five little loaves and two fish can make much of exactly what you have too.

Learn more about how every small kindness makes a big impact in Becky’s new book, The Simple Difference, and in the Courageous Kindness Bible study!

Paying Attention to My Sadness

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I sat down to write to you today, friends, and all I can think of to tap out on the keys is that I am so sad. There’s just no other way to put it, and it seems there’s no way to shake it. This week, it’s been one thing after another, and maybe it’s because I’m worn down and exhausted after being up with a teething toddler for more nights in a row than not, but with every new hit I just feel more sadness.

The news coming out of Ukraine makes me deeply, immensely, grievously sad.

Seeing racism alive and well makes me sad.

Waking up with a cold makes me sad.

I think a friend of mine is mad at me — sad.

One of my kids got their feelings hurt at school — sad.

Overwhelmed at the state of my messy house, my overflowing laundry pile, my never-ending task list, and when I think about all of it, I’m sad.

The disintegration of my volunteer group at church — sad.

Friends falling prey to misinformation and conspiracy theories — sad.

Scrolling (which becomes doomscrolling, really) in hopes of pictures of kids and pets, but instead seeing images of war and arguments in comment threads — sadness, in and through the posts and my heart.

Watching a beloved family member’s umpteenth hospitalization and knowing there is currently no diagnosis or cure for their ailment breaks my heart with sadness.

Realizing how long it’s been since life felt “normal,” and knowing it could be in a process of becoming a new kind of normal feels sad.

Sigh.

And I wonder, are you feeling it too? A deep sadness, grief, or pain in a situation, or just processing the world right now?

You’re not alone. I’m here, sitting with you.

And you know, it’s not all a downer, even though it is all sadness.

Hear me out.

When I’m stuck in a cycle of sadness, as I am right now, I am able to do a few things to continue slogging through it. (Caveat: my sadness is not clinical, but situational. If sadness, depression, and/or anxiety permeates your life and is a permanent part of you, please seek or continue with professional treatment. God works through medication as He does meditation, and therapy can be an answer to prayer.)

First, I wallow. Yep. I let myself feel the sad waves as they roll and crash over my soul. I cry. Sometimes I holler about it, whatever “it” is. I dig into my chocolate stash. I take long, hot showers and sob. And I listen to sad, old songs. I don’t stay here forever, but it’s okay to feel our feelings. And so I let it linger for a little while.

Next, I share. I talk to my husband. I voice message my sisters and best friends. I write in a journal. (Apparently, I tap it all out on a keyboard here to you! I invite others into the pain I’m sitting in, and I can trust that they will sit with me for a while. These are not people who are new to my heart and life; these are my true-blue, soul-deep partners. They know it’s not their job to fix the sad; it’s their job to sit beside me, to share the load.

Finally, I pay attention to my sadness. I get to the point of processing, and I dive in. What is my sadness telling me about my own heart? What is it telling me about God’s heart? What can I glean from feeling plain old sadness? How can I use my sadness to be a better friend, wife, sister? How can my sadness drive me to action? How can I help?

When I pay attention to the sadness, it’s much harder to ignore it and stay stuck in it. Paying attention, naming the feelings, and processing the pain can propel me to discovery and action. Jesus was a man of sadness-propelled action — sometimes with a little anger thrown in for good measure. Think of when He found sisters Mary and Martha weeping at the death of their brother Lazarus. The siblings were all friends of Jesus, and He wept at Lazarus’s death.

Then He raised Lazarus back to life — commanded him to get up, and Lazarus walked right out of that tomb, still wrapped in the grave cloths. It’s an incredible story of compassion, love, and Jesus’ sadness turned to action.

He wept. And then He got to work.

Friends, we know we can’t raise the dead. But sometimes because of our sadness, we can bring figurative dry bones back to life. We can turn our sadness into phone calls and emails, fighting for those who don’t have a seat at the table. We can turn our sadness into helpful donations of our time and our treasures. We can turn our sadness into delivering a meal or doing a load of laundry for a struggling friend. We can turn our sadness into caring conversations and caring for ourselves.

