What My State Fair Taught Me About the Kingdom of God

What My State Fair Taught Me About the Kingdom of God

by

As I write this, we’re in the middle of State Fair season here in Minnesota. I’ve written about my nonsensical adoration of the fair before. Here’s a refresher:

“Nothing makes sense about my deep love of our Minnesota State Fair. I hate crowds (and between 150,000-250,000 people attend each day. Over 1.9 million people total last year!). I hate hot weather (and it takes place over the twelve days before Labor Day – usually our hottest days of the year). I do not prefer operating on whims and without a plan (and we twist and turn our way through hundreds of acres of fairgrounds, being led fully by whims). My stomach hurts if I look at a new food (and we sample ev.ery.thing at the fair, from mini-donuts to milkshakes, corndogs to walleye bites).

Yet despite going against the grain of my natural disposition, our annual State Fair day brings Christmas-morning-level excitement and joy to my heart. Each year, it’s just us and a couple hundred  thousand others gathered at the Great Minnesota Get-Together, testing out tractors and each other’s patience as we spend 13 hours walking over 18,000 steps and 7+ miles. . . together.”

This year, we spent the day at the fair with my in-laws — first-timers who were completely overwhelmed by the whole experience. There’s just no way to prepare for such a deluge of people, food, activities, animals (in barns), exhibits, booths, sights, sounds, smells, steps, and fun. We don’t call it the Great Minnesota Get-Together for nothing!

Walking through the streets of the fair, I blinked back tears as I realized the crowds around me reflected the beauty and diversity of the Kingdom. People of all shapes, colors, beliefs, relationships, politics, and more, all walking around and waiting in line and sitting at the parade. Languages and voices and laughter all mingled together in one big extravagant display of gathering.

It takes all kinds to make the fair what it is — a celebration and cornucopia of difference, of unique talents and giftings, of the patchwork that makes up our great state.

The exhibit halls at the fair are full of this beauty on display. Thousands of people submit their creative activities for judging, including educational projects for students in age-segmented, very specific categories. (For instance, my daughter won a second-place red ribbon for her submission this year in the “grade 1-3 weaving and textiles” category.) And there are entire buildings dedicated to different animals, plus creative, educational, and agri-and-horticultural pursuits. Every year, there are dozens of categories and hundreds of displayed pieces — everything from quilts and woodworking to handstitched clothing and felted purses.

You’ll also find cakes and pies, loaves of bread and cookies of all varieties, canned goods and maple syrup of all grades. Sheep and pigs, cows and showhorses, chickens and goats. Zucchini and pumpkins, potatoes and apples. Not to mention crop art — painstakingly crafted portraits and pictures created entirely out of seeds and stems — plus Christmas trees and honey!

All lovingly crafted and curated and created, tended to with care, and perfected. Submitted for competition with confidence, hope, and pride.

All talents. All gifts. All entirely unique and specific. All seen and celebrated… when they could’ve been overlooked.

Because how often do we celebrate woodcarving? Sheep-rearing? 3rd-grade yarn weaving? How often does an elderly quilter receive an award for their handiwork? How often do we look at a cookie or a loaf of bread with wonder and awe, praising the baker and placing a ribbon on their apron?

How often do we look deeply into someone’s interests and quirky giftings long enough to support them in pursuing that passion?

How often do we ignore or criticize what could be seen and celebrated, especially when it doesn’t suit us, when it isn’t convenient, when it doesn’t fit into the box we believe is best? I think of personality gifts such as energy, earnestness, drive, and sharp wit. I know as a mom of four, my kids have traits that are definitely inconvenient to me (it’s exhausting to raise spirited children) and gifts that I maybe wouldn’t have chosen (loving and caring for bugs and frogs is one that comes to mind). Even so, they are the passions and gifts that my kids have been given, and I adore the whole of who they are.

And so does the One who dreamed them up.

1 Corinthians 12:12-27 reminds us:

“Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ. For we were all baptized by one Spirit so as to form one body—whether Jews or Gentiles, slave or free—and we were all given the one Spirit to drink. Even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.

. . .God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.

Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it.” (NIV)

It takes all talents, all giftings, all weird and wonderful personalities, all coming together in one place to make my State Fair the extravaganza that I love so much. . . and so it is with the whole of humanity God loves so much. It takes us all — and all of who we are — to make up the One Body God has in mind that Paul is speaking to in his letter to the Corinthians. The kingdom of God needs all of us, and all of us bringing our whole selves into it to make it great, and different, and beautiful.

This is the way of the Kingdom. This is the way we move as One, even as we are wildly different.

How can you bring the fullness of your gifts into where you are today?

 

Listen to Anna’s devotion as she reads it on the (in)courage podcast!

Beloved, Don’t Forget This One Thing About Yourself

by

I was in that place where women go on the weekend to get their hair cut and colored, to cover the roots and dye the grays, to primp the curls and straighten the strands — the salon.

I was sitting there, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, when a woman came and sat in the empty chair next to me. She mumbled something under her breath and made motions with her hands. She spoke louder and then louder again. I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or to someone else or if she was just speaking into the air.

So I ignored her and kept scrolling mindlessly on my phone.

I was tired, and I didn’t want a conversation. I didn’t even want eye contact. I just wanted to get in and get out, just wanted to get my hair cut and be on my way. But the woman wouldn’t stop mumbling under her breath and pointing at all the other women and young girls in the salon.

So I listened. I looked away from my phone and paid attention to what she was saying.

“Her hair is so nice,” she said. “And just look at her over there — all you ladies are so beautiful, just beautiful.”

She pointed to a woman down the row and to a young girl sitting next to me.

“Just beautiful hair,” she said. “Everyone here has beautiful hair.” Then she finally slid into her chair and sat down to wait for her hair to be washed.

I caught a glimpse of her, noticing her long, gray hair and bronze skin, matured with wrinkles — map lines that told the story of her journey.

She was beautiful. She had nice hair.

And not only did she beam with beauty on the outside, but her eyes twinkled with a truth that came from deep, deep within.

Saturdays at the salon are sacred, is what she was saying. It’s where women and young girls gather together, all bearing bare faces and bare beauty. It’s a sacred place where they show up with their hair undone, unkempt, unruly, showing off every kink and curl and pin-straight strand. It’s where they sit, vulnerable, at the hands of another, who will wash the dry scalp and dirty hair. It’s where they expose the true texture of their hair — all the thickness and the thinning out, all the bald spots and every ringlet that’s been called bad.

When it was my turn, my hairdresser tapped me on the shoulder. She motioned for me to come and sit in her chair. Then she unwrapped the towel covering my hair and ran her fingers through my thick mane. She dried my hair, pulling a bristle brush through it, section by bulky section.

“I am beautiful,” I thought to myself. “Even now, in the middle of maintaining my mane.”

I smiled, looking around at all the other women and young girls. In my mind, I heard the echoes: Everyone here has beautiful hair. Everyone here has beautiful hair . . . 

The truth about Saturdays (or Mondays or Wednesdays or Fridays) at the salon is that we are not only beautiful but we are also beloved and we belong.

God looks at each one of us and sees and loves everything about us — the width of our hips, the height of our body, the texture of our hair, the tone of our skin, the length of our eyelashes, the swell of our curves.

