Don’t Try to Change Me, Love Me

Don’t Try to Change Me, Love Me

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I posted this Voltaire quote on Instagram several weeks ago, “I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” Among many happy face emojis was one half-hearted response from my friend Rick. Essentially, he disagreed with me. I wasn’t surprised. In fact, sometimes I don’t post my opinion on Instagram because I know Rick (and others who disagree with me) follow my feed. How could anyone disagree with freedom of speech? And though I wasn’t prepped for a full-on debate, I asked him what he meant by his comment.

For the next few weeks, Rick and I engaged in an ongoing conversation. I began our first interaction on Voxer (an app where one can leave long voice messages for another) by informing him that I don’t like conflict. Basically, please be nice to me. Our conversations ranged from Donald Trump, masks, lockdowns, friendship, Jesus, and included the occasional cuss word.

Rick went on rants and apologized when he was out of line. I repeated myself often and told him outright I disagreed with his viewpoint. Initially, I set out to correct Rick’s thinking. He was clearly wrong. I’m sure he was determined to convince me to see how wrong I was.

For days and weeks, we discussed current events, Joe Rogan, and the Biden administration. I’d share my perspective, and he would share his. At one point, I even cried because he acknowledged my pain. I think he chocked up a time or two as well.

Did Rick’s views and data change me? No.

Did my robust, heart-felt, sound arguments change Rick? I don’t think he budged an inch.

But this is what did happen. I came to respect him, and perhaps, he came to respect me a little too. We came to see that we assumed things that weren’t true about each other, and in fact, we had both been hurt over the past several years. We were both passionate, and we were both flawed.

Having these conversations with Rick didn’t change my political beliefs, but it changed something else in me. I didn’t need to be right anymore. Of course, I want to be right, and I still think I am right on a lot of the issues. But I didn’t need to be right. I realized that relationships trump right-ness.

I can be so focused on being right that I miss the relationship. So many relationships became fractured through the pandemic. So many arguments erupted, so many fights over freedom, so many fears drove us into separate corners like cockroaches scattering when a light flips on.

But Jesus teaches us to approach relationships in a different way.

Jesus doesn’t tell us to mount an attack with our best arguments. Jesus doesn’t say to come out swinging. Jesus doesn’t tell us to look down on other people who don’t see things our way. No, Jesus says, “Give your neighbor your cloak, turn the other cheek, be the good Samaritan.” Jesus says, “Be slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Jesus says, “Love your neighbor like yourself.”

I think we can all grow from talking to people who stand on the other side of issues. People who don’t agree with your political, theological, or ethical views deserve to be loved and heard. But the first step isn’t to change someone. The first step is to see the other person as human and loved.

I am human and can be wrong. I am human and worthy to be loved. They are human and can be wrong. They are human and worthy to be loved. The way forward isn’t to change people but to love them. Love may not change someone’s politics, but it will change you. As you love, you will become more like Christ. And this, my friends, is good.

Create in Me a Heart of Hope

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Nobody calls in the middle of the night with good news. My normally innocent ringtone turned ominous the moment it broke the silence and woke me from a sound sleep. After being startled awake in that manner, I wasn’t even surprised to hear sobbing when I finally answered the call.

My friend apologized for calling in the middle of the night and for crying so hard her words were incoherent at first. I assured her that it was okay, that I was there for her. I told her she wasn’t alone, and I told her to breathe. Gently, I asked her what was wrong.

Eventually she was able to speak, and in between sobs she told me what had happened. She was shocked and disoriented; she felt betrayed and scared. After a long pause, she finally asked me, “What do I do now? How will I sleep tonight? How can I wake up tomorrow?”

Bleary-eyed and heartbroken, I wasn’t sure what to tell my dear friend. I didn’t know how to help in that moment. Solidarity and encouraging words only go so far, especially in the immediate aftermath of trauma. And while I could identify with parts of her story, I’d never walked in her exact shoes. Holding my phone with one hand and my head with the other, I silently asked the One who has the answers.

What does she do now, God? What do I do? How can I help her? What do I say? What will even help her right now?

That was when my friend asked me a different question. She asked me if it would all work out. She asked me to tell her that it would be okay. And finally I had something I could hold on to and then offer back to her. Yes!, I told her. Eventually, I promised, everything would work out. Someday, I assured her, she would realize that she had healed, grown, moved on enough to feel okay again. I made sure to emphasize eventually and someday, knowing that my friend would feel the sting of this situation for quite a while. But in that moment, we both felt a glimmer of hope, and it was enough.

She felt a glimmer of hope that, while she was blinded with pain in this moment, it would not last forever. I felt hope that I would not fail my friend in her time of grief.