Our sadness can drive our actions. My church has a motto about doing just this: God’s work. Our hands.

May our sadness carry our hearts and hands into deeper, richer, caring work. May the pain of our sadness deepen our empathy. And with every tear shed in our sadness, may we learn more about the heart of God.

Surprising Grace for the Hurting: Jesus Was a Teenager

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We’ve all prayed a prayer that goes something like this:

God, where are You? Can’t You see how much this hurts right now? Why aren’t You doing something about it?

I have never prayed that prayer more fervently than the times when something bad happened to my kids. For me, there is nothing quite so heart-wrenching as watching a child in pain. And there is nothing so disorienting as not being able to see God’s hand in the middle of it.

I remember vividly a season of our life when one of our daughters was going through a time of being socially isolated by her peers. Girls who were once her best friends suddenly abandoned her. She was no longer invited to tables where she used to sit. She was left off of every invitation list. And all of it fed into her private battle with anxiety and depression.

On a particularly hard day, our daughter texted me from school, saying how broken she was and how unlovable she felt. She was tired of pretending like she was fine, tired of forcing fake smiles in high school hallways, tired of trying to carry on when she wanted to just give up.

That day, I waited for her at the back door as she drove home from school. Standing at the laundry room window, I watched her car creep up the driveway. I felt deep sorrow rising up in my chest. More than anything, I wanted Jesus to take her pain away and was frustrated that He hadn’t done so already.

When she opened the back door, she found me waiting there, arms open. She dropped her backpack to the floor. I pulled her to my chest, hugging her with every ounce of love and comfort that a mother could offer. We both sobbed.

Nothing I could do could take her pain away. No hug was big enough. No loving word was soothing enough. No assurance of better-days-tomorrow seemed believable enough. And honestly? None of my thousand prayers seemed “answered enough.”

That night, I lay next to my teenage daughter in bed, as she cried herself to sleep. That’s when I prayed those desperate prayers once more:

God, where are You? Can’t You see how much this hurts right now? Why aren’t You doing something about it?

And then, in the quiet of her room, I sensed the whisper of Jesus in the hollowed-out place of my busted-up heart. He whispered: “I did do something about it. And I understand exactly what your daughter is going through. I’ve been there.”

In that moment, Jesus suddenly looked like a sixteen-year-old kid, the kind you would see at Dairy Queen or on a basketball court . . . or walking through your own back door.

And it dawned on me then: Oh my word, Jesus was a teenager.

He went through puberty, had a voice that changed, had parents who didn’t always understand what He was up to sometimes. He was a teenager who came from a lower-class family, and it’s safe to say He was ostracized by peers who had previously included Him in their squad but decided He wasn’t good enough anymore. He certainly wouldn’t have worn the designer fashions of the day, and we all know that people were pretty sure nothing good could ever come out of Nazareth.

I wonder if He was left out.

I wonder if girls made fun of His looks or if boys thought it was lame that He was going to be a carpenter.

I wonder if He worried about His future.

But I also wonder if, in His alone time — when everyone else had disappeared — He saw something really sacred every time He looked at a loaf of bread, a widow’s mite, a herd of sheep, a mustard seed. I wonder if He looked at the downtrodden, the outcast, the “loser” with love. I wonder if He knew their stories would become His spoken mission.

I wonder if Jesus ever came home to His crying mama, waiting to give Him a hug at the back door as she watched Him come up the dusty road.

I am hesitant to call all of that a vision, but I will say that that moment of imagination gave me such hope and comfort.

I know not all of you reading these words right now are parents with struggling teens. But doesn’t it give you comfort that Jesus was a teenager? Doesn’t it give you comfort that Jesus gets the pain of rejection, loneliness, betrayal, heartbreak? He knows what it is to be mocked and discarded as nothing. He knows what it is to be misunderstood and set aside.

As it says in Hebrews 4:15, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way as we are, yet without sin.”