God cannot help but stand and point and shout and tell us that we are beautiful, just like that woman at the salon. He is always muttering and mumbling with His breath in our ears that we are His beloved and that we belong to Him, just as we are.

You may (or may not) be well into your New Year’s resolutions by now. You might have cut and colored your hair, stepped out in style, bought the bag or purchased the purse. You might be drinking more water and eating more vegetables. You might be moving your body more or counting your steps.

But, beloved, don’t forget that you are beautiful in your bareness. Don’t forget that you belong, just as you are. On the days or weeks or months when you feel like you are showing up undone, unkempt, and unruly, know that you do not have to primp and perfect yourself to be accepted and loved by others.

You do not have to primp and perfect yourself to be accepted and loved by God.

You can come and sit, with all your color and culture, all your hair texture and taste in style that makes you who you are. Without looking around to compare, without looking around to compete, you can come and be.

And in this season, if you are already comfortable showing up as you are, then perhaps look up from scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Look up to see and call out the beauty and belovedness of others. Make every space that you are in sacred by speaking words that reflect our Father’s loving embrace: Just look at her over there — all of you are so beautiful.

Just beautiful.

This devotion is by Rachel Marie Kang and from the (in)courage archives. 

 

Listen to today’s devotion here or find (in)courage wherever you stream podcasts. 

The Comfort You Need When Life Changes Suddenly

by

“Wait . . . you’re telling me that you learned about this yesterday and you have to start tomorrow?” I could hear my friend’s shock through the phone.

Her question was like a lightbulb illuminating why — or at least partly why — I was so anxious about this big change happening in my life. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it until my friend put my feelings into words, but she nailed it. The suddenness of the change was just as stressful and concerning to me as the enormity of the change.

That was two weeks ago, and yes, I did make a big change suddenly.

Then this morning, I watched as my (not so) tiny little baby girl got on the bus that would take her to middle school. How? I kept asking. How did this happen? How did we get here, and so fast, too?

And my other child? My oldest daughter? Well, she had the nerve to begin her senior year of high school — something I find both shocking and offensive, as I’m pretty sure I just graduated from high school myself a moment ago.

As you can see, we’re going through quite a lot of changes at my house. And whether we’ve spent years coming to these forks in the road or we literally got a call on Tuesday and jumped into something new on Friday, the change has felt overwhelming. Knowing a big-deal change is coming and having time to prepare (and worry) is hard. Being surprised with a necessary change and having to pivot (and panic) is hard, too. Both are hard, and we’re doing both.

Adjusting to change is a process. (Perhaps now is the time for me to confess that it took me nearly 18 months to adjust to working full-time outside my house after a decade of freelancing from home?) But just like every other season and situation we face in life, we can take comfort and find confidence in knowing that God is with us.

As I was working through all my tangled-up feelings about these changes, I reached for an answer in the one place that never fails me. I turned to God’s Word.

I turned to several bookmarked and underlined passages I’ve leaned on for decades. I also Googled “Bible verse about God never changing.” Both tactics, however, failed to provide the comfort and confidence I was seeking — at least initially. Instead, I began to spiral a bit as I realized that my go-to verses had been taken out of context or even misinterpreted by well-meaning teachers. To be honest, they’d been taken out of context and misinterpreted by me more than once!

Please hear me: Those verses (the ones you’re likely thinking of now) aren’t wrong. But context matters. And realizing I needed to consider so much more than a few helpful words meant I wasn’t getting the quick shot of encouragement I expected.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to spiral completely into despair, because I shared my frustration with a friend who reminded me of another truth. When the Bible doesn’t give us the exact words we’re looking for  (or the ones we’ve been taught by trusted leaders and feel so deeply in our souls suddenly fall flat), we aren’t left without an anchor or foundation. What we’re searching for isn’t necessarily wrong. We just need to look again.

My friend went on to point out examples of the way we can see God’s constant character from Genesis to Revelation to today. We see His love and compassion through His interactions with Moses and the Israelites, and we see it in the person of Jesus as He answers question after question from the disciples, and responds to desperate request after desperate request from those who need healing and protection.

I listened to her talk and felt a weight lift from my shoulders. I blew out a big breath and exclaimed, “Of course!”

When changes come — sudden or slow, massive or minute, desired or dreaded — we can find comfort and confidence in our knowledge that God never changes. We still know this by reading verses like, “I am the Lord, and I do not change” (Malachi 3:6 NLT) — and the truth remains even after considering the context of God’s full message to His prophet about judgment, repentance, and mercy.

We see God’s unchanging character in the ways He demonstrates His love and care throughout the Old Testament, and from the way Jesus, God in the flesh, demonstrates that very same love and care through His lifetime. We know that God never leaves us, no matter what is going on around us, because we see Him stand with David and Joshua and Moses and Elijah and Ruth — and we see Jesus assure the disciples that the Holy Spirit will come in His absence, that He will not leave us alone. (Read John 14:15-31 NIV.)

Finally, when change comes — knocking on our door and threatening to knock us off our feet — we can remember the ways God has been a steady presence in our lives before. We can recall the ways He has shown us love and offered us peace, and in that find comfort and encouragement.

Are you trying to wrap your mind around a sudden change? Or perhaps you’ve been dreading the end of a season or the beginning of a new one, and now the time is here to face the reality you never wished for. Maybe what’s thrown you for a loop is even a good change, one you’ve prayed for or pursued — and yet you still find yourself struggling to process the way things are simply different than the way they used to be.

No matter what change you’re walking through right now, take comfort in knowing God is with you and He is a steady, everlasting, loving Father who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

 

Listen to Mary’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast wherever you stream!

Persisting in Prayer

by

“Never stop praying.”
1 Thessalonians 5:17 (NLT)

There are times when prayer feels like a lifeline to heaven, and times when it feels like our words fall flat against the ceiling. We pray for healing, breakthrough, provision, restoration — yet sometimes silence lingers. In those moments, hope can feel fragile.

But Jesus reminds us to keep asking. In Luke 18, He tells the parable of the persistent widow who kept coming before the judge, pleading for justice. The judge eventually relented — not because he was good, but because she refused to give up. And Jesus concludes, “Don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night?” (Luke 18:7 NLT).

Our Father is not reluctant or indifferent. He is loving, attentive, and faithful. Even when His answers seem delayed, He is still working. Even when His timing stretches our patience, His promises stand secure. Persisting in prayer isn’t about wearing God down — it’s about letting Him grow our faith, refine our trust, and anchor us deeper in His presence.

So don’t stop praying. Don’t stop hoping. Every whispered prayer is heard, every tear is noticed, and every moment of waiting is being woven into a story of God’s faithfulness.

Prayer
Lord, thank You that You hear us when we pray. Strengthen our faith when answers feel slow and when silence feels heavy. Teach us to trust that You are working in ways we cannot yet see. Help us persist in prayer — not in striving, but in steady surrender. May our hearts find rest in Your love, even as we keep knocking. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Let’s persist in prayer together!
Share your prayer request in the comments, and take a moment to pray for another sister, too.

God Meets Us at the Kitchen Table

by

For most of our married life, when one of us leaves the house, the other stands at the door and waves until the car disappears from view. It’s nothing extravagant — but it’s intentional. A small gesture that says, “I see you. I’m with you.”