As my friend continued to cry and process her pain, I thought back to the last time my own world crashed down around me. I could see myself in that moment, falling to my knees on my bedroom floor. Doubled over with sobs I could not control, I felt completely unmoored. Both my emotions and my body felt like they were caught in a storm, whipping from one place or thought to another. Eyes wild and so full of tears I couldn’t see, I wrapped my arms around my midsection, wishing desperately someone else could give me a hug, could sit with me, could give me any comfort at all.

When I had felt as devastated and desperate as my friend on the phone that night, I wanted so badly to know that I wasn’t alone. I wanted someone to tell me that someday things would be okay again.

As I mentally clawed for any promise or reassurance to wrap my heart around, I felt that same glimmer of hope. Though it didn’t occur to me to call a friend to help me in that moment, God got through to me anyway. He reminded me that I wasn’t alone and that it would be okay. He pulled His promises from the recesses of my brain to the forefront of my mind, and finally my tears began to subside and my heartbeat began to slow. I remembered . . .

God is with the brokenhearted. He will never leave us. Never. He will fight for me. He will win. God will work everything out for good. He will redeem it all.

During my bedroom-floor breakdown and in my friend’s moment of crisis, it was hope that saved us. It was hope that helped us make it through the next minute, the next day, our entire lives after heartbreak. Hope is what kept both of us from being completely submerged in despair, from giving up entirely. It’s what helped us eventually stand up — even while we still cried, even while we still hurt — and face whatever would come next. Knowing that we were not alone and that God would help us made all the difference.

Without hope, the pain of this world can easily overwhelm us. Whether our strength is sapped by one sweeping blow or it is slowly bled by a thousand seemingly small cuts, we are done for if we aren’t wrapped in the hope of God’s presence. We must anchor ourselves to His promises to never leave us, to go before us in battle, to love us no matter what, to wipe away our every tear. Without that hope, we are lost.

But with it? With hope in the Lord and His love and power and mercy? Then I know we can make it. With hope, we can withstand the storm and keep pressing forward. We can face every middle-of-the-night phone call and every circumstance that knocks the wind right out of us. With hope, we know someday is coming.

Dear God, I need hope. I need a secure foundation to build my faith and my life on. I need something to hold on to when the storms of this life threaten to knock me down. Thank You for promising to be my hope. Show me the truth of Your promises. Create in me a heart of hope that clings to You in all seasons, relies on You and You only, and points others back to You when they face their own challenges. Amen.

Looking for hope? We’ve got some for you.

Meet Create in Me a Heart of Hope, the new (in)courage Bible study from DaySpring, written by Mary Carver and featuring stories from your favorite (in)courage writers.

If you’ve ever gotten a middle of the night phone call with sobbing on the other end . . .

If you’ve ever had a bedroom-floor breakdown, arms wrapped around your midsection . . .

If you’ve ever asked yourself, “What do I do now? How will I sleep tonight? How can I wake up tomorrow?” . . .

. . . then this is the Bible study for you, friend. God’s Word and this Bible study are here to meet you in that very place.

Create in Me a Heart of Hope looks at how God offers us hope — real, certain, unshakable hope. Looking at where that hope comes from and what it looks like in our lives will help us understand what hope is and what difference it makes. It will allow God to create in us a heart of hope.

Our prayer is that this study will encourage you to seek the Lord and the hope He 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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God Is Like the Heart in Your Chest

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I have a four-year-old son, and he has a brilliant brain filled with questions and curiosities, all of which remind me of the kind I carried in my childhood.

He tells me he wants to be a kid astronaut. He tells me he doesn’t want to grow up and doesn’t want to be a human. He just wants to be young forever, so he can go to outer space and see all the wild planets spinning around out there.

Sometimes he asks me which planets are closest to the sun. He asks me where comets come from and why the moon follows us in car rides on the way home.

But, then, he asks questions like the one about the grandfather we lost to COVID — questions like, “When is Pop coming back?” and “When will we get to see him again?” Then come questions about suffering and why everyone in the world is sick right now, and “Where is God, and why can’t I see Him? Is God ticking the clocks? Is God real if I can’t see Him?”

Recently, my son huddled up close to me. “Why can’t I see God?” he asked. I wanted to avoid the question. I wanted to change the subject, say a prayer, and give a platitude. It’s been a hard two years and answering heavy questions doesn’t come easy anymore. But I know my son’s curiosity comes from a place of true hunger. He is not a baby asking for a bottle; he is a self-aware human being with feelings and fears, emotions and exhaustive wonderings. I cannot simply pat him on the back and pray this away.