God never intended for us to go through anything at all by ourselves — and that’s why He sent Jesus. How cool is that?

Whatever comes your way, Jesus is with you. He gets you.

He is the toddler who is frustrated and hungry.

He is the kindergartener, struggling to sit still.

He is the teen, looking to belong.

He is the grown adult — betrayed and misunderstood.

He is the invisible, the unseen, the unheard.

There is nothing you are going through right now that is a mystery to Him. He has lived inside of every hurt you face right now.

 

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

When We Are Wounded by Those We Love the Most

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My husband and I sat across from each other on the couch one Sunday listening to our church’s sermon as the world slowly halted and everyone was told to stay at home during the pandemic. What was thought to be two weeks of home church was now four months. As the singing ended, my eyebrows went inward and through a squint, I blurted out, “I just don’t think I can shrink myself anymore to walk back in those church doors.” I surprised myself, and I could see my husband’s eyes saying I had shocked him as well. Thus began the long and tediously painful road of removing ourselves from a community we had been a part of for a decade. 

If you’d told me I would be one of the many voices talking about church hurt this year or any year, I wouldn’t have believed you. Our church has its issues, but it’s our beloved community! And we were fiercely protective over it. But one of the blessings of time away from the comfort of routine and physical places was just that: time — time to actually ponder, dig in, and stop avoiding much needed conversations. Honestly, there were only so many Netflix shows to binge and rooms to reorganize before we had to deal with the many wounds from those we loved the most.

I believe one of the most difficult things to experience in life is relational pain. It reminds me of Paul and Barnabas having such a deep disagreement they went their separate ways!

And there arose a sharp disagreement, so that they separated from each other . . .  
Acts 15:39 (ESV)

It’s easy for me to feel alone in this except even Jesus was wounded by the very closest of His friends — namely, Judas. He was in His very small circle of twelve friends. Jesus taught him. He ate meals with him. He invited him into His places of worship. I can’t help but think of how intimately Jesus knew his friend and how agonizing it must have been to be betrayed.

And even though Jesus knew it was coming, it didn’t stop Him from loving Judas or inviting Judas in. I bet He laughed and cried with him. I bet they joked on the roadside about a tent falling on them in the middle of the night and how Peter thought it was the rapture (okay, I made that up). I bet they saw many miracles together, and I can imagine Judas wasn’t heartless towards Jesus. He probably really cared for the man he spent so much time with. That’s what makes the hurt so much more hurtful. 

I say all this to humanize relational conflict and pain, to see the layers and complications, and to know that when we feel alone in our hurt — even from those we have championed for years — Jesus understands. He understands that we will get hurt in relationships and yet still want to show up. He understands that we can be irritated and angry with the church but still build the church and send more out to be the church. The dichotomy is astonishing when you think about it. As believers, we have a hard time holding space for both the people and places that hurt us and the desire to still be drawn to love and champion them. We feel that if we say these hurts out loud and really acknowledge them, it somehow means we are rejecting our community all together.

But as I read the gospels, I see the complicated life Jesus lived and what He experienced relationally — the intense joy of His friendships, the compassion for those He loved, the way He treasured the church and those inside of it. And on the flip side, the betrayal by close friends, the hurt, the loss, the rejection. He was no stranger to life as a human, and more than that, He decided it should be documented, talked about for centuries, passed down from generation to generation.

Why? 

To show us that He gets it, that despite the pain, the church is worth fighting for, that relationships are worth fighting for, and that we are worth fighting for. We are the Church. The Church is His bride, and He cannot help but love her fiercely. This brings me great validation to be able to name hurts but also great encouragement to still fight for friendships and community even though they’re messy.

And I hope it encourages you if you find yourself sitting in a bit of a mess like I am. He is looking you in the eye, hand under your chin saying, I do understand. And I am making a way through this.

 

Listen to Jami’s words below, or download on your fave podcast player!