Recently, as I stood at the door watching my husband drive away, the Holy Spirit nudged my heart with this thought: strong relationships are built in the ordinary. Not in grand gestures, but in the faithful, repeated rhythms of love. The same is true of our relationship with God.

In Acts 1:4 NLT, we read, “Once when He was eating with them, He commanded them, ‘Do not leave Jerusalem until the Father sends you the gift He promised, as I told you before.’”

Jesus is giving the disciples His final instructions before ascending to heaven — arguably one of the most important moments in their entire ministry. He tells them to wait in Jerusalem until they receive the Holy Spirit, the promised Helper who would empower them for the road ahead.

But what struck me was the detail tucked quietly at the beginning of the verse: “Once when He was eating with them…”

Jesus chose to deliver this life-altering command over an ordinary meal.

He could have chosen a grand stage or a final miracle to mark the moment — but He didn’t. He sat and ate with them. That phrase, “when He was eating with them,” reminded me how often Jesus used ordinary moments to deliver extraordinary truths.

In Jewish culture, to share a meal was to share life. It signified belonging, intimacy, trust. Meals weren’t rushed; they were relational. So, when Jesus gave this final instruction over a meal, He wasn’t just handing out a task — He was anchoring His words in relationship. He was saying, in essence, “You are still mine. And I am still with you.”

Before Jesus sent them out with purpose, He sat with them in presence.

That’s who He is.

We often think of God speaking through burning bushes or parting seas — and, yes, He can — but so often He meets us at the table. In the slow. In the simple. In the sacred rhythm of ordinary life.

Every week, my husband and I host a small group in our home. We eat around a big round table and share both food and our lives. We pass the salad and the stories of our week. And somewhere in the laughter, vulnerability, and shared space, we encounter God. Not always through a sermon or a spiritual breakthrough — but in the honest, Spirit-filled conversations that unfold over a meal.

This practice is not new. It’s biblical.

God met Abraham under the shade of a tree, and Sarah received a promise in the context of hospitality (Genesis 18). Moses and the elders saw God and ate and drank in His presence (Exodus 24:11). Jesus revealed Himself to two disciples on the road to Emmaus as He broke bread (Luke 24). Jesus restored Peter with breakfast by the sea (John 21).

Again and again, God shows us: the table is holy ground.

Maybe today, you’re waiting for a mountaintop moment. You’re longing for clarity, direction, or confirmation. Can I encourage you? God often speaks while we’re doing the dishes. He meets us in the kitchen, in the carpool line, or over coffee with a friend. He’s not waiting for you to climb higher to reach Him — He’s already seated at the table, ready to meet you there.

It reminds me of Revelation 3:20 NLT, where Jesus says, “Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends.”

Even after His resurrection and ascension, His posture hasn’t changed. He still draws near with kindness. He still knocks, still waits, still longs to be with us. Not just to teach us — but to be with us. To sit with us. To share the meal and the moment. That’s how close He wants to be.

Acts 1:4 reminds me that Kingdom instructions often come in common places. That Jesus, in all His majesty, still chooses the intimacy of a shared meal to reveal His heart.

Don’t miss Him in the everyday, friend. Listen for God’s voice in the ordinary. The way someone lingers a little longer to check on you. The nudge to reach out. The quiet whisper during prayer. The moment your child makes you laugh, or a song moves your heart unexpectedly.

He’s not far away. He’s right here.

When You’ve Got Nothing

by

Most days, I can’t believe how exhausted and hollow I look and feel. Two days before this article was due, I told my husband how much I was struggling with the deadline. “I’ve got nothing,” I said.

“Then you should write about that,” he said. “When you’ve got nothing.”

After I shattered my humerus last summer, no one expected anything of me. I couldn’t cook, clean, or wash and dry my hair. People drove me to occupational therapy. Neighbors stayed with me if family wasn’t available. Like a toddler who needs a babysitter, I couldn’t be left alone.

After my daughter’s death in June, my responsibilities increased — her three young children live with us now — but some days it’s difficult to crawl out of bed. I should wear a sign around my neck that says, “Don’t expect too much from me. I’ll only disappoint.” Thankfully, three of our adult children also live at home now, so we outnumber the little guys.

Grief drains me. It delays my responses like an engine that won’t shift out of first gear. I can take forty-five minutes to eat a bowl of yogurt. Deadlines fly by. My life is on hold. People are waiting for me. I am waiting for me. The inability to concentrate and achieve the goals I’d hoped to crush this year rubs salt in wounds that won’t heal.

I’m slogging through molasses.

I belong to a writing website where one of my favorite features is the ability to submit 250 words each week on a theme and receive feedback from other writers. Yet I can’t seem to focus on the excerpts of other people’s work and provide helpful observations (it’s hard enough to focus on my own writing), so I’ve quit participating.

Tragedy has severed the continuity of my life; it canceled my routines and stole the things that brought me joy. I don’t recognize this until I notice the book I forgot I was reading, or remember the recipe I forgot I’d been making each week, or someone mentions the TV series I forgot we’d been watching.

So I’m looking for reminders of what made me, me.

In a professional manuscript assessment, the editor challenged me to think about the unique insight one of my characters might have as a cameraman who sees the bigger picture, through particular angles, and knows where to focus. What might he see that others miss? This resonated with me. So, in my latest draft, I’ve leaned into my knowledge of photography to write this character.

It awakened a part of me that had been dormant. I had pulled my camera out only twice since my accident. It felt even heavier than before.

But recently, after weeks of rainfall, quirky red mushrooms sprouted up in our backyard, and I had an itch to photograph them with my macro lens. I’ve owned it for years, but it always kicks my butt. The extremely close-up, detailed images have a large magnification and a shallow depth of field. When I download them, I often find one sharp speck and everything else is blurred out.

Despite the losses, I’ve gained a stillness in body and spirit conducive to wielding that perplexing lens. I took nine photos and deleted only one. It felt exceptionally satisfying.

I often question our physical, financial, and emotional ability to navigate this new, upside-down life, and fear takes root. I have to lean on my favorite verse, 2 Timothy 1:7 (KJV): “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”

Most days, I’ve got nothing. A friend invited me to a Braves game, and during our conversation, I realized how many of my sentences included the phrase, “I was having a bad day.”

Like Moses in the battle with the Amalekites, my hands are heavy. As Aaron and Hur lifted Moses’s arms when he couldn’t, Jesus supports me. It’s the only way I’ll prevail.

Thankfully, Jesus is everything I need, and He’s got my back; He’s in my corner.

He hasn’t forgotten who I am, because He knows I am His.

So if you’re slogging through molasses too, feeling hollow, exhausted, or like you have nothing left to give, hear this: God hasn’t forgotten you either.

He sees the pieces of you that feel broken or blurred, the tiny specks that matter most, and He is holding them. Lean on Him. Let Him lift your arms when you can’t. Even on the days you’ve got nothing to give, God is working.

He hasn’t forgotten who you are, and He will carry you through, one small, steady step at a time.

 

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

Faith for the In-Between: When Life Feels on Hold

by

It was annoying.

I had just spoken at a huge event. A beautiful group of humans that I loved being with, so much so that I took home a souvenir. Covid.

Annoying, but fine. I’ve had Covid twice before and both times recovered.

But this one? Just seems to hang on and on.

I am now at week six of not having fully recovered from my symptoms. I’m not sick, per se, just achy, super-sensitive to heat, not able to concentrate, and exhausted. Exhausted like I’ve never been exhausted before.

This is beyond Covid, but not yet “long Covid.” I’m in the in-between of something called “Post-acute COVID-19.” Not recovered from the initial infection and not out of the woods from the possibility of long Covid.

And friends, here’s the thing: I don’t want to borrow trouble, but not knowing is hard. Do my husband and I make plans for that trip to Houston? Do I work on getting new clients for my business or hold off until we know more? Do I push through and write that book proposal, or do I do my best to just rest and hope this all blows over?

When I think about the possibility of feeling like this for months or years, I feel overwhelming sadness and anger. Why didn’t we take that trip when it was merely inconvenient instead of impossible? Why didn’t I push through on that project when I had the energy? I’m tempted to fear the future, while grieving what’s past at the same time.

But sadness and anger are not places I want to set up camp. What I’m doing instead (and trust me, nothing in my nature is wired for this) is to learn to live here — in the waiting.

While waiting in the in-between can feel incredibly lonely, I know that I’m not alone in this experience.

Some of you, my friends, are in your own in-between:

  • Waiting for a diagnosis.
  • Waiting for a spouse to change.
  • Waiting for a child to recover.
  • Waiting for financial stability.
  • Waiting for a relationship to heal.
  • Waiting for a new job or direction.
  • Waiting for hope to feel real again.

I know the discomfort of those in-between spots. The ache of not knowing. The almost-wishing for a bad outcome, just so you don’t have to live in the unknown. It can make you feel crazy — like it’s all just a colossal, frustrating waste of time.

But we are not marking time by marching in place. We are actually standing on holy ground.

Turns out, we’re in good company. Moses also found himself in the in-between. In his case, he stood between a flock of sheep and the supernatural sign of a burning bush. God told him, “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5 NIV).

The in-between is often where we find what we need in order to move on to the next thing. Moses didn’t know it, but he was about to have one of the biggest pivots in human history.

But first, God needed to teach him a few things:

There is no shame in being scared. Moses hid his face in fear when God spoke to him from the burning bush. If you aren’t a little scared in this holy place, you probably aren’t paying attention. But here is the key: Faith doesn’t erase fear; it steadies us in the midst of it.

Doubt does not disqualify you. If even Moses had doubts, then it makes sense that we will too. While Moses was saying, “Who am I that I should … ” he was also being prepared to answer God’s call. Whether we understand what God’s up to or not, we can still be sure that He is good.

God meets us where we are. Moses wasn’t ready to greet God with, “Here I am; send me.” But God was patient and had the answers to all of Moses’s hard questions. Our Father has what we need for today. Tomorrow, He will meet us there, but for today, what He has given us is enough.

Limits aren’t always a bad thing. What Moses saw as a limitation — his stutter — led to a brilliant partnership with the brother he hadn’t seen in over forty years. God paired up Aaron with Moses to be a spokesperson, and together they led God’s people out of slavery. Limitations are not the enemy — but our hustle to accomplish everything, to prove our worth and value is.

When we find ourselves in an in-between time, it may be that God is asking us to take off our sandals, to rest from our usual responsibilities and priorities, and to allow Him to teach us. This is our faith lived out —not just in the mountaintop moments, but in the waiting rooms of life.

Covid has forced me into a kind of waiting I never would have chosen — a body that won’t bounce back, plans I can’t yet make, energy I can’t seem to find. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this is my burning bush moment: God asking me to take off my sandals, to pause, to pay attention, and to let Him teach me here.

The waiting may ache, but it is not wasted. This, too, is holy ground.

Resting isn’t just for those in the in-between seasons of life. Everyone can enjoy the gift of Sabbath. Kathi’s book, Sabbath Soup: Weekly Menus and Rhythms to Make Space for a Day of Rest will help!

We Are Called to Be Women of Welcome

by

When our cousin Linda sent an email to the family inviting us on a trip back to the motherland, I told my husband we had to go. I have dreamed for years of taking my parents to the little town in Southern Italy where my mama’s ancestors lived, worked, and raised their families. 

We planned and saved for this epic trip for more than a year. Truth be told, traveling to the region and town in Italy where my great-grandparents raised their children was a lifelong dream for both my mama and me. For years, family demands, finances, and then a global pandemic stood in our way. My mama grew up hearing tidbits of family lore about the old country from her relatives while helping in the kitchen and around dinner tables.

When she was a teenager (six decades ago now), she was inspired to start filling a little bank with dimes from babysitting and her allowance. Her dream was to one day visit Italy and the home of her ancestors. 

When we arrived in Italy, my parents, husband, brother, and I took a transport to the city of Salerno to join the rest of the group. Boarding the bus with seven other cousins, we headed for San Giovanni in Fiori, one of the oldest towns in the Sila mountains. We met up with our tour guide, Antonella, and her husband, along with our bus driver. Antonella welcomed us with open arms and tight-as-you-can-squeeze hugs. The delightful crew traveled with us for the next eight days.

My mama and I both had tears sparkling in our eyes when we finally arrived in the place where our ancestors walked. Paved modern streets gave way to cobblestone paths, harder to navigate on foot. Antonella explained that this was the exact neighborhood where our people lived. Church bells chimed as the sun began to set. Amber light danced a “Tarantella” through winding alleyways.

We turned from the city center and entered a little piazza where music filled the air. A handcrafted table with chairs for our entire group was set for dinner. Intricate textile tablecloths and painted decor gave it a medieval feel. Every detail breathed one word: Welcome.

I was surprised by how I felt at home in a place I had never been before.

The staff welcomed us as paisanos – an Italian word my grandparents used to describe compatriots or people with shared heritage and close-knit bonds. We were treated like family.

The chef enticed us with a description of our first course for dinner. I sank my teeth into a tender potato cake with rich gravy made from provola, a stretched-curd cheese, and local porcini mushrooms. 

We were granted luxurious breaks between courses to talk and digest. We didn’t have to hurry. Part of the richness of the experience was the invitation to savor every sip, every bite, and linger long in conversation.

I was wowed by the second course of hand-rolled pasta called fileja, topped with a tomato ragù, and punctuated by chunks of veal. The third course was a melt-in-your-mouth cut of roast served atop a bed of savory greens. 

When I read about Jesus and His ministry in the New Testament, I imagine Him sitting at the table like this one with tax collectors, the poor, blind, and bleeding — women, children, and sinners like you and me. Jesus – the Living Water and Bread of Life – embodies welcome, inviting us to come to Him even when we are hurting and especially when we are hungry.

Romans 15:7 (ESV) invites us to multiply His hospitality: “Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.”

This applies to classmates and colleagues, foreigners and foes. We are challenged by Jesus’ example to extend hospitality in our neighborhoods, schools, offices, and even across political divides.

We all somehow found room for dessert, which was a delectable layered fruit semifreddo commissioned from a local bakery that tasted like a cross between tiramisu and frozen strawberry gelato. The pastry chef had written, “You are welcome – San Giovanni in Fiori” with American and Italian flags on top. This simple gesture was the icing on the cake of our meal, symbolic of the generosity and hospitality that we experienced throughout our whole trip to Italy.