When Life Feels Hard and You Need Someone

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During my season recovering from anxiety and panic attacks triggered by emotional post-traumatic stress from childhood, I became very sensitive to loud music.

Then, after a breakthrough of healing and my nervous system returned to calm, I wanted to hear the band Gungor in concert. I soon found myself standing in a concert hall next to my husband Eric on one side and two twenty-something girls on the other. I started chatting with them, discovering both were seminary students.

“What’cha studying? What’s next?” You might think people who look happy and perfect wouldn’t have hard stories to share, but they do.

The blue-eyed, blond-haired girl told me, “I’m not really sure what God wants me to do.” She paused. “I feel like I’ve been wandering.” She shared disappointments she was facing, and suddenly, it felt like no one else was in the room except us.

The pre-anxiety me would’ve given her cheerful advice. But now I see everything differently. I’ve learned that what we all need most deeply is to know we are not alone.

I reassured her, “The hardness of the journey doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong path.”

I shared my own broken-made-beautiful stories with her and the hard questions I asked along the way. I reassured her that when the world we live in doesn’t match the desires God puts on our hearts, we all feel a little lost and alone.

When I’ve stepped out in faith to offer something authentic from my heart yet faced rejection, I’ve asked God, “Is there anyone who will stay?” And during times I’ve been hurt, facing dead ends when I thought God would open doors, I’ve wondered, “Is there any other way?”

These were the same words Jesus whispered in a garden one night in Gethsemane into thick silence. Wave upon wave of questions poured out of Him. The dilemma of turning left or right was both as painful as it was unwanted.

“Is there any other way?” Jesus asked.

Jesus could have chosen to pray by Himself and hide this inner struggle. He often prayed alone. Yet on the worst night of His life, He needed someone to hold on to the hard moment with Him.

Jesus needed someone to stay.

He didn’t have a timetable to how long the journey of the cross would take, how long the beatings would last, how long He’d have to drag the cross inch by inch, with lashes cut deep in his back. He didn’t know how He would feel yanked around in chains, from one place to another, in sleep deprivation. But the certain pain and fear of what was to come brought Jesus to His knees — right where you and I sometimes have to go when we don’t know what to do.

Overwhelmed, Jesus turned to those closest to Him. He became vulnerable and let His disciples see Him as desperation filled the pit of His stomach.

Then he said, “This sorrow is crushing my life out. Stay here and keep vigil with me.” Going a little ahead, he fell on his face, praying, “My Father, if there is any way, get me out of this. But please, not what I want. You, what do you want?”
Matthew 26:38-39 (MSG)

Jesus was intimately familiar with the pain of a journey unresolved. Yet, He did not yield to the temptation of hiding in shame. He, instead, yielded to the journey and invited others into His heart — willingly, lovingly, completely. For you. For me.

Beloved, Jesus walked willingly into the darkness long ago, so you don’t have to walk alone anymore. When you wonder if anyone will stay, don’t be afraid. God has redeemed you. He draws closer to you to whisper, “I have called you by name; you are mine” (Isaiah 43:1 NLT).

Stay right where you are and let Jesus hold you today. He is that Someone who will stay.

We don’t have to be alone anymore — even when we fall down and don’t know how to get back up. Jesus suffered for us, so that He can carry us through it all.

The truth is, in our wandering, we are never truly lost. Having Someone to hold on to changes everything. Having Someone love you in the waiting, in the suffering, strengthens you. When that Someone stays with us, we see that we are God’s beloved and that He is there to guide us.

So give yourself permission to grieve what’s hard. Don’t suffer alone. Confide in someone to stay with you in difficult moments. Begin with Jesus. Then share with a friend or two as Jesus did. And let love heal your heart.

Dear Jesus, I need someone. Stay with me. You understand my fears and my sorrow. Love me. Heal me. Take care of me. Guide me to the other side of my wandering. Strengthen me with your love, and give me courage to lean on You and say, “Not what I want but what You want.” Thank You for all You have suffered for me. Amen.