One day, we will all be welcomed into Heaven like paisanos and ushered to our chairs at the marriage feast of the Lamb described in Revelation 19:7-9 (NIV):

“For the wedding of the Lamb has come,
    and his bride has made herself ready.
Fine linen, bright and clean,
    was given her to wear.”

(Fine linen stands for the righteous acts of God’s holy people.)

Then the angel said to me, “Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!” 

This marriage supper is often talked about as the culmination of every feast described in the Bible. At that table, God’s redemptive work and the union between Jesus Christ and His bride will be celebrated. Believers can anticipate being welcomed to the table with abundant courses, eternity to enjoy them, and company from a diversity of backgrounds who are family.

While we wait for that final feast, we can welcome people into our earthly homes and hearts. We can look out for friends who need a hearty bowl of love, neighbors who could use a heaping plate of joy, and strangers who long for a glass of hope.

Dorina helps people feast on the glory of God through her weekly Glorygram on Substack and her new Bible study, Redeemer: God’s Lovingkindness in the Book of Ruth.

 

The (in)courage podcast makes it possible for you to listen to devotions Monday — Friday! Check it out below or on your favorite podcast app!

A Prayer for Teachers

by

As far back as I can remember, teachers have shaped my life.

In second grade, Mrs. Barber invited me to an after-school poetry club, planting a love for alliteration and rhyme in my eight-year-old soul. In fifth grade, Mrs. Ball noticed when I flunked a history test — a red flag for a straight-A student. She kept me in at recess and hugged me as the stress of my parents’ divorce spilled out in tears.

In middle school, Mrs. Lunsford fueled my imagination and always said yes when I pitched creative ideas, like writing a song about the thirteen colonies. In high school, Mr. Allison modeled both passion for literature and deep care for his students. He wrote in my yearbook that I could be the next Hemingway, Fitzgerald, or whoever I wanted to be. And in graduate school, Dr. Bentz walked beside me as an aspiring author, generously sharing knowledge and encouragement as I stepped into the publishing world.

Each of these teachers saw me. And I thank God for them.

Now, as a mom of three, my gratitude for kind, enthusiastic, and dedicated teachers has only grown. I’m grateful for Mrs. Halbert, who noticed my son’s reading struggles and offered the extra support he needed. For Mr. Vigil, who celebrated another son’s out-of-the-box thinking — making space for his wiggles and quirks instead of trying to contain them. For Mrs. Cliffe, who loved her students as if they were her own kids, and called out strengths in my child that I hadn’t yet seen.

And those are just a few glimpses. They don’t capture the countless hours and endless creativity so many amazing teachers pour out. They don’t reflect the weight of discipline challenges, tight budgets, hard mornings, or long nights grading papers.

Teachers are amazing. And they need our prayers.

Whether your kids are in public school, private school, or learning at home, commit to praying for their teachers… even if that teacher is you. And if you don’t have kids, your prayers are still powerful. Think back to the teacher who shaped you — or the one you wish you had.

Let’s lift them up together:

A Prayer for Teachers

Dear God,

Thank You for teachers. Thank You for the men and women who spend their lives nurturing and investing in the next generation. As their days once again fill with bell schedules and lesson plans, mark their hearts with love, patience, and enthusiasm for their students.

Bless each teacher with eyes to see the best in every child. Give them words to encourage, tools to equip, and the ability to spark a love for learning.

Prepare them for the challenges ahead. Empower them to be counselors, conflict diffusers, hope givers, and prayer warriors.

As teachers pour themselves out over essays and equations, ABCs and 123s, pour Yourself into them. Fill them with hope, courage, wisdom, and joy. Surround them with supportive parents, colleagues, and administrators who will champion their calling and value their efforts.

Grant teachers lavish grace for the tasks at hand. Beyond benchmarks and standards, help them to work diligently and love their students deeply — as unto You.

Bless this school year, Lord, and bless every person who wears the beautiful and noble badge of Teacher.

Amen.

“I thank my God every time I remember you.”
Philippians 1:3 (NIV)

Tell us about a teacher who made a lasting impact on your life — or your child’s — and what you remember most about them!

 

Listen to today’s devotion here & share this article or podcast episode with a teacher you love.

<embed>

*From the (in)courage archives. 

How to Bake Your Prayers

by

The day after the miscarriage, I opened the front door to find my mother-in-law standing on our doorstep. She held out a box of caramel rolls from the bakery. She looked into my eyes and spoke three true sentences.

“I know. It is terrible. You will always feel like you never got to meet your third child.”

I took the cardboard box from her hands and started to weep. Because she knew exactly how it felt. Because she is a woman who knows body and soul need to be fed.

. . .

I have known many people like this, who know how to bake their prayers.

They bring pies to funerals and lasagna to new parents. They cook dinners for friends going through chemo. They rally the meal train when someone gets a devastating diagnosis.

They drop off their offerings in secret, ring the doorbell, and run back to the car, because they know that sometimes we need to be fed and loved in silence.

Or they show up exactly when they said they would come, pull up a chair, and sit down to listen, because they know that comfort means presence.

They know there is no right or wrong way to feed the hungry.

There is only the gift of yourself in love.

. . .

Plenty of people have baked their prayers for us.

Baby after baby, casserole after casserole. Friends filled our fridge and freezer. My mom came to visit faithfully after every birth, and our kitchen became ground zero for her love.

I remember a meal she cooked for me after each baby was born, my mouth watering even now to taste the memories. Soft pasta with sautéed zucchini and herbs, fresh from the August garden. A flaky tomato tart as beautiful as it was delicious. Buttery scrambled eggs I scarfed down with the ravenous hunger of a newly nursing mom.

She brought me plates of fruit and cheese as I rested in bed. Grapes so cold they popped in my mouth. Sharp cheddar that melted on my tongue. With religious devotion, she kept the huge water bottle on my nightstand filled with ice, sweating in the sun as I slurped and nursed.

Plates of prayers and cups of care. Love in every bite and sip.

. . .

Then there was the terrible season. When we lost our twins after birth, and scores of friends and family—even total strangers—fed us for months.

All I wanted was to have my daughters back. I wanted the regular hard of post-partum days — soreness, sleeplessness, hormonal swings — but I wanted it with my babies in my arms. Grief swallowed up my appetite, and I didn’t want to eat. Never one to miss a meal, I now pushed my fork around my plate to make everyone think I’d nibbled.

But the prayers kept showing up, regular and relentless, pushing me to keep going, pulling me back to life.

Every time I tugged open the fridge door, strange containers of Tupperware greeted me, Post-its on top scribbled with baking instructions and notes of love. We never had to think about cooking dinner or meal planning. All we had to do was take what we received.

College roommates across the country sent us meals by mail. (Prayers don’t have to be home-baked; they can be flown, too.)

The moms’ group at church brought a flurry of gift cards for pizza, groceries, and ice cream for the kids. (They taught me that you can bake or buy with love, and all this is prayer.)

A reader I had never met sent us a batch of delicious soup and a pan of heavenly brownies. (Think of all those church ladies who cook for funerals: they don’t need to know the ones they serve with love.)