For more on finding peace, download a FREE six-week Breathe Lent devotional by Bonnie Gray here to help you draw closer to Jesus this Easter! Also, join Bonnie’s Stress Less Lent series on her wellness podcast BREATHE: The Stress Less Podcast. Listen and subscribe anywhere you listen to podcasts.

 

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

When Your Kids Call You Out for Being Unkind

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The after-school havoc of homework and the dinner rush hour had created an environment of chaos in the afternoons. And when my six-year-old brought home two different family portrait drawings from art class, where I was on the computer and my phone, I knew something needed to change. So I came up with some after-school boundaries for me and my kids to prevent dinner prep crazies and help me get face-to-face time with them.

Things were going great until one afternoon when I stepped outside boundary number one: Mom won’t talk on the phone until dinner is started and homework is complete.

I answered a friend’s call, got caught up in our conversation, and agreed to let my then eight-year-old, Joshua, watch TV before homework was finished. That pushed us outside boundary number two: No screen time until homework is finished.

An hour later, I hung up the phone in a panic because we needed to leave in thirty minutes, but I needed a shower and Joshua needed to finish his homework. So I yelled at him to do so from upstairs.

Thirty minutes later, I ran downstairs where Joshua was playing, and his almost finished homework was strewn across the table. I wasn’t a happy mama! My tone wasn’t gentle, and my words gave no indication that love is patient. I ranted about his mess and threatened to never let him watch TV after school again as we scrambled to the car.

Joshua’s silent stare out the car window told me he was upset. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you. It bothered me you didn’t finish your homework like you’d promised. And you left a mess on the table.”

God reminded me how I broke my promise to stay off the phone. As much as I wanted to blame Joshua, my hurried, short-fused attitude was my fault. I let a phone call come before what I knew God wanted, which was for me to create a peaceful after-school environment and pace for my kids and me. My choice led to a tailspin of hurry and anxiety in my heart that spilled out in harsh tones and unkind words.

It reminded me of what Jesus said in Luke 6:45, “A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart. . . . For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.”

I knew I had another choice to make. I could think of an excuse, or I could apologize.

Growing up, I never heard my parents apologize — not to each other, not to us kids, not to anyone. Unfortunately, resentment and unforgiveness were common in my family, and I hated how it felt. When I had children, I begged God to show me how to stop that precedent. Through Jesus’ words, “Treat others as you want them to treat you,” I sensed Him showing me early on that my children needed me to model humility and the language of apology.

So, I took a deep breath that afternoon in the car and told Joshua I was wrong for talking to him the way I did. And then I asked, “How did that make you feel?”

“Like you expect me to be perfect,” he replied.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, but I do want you to be responsible,” I told him. “Still, I shouldn’t have talked to you the way I did. I answered my phone and stayed on too long. And when I realized we were going to be late, I took it out on you. Will you forgive me?” I asked.

“I forgive you,” he said. Then he looked at me and asked, “Mom, how do you expect me to learn to use kind words when you don’t even use them with me?”

That was a really good question and a very painful observation for me to hear.

I slowed my car down and pulled off the road. Reaching over to softly touch Joshua’s chin, I gently turned his face so I could see his eyes. “Can I try again?” I asked.

I repeated almost exactly what I had said at home, but this time my tone was gentle. I gave the same warnings but not with the same wrath. And the outcome was much more effective.

As hard as it was to hear Joshua call me out — albeit, in a very calm and respectful way — it was good for me. It helped me see how I was contradicting things I had been teaching him and that we were learning as a family about using kind words. It also gave me the chance to restore our relationship through the language of apology and forgiveness.

Like most parents, I hesitated to admit when I messed up and to apologize to my kids. I was afraid they’d lose respect or question my credibility as a parent. But the opposite happened. They’ve told me as adults now how much more they respected me for admitting I wasn’t perfect.