A health-nut friend kept baking us muffins for weeks. Every time I ate one, alone in the kitchen, the only small prayer I could whisper was thank you as I chewed.

All their love helped heal me, body and soul.

. . .

Scripture tells this same story over and over again.

Jesus took loaves and fishes from a child and fed a feast to the crowds. He broke bread and poured wine and said this is my body, this is my blood. He fed His friends baked fish for breakfast on the morning after He rose.

The story of Jesus is the story of how to love people in the flesh. Because the body is more than the vessel that carries us through life. Bodies bear the sacred life that God has given us.

Once Jesus told a story about a woman baking: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened” (Matthew 13:33 NRSVUE).

A whole parable in a single sentence, honoring the holiness of women’s work. But the surprising truth, hidden like leaven in the dough, is found in the recipe.

Back in biblical times, “three measures of flour” would have been huge: about fifty pounds of flour, enough to make sixty or seventy loaves. The woman in the parable is not just baking for her family or friends: she’s feeding the whole neighborhood.

So whenever you join a meal train, bake a casserole, send a gift card, cook for a friend, or serve dinner to a stranger, never doubt the holiness of your work. You are baking your prayers. You are feeding the hungry. You are caring for God’s beloved, in body and soul.

You are making God’s kingdom come.

For more of Laura’s writing, read her essays on finding God in daily life at The Holy Labor or follow her reflections on surviving cancer at The Compassion Brigade.

 

Like listening? Our daily devotion is available below or on the (in)courage podcast!

A Prayer for the New School Year

by

“The Lord Himself goes before you and will be with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”
Deuteronomy 31:8 NLT

The start of a new school year is more than fresh notebooks and sharpened pencils — it’s a fresh season for our children and for us as parents. But along with the excitement can come a tangle of emotions: Will my child make friends? Will they be challenged or supported? How will we handle the early mornings, homework, and schedules? And if we’re honest, the unknowns can feel heavy.

Yet God’s Word offers us this steadying truth: we and our children are never walking into a school year alone. The Lord Himself goes before them — and before us. He’s already in the classroom, the cafeteria, the playground, the library. He’s already alongside their teachers, guiding hearts and minds.

He’s already in the moments we can’t see, working for their good.

As parents, we can anchor our hearts in Scripture, reminding ourselves daily that God’s presence doesn’t stop at the school doors. He will be with our kids when we can’t be. He will strengthen them when the work is hard and comfort them when the day is long. And when we feel the ache of letting go — whether it’s preschool drop-off or sending a young adult back to campus — He is our comfort, too.

To every teacher stepping into another year, know this: your work matters deeply. You are seen, loved, and strengthened by the same God who called you to this meaningful role. We love, esteem, and appreciate you so much!

Transitions aren’t always easy, but with Jesus, we can walk into the school year full of hope, knowing that the One who goes before us also goes with us every step of the way.

A Prayer for the New School Year:

Lord, thank You that You are already in every classroom, hallway, and heart. We entrust this school year to You. We trust You to care for and guide our children, their teachers, and all who will shape their days. Fill our homes with peace when worries rise. Give our kids courage to try, resilience to grow, and kindness to share. Strengthen every teacher with wisdom, patience, and joy. Remind us, Lord, that Your presence goes before us, stays beside us, and will never leave us. We place this year in Your hands and choose to trust You with what we cannot control. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

 

May We Create, Even When God Seems Silent and Hope Feels Far

by

The salty Atlantic winds whip across my face, stinging my skin and creating chaos out of my long, brown hair. My pink cheeks and eyes, raw from the cold and crying, must offer a pop of color against the dreary gray landscape. I try to hide the colorful signs of my sorrow behind an oversized scarf and sunglasses, but it doesn’t matter. There isn’t another soul on the beach to witness my suffering on this frigid New England morning.

I sit alone on the jagged rocks, numb from a betrayal uncovered in an email the night before. My heart has been split wide open and now feels empty. Still new in town, I don’t know where to go or what to do.

So, I drive myself to the ocean’s edge to meet with God.

I hope to hear a divine whisper in the waves, for God to speak to me through His creation. I hope to feel the presence of God in the ways I had before. I think of Job, in his suffering, reminded of God’s creative majesty. I long for something similar — for my spirit to be jolted awake, to encounter something more expansive than my pain. The waves crash and the wind howls, but I sense nothing more.

Years earlier, when I learned that my newborn daughter’s condition was fatal, and in the shadow of her death, the presence of God felt unmistakably close and His voice undeniably clear, audible, almost. But this time it’s different. This time, I’m met with unbearable silence and disorienting absence.

In the months and years that follow my seemingly fruitless trip to the ocean, the spiritual practices that once grounded me — prayer, Scripture, worship, community — start to feel hollow and robotic. My faith falls quiet as I’m no longer as confident as I was before. I feel lost and adrift and, yet, I somehow sense I’m safely, inexplicably, still in God’s care.

From Job’s longing to find God in the midst of his suffering, to the psalmist’s cry (which was also echoed by Jesus on the cross), Scripture reveals that a time will come when we wonder where God has gone. Even still, I recall the truth that God’s ways are vaster than our imaginations: “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:9 NIV).

God colors outside the black-and-white lines we try to draw around Him and our lives. 

In a quiet corner of my home, with nothing to offer but my spirit broken open, I press colorful pigment into textured paper and sense God working in and through me. As I smooth and blend colors with my fingertips, the Holy Spirit — the with-ness of Creator God — stirs and soothes my soul. I sense myself as God’s creation, being shaped in the Potter’s hands (Isaiah 64:8).

In this return to art, I re-encounter God. It happens in silence, in a wordless space where spiritual impressions become colorful expressions.

I don’t curse God. I pick up a pastel. The act of creating becomes communion, the page a place of prayer, and the canvas a safe space for a holy conversation. This is how and when I realize the truth — a silent answer isn’t a dead end. Perhaps our questions are portals that propel us to open wider and create more room to listen differently and meet God in new and unexpected ways.

Whether we’re standing at the edge of the ocean, the edge of ourselves, or the edge of a page, there is always more than we can see, hear, or know. And maybe we can partake in the revealing of God and hope within us, as we continue to ask, “Where are you, God?”

If the old ways of connecting with God have gone quiet, if you feel lost or alone, don’t be afraid to persevere in faith and continue to seek God in a new way. Let your heart discover the language of hope spoken through creativity as a spiritual practice. Let the Holy Spirit guide your hands and stir your spirit. Let the silent, empty places be filled with the sacred making of something new. Let your creative offerings become more than expressions — let them be spaces of spiritual mending and formation.

Even if your hands feel empty, your heart uncertain, and God silent, pick up a pen, a brush, or a crayon and connect with the truth that God is still at work, creating something new and beautiful within you.

May we create, even when God seems silent and hope feels far, dear friends.

What Shadow Are You Abiding Under?

by

Have you ever put your trust in something that failed you? It may have looked reliable, capable — but in the end, it didn’t come through. In Isaiah 30, Scripture points out that the Israelites chose to take refuge in the shade of Egypt rather than in the shadow of the Almighty. They formed an alliance with Pharaoh instead of consulting God.

What they thought would be their protection ultimately became their shame.

Years ago, my husband Darian and I decided we wanted to become house flippers. This was during HGTV’s heyday — we had watched a few too many flipping shows and got carried away. So, we went to the bank, got a loan, and dove in. We bought a house, tools, appliances, and completely renovated the structure. The bank’s vice president personally gave us the loan and assured us everything would be fine. It was an interest-only loan, with the plan to convert it into a mortgage once the project was complete.

I’ll spare you all the details. In short, we finished the renovation and asked the banker about converting the loan. He told us we had plenty of time and not to worry. This continued for a couple of months. Then, our lives shifted — we were preparing to move out of state. Still, the banker insisted we should leave the loan as-is. It didn’t feel like the right decision, and we tried several times to transition the loan, but we were young. The banker was older and much more experienced with money. So, we trusted him.

Late one Sunday evening after we moved, we got a call that the FDIC had just acquired the bank — and our loan would be due at the end of the month. We had 30 days to pay off the house or get a new loan.

We didn’t have the money to pay it off. We had just planted Your Place Church in Pryor, Oklahoma, and invested most of our resources into it. By putting my trust in that banker, I felt like one of the Israelites who trusted in Pharaoh. That protection turned to shame real quick.

But God. He is so good. Psalm 91:1 (NIV) says, “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Sometimes, we find ourselves abiding under the wrong shadow. Pharaoh may have seemed strong and powerful in the natural, but he was no match for God. It’s so easy to put our trust in money, relationships, education, the economy, government, media — anything that appears important by the world’s standards. Yet every time we do, we end up just like the Israelites. That false shadow never brings rest. It only brings shame.

When Darian and I received that call from the banker, it didn’t take us long to repent and seek the Lord. We quickly stepped out from the shade the banker offered and ran to the shadow of the Almighty — and He came through. In the middle of that economic downturn, the Lord turned that house flip around and worked it out for our good. He’ll do the same for you.

Proverbs 3:5–6 (NIV) clearly tells us where to place our trust: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”

I understand why the Israelites trusted Pharaoh. He was right in front of them. They saw his mighty horses, his armies, his chariots. His pyramids were magnificent. He seemed unstoppable. Consulting him felt like the obvious choice.

We often fall into the same trap. People, money, education — they’re visible and feel like the easy answer. But they are not God. They are distractions. According to Isaiah 30, trusting in them only leads to our shame.

There are many shadows we could abide under — but only one offers trustworthy power, protection, and true rest. Let’s choose to abide under the shadow of the Almighty. Time and time again, He has protected, healed, and provided for me. He is my safe refuge.

Whatever you need today, trust in the Lord. Consult Him. Stay in His shadow. And instead of shame, you will find rest.

 

Listen to Tyra’s devotion below, or wherever you stream the (in)courage podcast!

The Surprising Gift Hidden Inside Resistance

by

I stared at the doctor while he waited for my response. His last few sentences silently played in my head, on repeat, with his gentle expression and question lingering in the air between us:

“Do you want to try the medication now, and see if it might help?”

We’d been in this ongoing conversation for almost a year. We’d been over the risks and possible side effects. We’d talked through what had been going on for years, with even more intensity this past year. It had become part of our family’s normal, and the doctor reminded us that maybe this medication would help it be less normal. Every three months for nearly a year, we picked the conversation back up — after trying other things, waiting it out, researching, and considering all the options again. Is medication something that might help? Is this the next right step?

I’ve never been against medication. In every way, I thought I was 100% for it… and yet, this recent consideration uncovered some resistance within me. I felt hesitation every time the question came up.

Why was I resisting? Was the hesitation my gut instinct? The Holy Spirit? Was this hesitation spiritual? Or, was it fear and misplaced pressure I put on myself to be able to make everything right in my own power, for this person I loved?

Sitting in the doctor’s office that day, I knew I could no longer get around the thick wall that had arisen over time. Day after day, another layer of cement had been poured. It was as if this figurative wall kept rising and growing wider with time, unashamed about erecting itself in the middle of our home. I studied it. I tried to figure out how to pull it down. I prayed over it in circles. I pounded it with my fists. And last spring, it was as if I stared at it and finally saw a word spray-painted across the expanse of it in all caps: “HELP.”

Someone I loved needed help that I couldn’t provide, no matter how many things I read or tried. No matter how many times I flipped back through my memory, trying to figure out what I did or didn’t do enough of that led us to this point, I came up short.

I recited a million if onlys and lay awake through the dark hours of the night wondering what I missed, and how I could’ve missed something in the first place that set us on this downward spiral. Was it the pandemic lockdowns? Was it the layers of raising a mixed-race family in America during this cultural moment? Every question I asked and every new “fix the problem” thing to try led me to another dead end, and another hour of crying in the dark on my closet floor. 

So, finally, last May, we said yes, we need help. And this summer, that help looked like surrender to a small, daily pill. 

We all find resistance within us at times. Sometimes it’s quiet and other times loud. Sometimes our resistance protects us from harm and is a healthy caution, but other times it is the thing that’s keeping us from exactly what we need most.

Peter’s resistance to Jesus’ washing his feet came to mind multiple times this past year, and I saw my own resistance in Peter’s quick response at the Passover meal.

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

 Jesus replied, “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

“No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.”
John 13:6-8 NIV

I imagine Peter feeling as if refusing Jesus’ foot washing was the more spiritual way. While the context is not the same as my own, I can relate to Peter’s pride and to Jesus’ words that he doesn’t realize what He’s doing, but will later understand.

I reread my journals professing how I would trust God for good and help. Yet when He showed up in our doctor’s office with a slow and seemingly non-miraculous offer — one that came with possible side effects — I resisted. Like Peter, staring at Jesus with a bowl of water and a towel, I didn’t want His help to come that way.

The more I acknowledge my limitations, the more I understand that resistance is almost always an invitation. Feeling resistant is an invitation to further exploration. It’s an opportunity to be curious, a feeling to lean towards with grace-filled questions, and something that can ultimately lead to a deeper trust in and surrender to Jesus.

Maybe you feel resistance towards being vulnerable in your own needs and limitations, or receiving help for yourself or for someone you love. Maybe you feel resistance towards people who look and live differently than you. Maybe you feel resistant to a new perspective or re-considering an opinion you’ve held onto for years.

What do you do when you feel that uncomfortable sensation that says to run or hide or refuse?

A few questions to ask and a prayer to pray when we feel resistance:

  1. What messages have I heard about this thing or person I feel resistance to? Who were they from? Why do I believe them?
  2. What would Jesus say about those messages?
  3. What am I afraid of?

Inhale: God, help me see through the layers of my resistance. 

Exhale: Release me from fear and pride, and give me the courage to receive what I need most from You.

 

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

You’re Not Bad, You’re Beloved

by

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” I’m a little girl standing in front of a wooden pew, hymnal in my hands, singing off-key. In the sincere sentiment of John Newton’s song, I hear my deepest fear, “You are a wretch; you are bad.”

Later, as an exuberant participant in youth group, I make a similar misinterpretation. In 1 Timothy 1:15, Paul claims the title “chief of sinners.” Joining Paul in declaring myself a “sinner” seems like an act of faith-filled revolution.

Then one morning in a coffee shop decades later, weary from the inner voice of shame, I decide to ask, “Am I really a wretch and sinner?”