We’ll never be perfect, mama, and that’s a good thing. Our kids can’t live up to perfect, and it helps them know they don’t have to be when we admit we’re imperfect too. As toddlers, teens, and adults, they need to hear, see, and experience the power of apology and the healing of forgiveness — in both giving and receiving it. You see, we model the gospel in our hearts and our homes when we admit our mistakes and confess our sins. It helps our children see how much we need God’s grace and forgiveness and realize how much they need it too.

Lord, thank You for showing me I don’t have to be perfect. Give me Your confidence to admit to my children when I mess up. I pray our home would be filled with the humility of admission, the kindness of an apology, and the forgiveness of Christ. Amen.

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Do you ever feel like you’re not doing enough as a mom but have no idea how you could do anything more? In her new book, A Confident Mom: Simple Ways to Give Your Child What They Need Most, Renee Swope offers the encouragement and wisdom of a friend and mentor who comes alongside to help you find confidence, purpose, and meaning as a mom.

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  • Exchange the exhaustion of constantly correcting your kids’ bad habits with meaningful and creative ways to connect with their hearts
  • Implement positive and encouraging practices to help you notice and nurture your child’s character and unique God-given design
  • Let go of performance-based living and pursue relationship-driven parenting
  • Find a new place to start on those days when you’re tempted to quit.

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When You Need to Get Creative With Your Personal Devotional Time

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At the end of January we welcomed a ten-week-old puppy into our home, two weeks after the death of our older dog. I’d had a bad case of puppy fever for months but wanted to make sure I was mentally and physically prepared for the work and training that would be involved. Although we’ve cared for eight newborn babies, River is our first puppy.

Before we got her, I imagined our biggest worry would be sleep deprivation and that our precious pup would interrupt our rest multiple times per night with whimpering and potty breaks, but that only happened once. Our girl sleeps through the night like a champ!

While our nights are more restful than we expected, my days are lived at a level of vigilance I haven’t seen since our children were toddlers. River is either in my lap trying to chew my hands, my clothes, or whatever else she can reach underfoot or out of sight and is potentially up to no good. Some days, I’m so exhausted I wrap her up in a blanket, and we take an afternoon nap together on the couch. It’s amazing how little I accomplish these days.

In our pre-pup days, I studied a Bible verse during breakfast, summarized what I read in a journal, wrote out a meaningful verse in a second journal, and then read a short devotional from an additional book. This quiet time in God’s Word set the foundation for my day.

After multiple mornings when I spent more time removing River’s teeth from the ribbon bookmark hanging from my Bible than actually reading the Bible itself, I gave up on my usual routine temporarily. But I missed that dedicated time in God’s Word. Recently, when I started feeling a little overwhelmed and spiritually disconnected, I realized my personal worship might need to look a little different for a while.

I intentionally decided to focus more on music, which is easier than carving out a dedicated quiet time for Bible study while training an unpredictable, exuberant, and also adorable puppy. Songs written by man can’t substitute for the divinely inspired Word of God, but the Bible tells us we can — and should — sing His praises:

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.
Psalm 100:1-2 (KJV)

The psalmists wrote songs to praise God and in remembrance of miracles from biblical times, like the parting of the Red Sea. Today, songwriters continue to praise Him with lyrics relatable to modern audiences, and many contain lines or phrases taken directly from Scripture. Songs from artists, like Lauren Daigle and Need to Breathe, help focus my mind on God.

And with how much time outdoors I now spend with this puppy, I am seeing with fresh eyes how even creation sings. Because the world is new to River, she’s distracted by singing birds, scampering squirrels, the sounds of barking dogs and honking horns. And it’s helped me to see familiar things with new eyes too: how moss looks more vibrant in the winter, where the water pools into puddles when it rains, how the perennial plants are starting to poke up through the soil.

I gravitate towards shafts of sunlight on chilly afternoons while I watch and wait for her to go potty. The warmth feels good as I turn my face towards it, whispering words of gratitude. Creation sings in harmony with the robins in my backyard, and taking time to appreciate the beauty of the natural world helps me focus on the One who made it.

Sometimes circumstances throw our regular routines right out the window, and we have to adapt. But if we seek God, we will find Him. 

I know this period of puppy training won’t last forever. In a few months, I’ll hopefully have a housebroken dog and resume my usual morning routine. For now, I’ll focus on worshipping the Lord through song, raising my hands and voice in thankfulness for His faithfulness, and I’ll revel in the beauty of His creation, where He so clearly speaks to me.

Do you have a regular routine for personal worship? How have you changed it to adapt to a specific season of your life?

 

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God Will Reach Back Like a Rainbow to Redeem Your Storm

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Did you know rainbows are not an arc? Rainbows are actually full circles. Only from a heavenly perspective can one see the full circle with all of the brilliant colors.

Years ago, it might not have looked like it, but I was overcome by the odds. I was at a loss at what to do. My circumstances seemed impossible. I needed God to show up in my storm, and I needed a miracle.

We had been trying to have a baby for almost seven years. I had been to the specialists with no answers, tried holistic treatments, prayed and waited. Nothing worked. God was kind to me through the infertility process, giving me specific encouragement, visions, and dreams, and I believed Him. But even with all of that, I became emotionally exhausted and needed Him to act. 

Do you ever get to a point with God that you almost wish He hadn’t promised you something because the waiting and battles to receive it are more than you can emotionally stand? That’s where I was while I was in one of my most favorite and beautiful places in God’s creation.

God saw me in the waters of the Pacific while on vacation in Hawaii. I swam out from the shore by myself. In a place where I should have been thankful, I cried out to Him while I let waves of His constant love wash over me. I was a little angry and frustrated. I told Him so. I was real and raw with my Savior, swimming in His creation. My salty tears mixed with the Pacific Ocean. I reminded Jesus of His promises and told Him I needed Him to come through.

I boarded a plane that afternoon, not totally sure what the future held. But the next month, God changed my situation and increased my faith: I was carrying my miracle child. I was overcome with a wave of complete joy. I’ve never been so amazed, relieved, and thankful.

Fast forward another seven years. I stood on the same beach, playing in the same waves with my living, breathing answer to prayer, my daughter Gabrielle. The Holy Spirit helped me realize at that moment that it was seven years to the day from the gut-wrenching prayer that she and I were standing there. God had brought me full circle.

I began paying attention to God’s goodness working together in every detail and His beautiful orchestration of my life, and I felt so loved in such a special place because of the redemptive circle He was showing me. His loving hand was like a rainbow over the island going back to redeem parts of my story that were extremely hard, showing me He was there, and healing my heart with the revelation of this redemptive circle.

A redemptive circle is when God reaches back in our story and redeems what has caused us pain — a rainbow of grace and mercy. It’s always out of our control. But God demonstrates His authority over time. He redeems circumstances and what we think is out of the question, making the situation right on our behalf and healing our hearts in the process. 

Redemptive circles help us not get stuck in the past or in pain but empower us to have peace and move forward, able to follow Jesus in freedom. 

I floated out to my sacred spot in the ocean with Gabrielle, and we talked to Jesus. I thanked Him with happy tears for the miracle He gave me in her, for answering prayers, for keeping His promises, and for bringing me back to that same spot to remind me of His love for us.

Are you in the middle of a storm looking for a rainbow? Does today seem impossible? And tomorrow something you just don’t want to face if God doesn’t show up? Do you feel desperate in your situation? Do you feel unloved by others or even by God?

God sees exactly what you are going through. God not only sees you, but He cares about your hard stories. He will reach back like a rainbow and redeem them, now or later. But you can ask Him to make it right. Then, like Hagar in Genesis 16:13, you will see God — showing up to fight for you, at work behind the scenes on your behalf, actively fulfilling His promises, and redeeming the most difficult parts of your story.

God really comes through on His promises. He answers our prayers in His timing. He creates new life in all kinds of beautiful, unexpected ways. God is trying to show you His faithfulness in your life if you will pay attention.

When you see a rainbow, remember God can rescue you and will redeem the storm you’re facing.