I look up the backstory of Amazing Grace and discover John Newton wrote these words about his former self as the captain of a slave ship, not as a description of himself as a faithful minister and devoted abolitionist.

Paul is also not describing a current identity. The meaning of “chief” can be translated as “first in rank.” Imagine an athlete who sets a world record that is never beaten, even though they retire from the sport. They would still be “first in rank,” although this is not their daily reality.

The language surrounding the “chief of sinners” phrase is past tense. Paul says he “was formerly a blasphemer, a persecutor, and an insolent man” (1 Timothy 1:13). In Romans, Paul also says, “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8, emphasis mine). The implication is that he, and all believers, are not sinners now.

The Greek word for “sinner” is “harmatolos” and means someone who is “devoted to sin.” Paul would not claim this identity, and yet, for many years, I felt compelled to do so. Every time I made a mistake or fell short of an expectation, it seemed to confirm that I was a sinner.

However, sin, when it relates to Christians, is described as an action, not an identity. It is something we still sometimes do, but it is not who we are.

The New Testament has over 175 names for believers who faithfully follow Jesus, but “sinner” is not one of them. “Sinner” is a false accusation; the names we are given are love-based affirmations.

Saying we’re “sinners” can feel true because we know what we are capable of as humans. But claiming this title is deeply unhelpful. People tend to become who they believe themselves to be. If we’re constantly told we’re sinners, what is that doing to our hearts?

We can also falsely think that one of the best ways to glorify God is to be hard on ourselves. But telling ourselves we’re bad is not a way to make God look good. It is not the way of Love. The voice of Love is an invitation that says, “Remember who you really are. Rest in who you will forever be. Nothing and no one can change your identity.”

The truest thing about you is not that you are bad.

The truest thing about you is that you are beloved.

I wish I could go back to that little girl holding the heavy hymnal with words she didn’t understand. I would take it from her hands. I would whisper in her ear, “There is goodness and beauty here, but not every word is what it seems. You are not a wretch, dear one; you are a wildly loved child of God. That is truth; that is amazing grace.”

Do you want more reminders of the truth about your identity? Holley created 31 free affirmation cards to remind you of who God says you are! Get yours now.

 

Listen to Holley’s devotion here or on your fave podcast app!

The Difference Between Entertaining and Hospitality

by

Hospitality. What is it, really? When we overstress, overplan, and overthink inviting others into our lives and homes, hospitality becomes overwhelming to our souls. We become slaves to the expectations of others. We freeze at the mere thought of extending an invitation. Craving both perfection and polished perception, we fall victim to a cruel taskmaster. So how do we find the balance here? How do we open our door to the unknown without opening ourselves to dread and discouragement?

It comes down to knowing the difference between entertaining and hospitality.  

The entertaining host seeks to elevate herself. When the guest arrives, the entertainer announces, “Here I am. Come into my beautiful abode and have the honor of partaking of all the wonderful things I’ve spent hours getting done for you. Look at this lavish buffet, the intricate décor, and the wonderful party favors. How fortunate for you to be here and be part of this.”

While I embellish on what a hostess might actually say, we’ve all encountered this attitude once or twice, haven’t we? Maybe we’ve even allowed a similar tone to slip ever so subtly into our own hosting.  

Hospitality, unlike entertaining, treats everyone as a guest of honor rather than grasping at honor for yourself. Biblical hospitality offers our best to Him first, understanding that our best to others will then fall into place. It transforms our selfish motives and elevates our guest. When the hospitable hostess swings wide the door, all her attention focuses outward: “You’re here! I’ve been waiting for you. No one is more important today than you, and I’m thrilled you’ve come.” Shifting our focus from us to them removes all unnecessary expectations. No need to worry about what to say or how to act. Just come as you are.  

Opening your door has nothing to do with the actual setting, the guest list, or the food. The atmosphere can be exactly the same yet have very different results based on the heart attitude of the one who welcomes.  

Status-seeking versus servanthood.  

“Here I am” versus “here you are.”  

Self-serving to serving others.  

We have no grand blueprint for hospitality aside from loving others. As the master architect, God drew up hospitality so that it gravitates around this core component. 

He is not shy about interrupting our best-laid plans. He will ask us to give up the ordered control we consider so crucial before we’ll open the door. But the reason we open the door anyway is because we’re driven by the main principles of hospitality: loving Him, loving His will, and following His will into loving others.  

The deep-seated worrying, the excuses, and the overthinking of a simple invitation should be warning signs, telling us we’re confusing social entertaining with hospitality. When we use our lives exactly as they are, desiring only to create a sacred space for our guests, mixing it with the countercultural truth of loving Jesus and loving others, we turn entertaining upside down, and it becomes radical hospitality. 

Every time we choose open-door living — whether in our homes or by taking hospitality on the road just like Jesus — those we invite in get to experience the lived-out Gospel, and we trade insecurity for connection. It’s never perfect, but then neither are we.

Truly, our homes—no matter how imperfect—are the most likely location for changing the world around us. 

The secret is to start small. Be spontaneous. Invite one friend over for coffee and offer delicious store-bought coffee cake. If you have time to make your favorite homemade recipe, that’s wonderful, but don’t let that dictate whether you extend an invitation.  

 Here are a few simple suggestions to get you started: 

  • Invite your friends or neighbors to a root beer float party. 
  • Send a group text invitation for a “Popsicle and Pop-in” time with the kids.  
  • Gather the neighbors together for a hot chocolate party. 
  • Host a “Build Your Own ________ Bar” meal. Be creative! You can have a build-your-own ice cream bar, baked potato bar, burrito bar, or pizza bar. For a fancier occasion, try a bruschetta bar or mashed potato bar (served up in martini glasses for a dramatic flair). These work well for large groups, and everyone can bring a topping, which means minimal work and cost for the host.  
  • Never underestimate the power of the grill. Throw chicken and hot dogs on the grill and have everyone bring a side or dessert to share. 
  • Pizza Party — everyone loves pizza!  

Opening your door doesn’t require you to be a gourmet chef or have the resources to throw an elaborate celebration. All that’s required is a willingness to say “yes” to inviting others into your life. 

What is one simple step you can take to open your door to a friend or neighbor this season?  

Article by Jen Schmidt from the (in)courage archives and featured in Everyday Faith Magazine.

The Fall 2025 edition of Everyday Faith is available now, and you’re going to love it! 

From cover to cover, Everyday Faith Magazine is brimming with articles that bring hope. In this issue, you’ll find:

  • tips on how to study the Bible with intentional gratitude
  • excerpts from new books and devotionals
  • encouragement for what it can look like to trust God through difficult seasons 
  • autumn traditions and recipes
  • stories of faith, messages of comfort, and nuggets of truth from God’s Word!

There’s even a super cute fall friendship bucket list!

The article above is just one of many featured in Everyday Faith Magazine, which is perfect for gifting to a friend, Bible Study sister, Sunday School teacher, or neighbor. And to help you do just that, we’re giving away* FIVE sets of magazines — one for each winner and one for them to give to a friend!

Leave a comment telling us to whom you’d gift a copy, and we’ll draw five winners.

*Giveaway is open to US addresses only and will close on 9/7/2025 at 11:59 pm Central.