“God,” I said, “is kind of like the wind. We might not be able to see Him, but we can see that He is here.”

I asked him about his heart in his chest. “Do you know that thumping sound?”

“Yeah!”

“What’s making that sound?”

“My heart,” he said, smiling away.

“Can you see your heart?”

“No!”

“But you know it’s there, right?”

“Yeah!”

Looking him deep in the eye, I tell him, “God is like the heart in your chest — even though you can’t see Him, you can hear Him, feel Him, and sense Him.”

And that is the truth. God is always showing us who He is, what He does, and where He is through the wind, the trees, and kaleidoscopic sunsets. When we look at these things, knowing God made them, we can see and trust that He is here and that He loves us. His presence is a promise.

That moment with my son didn’t end with fireworks and confetti. He still has a long list of lingering questions, and quite frankly, so do I. I want to know about the galaxies out there. I want to know about the precise moment our world crumbled into its fallen state. I want to know about time and if eternity ticks with or without it. These are questions that I will spend my life carrying and cradling. I will stumble upon the answers to some of them, but most of them — along with the others I’ve yet to conjure — will stay with me in life and through my death.

God has made much known, and yet He makes much to remain unknown. Mystery is the chasm that keeps God on the throne and us in awe of Him. We are sons and daughters of the King — even friends, yes, but He is still King, still holy and wholly set apart.

While there is much we don’t and won’t ever know, this one thing will never be in question: the fact that God loves us and that God is with us. He is with us in the way He can be seen through His invisible qualities.

For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities — his eternal power and divine nature — have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse.
Romans 1:20 (NIV)

And the wonders of this kind of love — this King’s love — are not just visible; they are also incarnate. He is not only to be witnessed but to be trusted as with us.

Indeed, it’s a truth we feel more viscerally in the dead of winter, in the darkest days of the year when the season reminds us that love came swaddled in lowly layers. Even now, while we are well beyond winter, we are not beyond Advent — the truth that Christ, God in flesh, has come, is coming (meaning, is daily with us), and will come again.

Every sunset bears witness to God but also boasts that God is with us. The wind bears witness to God but also boasts that God is with us. Love on display — especially that which is otherworldly — bears witness to God but also boasts that God is with us.

He will never just be a God to worship; He’s a God who is with us — closer than the skin on our bones, closer than the heart in our chest.

 

Listen to Rachel’s words below or in your fave podcast app!

Small Moments Multiplied Over Time Matter

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For twenty minutes, my husband and I “talked” inside using our outside voices. With our adult kids home for a rare weekend, we were so loud that it woke them up. They scurried downstairs to find out what the commotion was all about because nothing says “Happy New Year” like your typically peaceful parents sparring. Admitting later that they can count on their fingers the number of times they’ve witnessed such a feisty disagreement, this was a popcorn-and-movie kind of event that they didn’t want to miss.

I’ll never forget that morning. In fact, smack dab in the middle of what turned into a three-hour family meeting, I snapped a picture of our two eldest sons taking charge. One, who already stood six feet, three inches tall, climbed on a kitchen chair with a Bible in hand. The other planted himself next to his brother with a coffee mug raised high as a show of solidarity. Both swooped in with their arsenal full of debate and mediation techniques with plans to save the day.

In the midst of the tension that most families may have run from, we got serious about Hebrews 12:14, “Pursue (or strive for) peace with everyone, and holiness — without it no one will see the Lord.”

While I believe my home is the heart of my most important ministry, it’s regrettably the place where my sin bubbles over more often than anywhere else. I fumble through many days begging the Lord that His power would be made perfect in my weakness. Home is where I am most exposed, the most exhausted, where my family sees the good, the bad, and everything in between.

But because of this, it’s also where the transformative power of Christ can be best seen in me. It’s the place where He’s most likely to begin chiseling away at my sinful heart, drawing me closer to Him and showering me with His sufficient grace.

This was one of those moments. I looked around the room, and my frustrated heart swelled with hope for this next generation of future family leaders.

I’ve made a myriad of parenting mistakes over the decades, but I’ve always placed a high priority on open dialogue, no matter how uncomfortable. Our children have watched us push back against what’s easy as we prioritize peacemaking because we know that choosing the hard and holy road of reconciliation with our family, neighbors, co-workers, and fellow church members brings Him glory. As we attempt to reflect the heart and character of God, we reach beyond what’s possible in our own nature and tap into His power and strength.

So committed to flushing out the conflict that reared its morning head, all nine of us invested the necessary time to create a safe space where all could be heard.

Our son took the lead. “Mom, what I’m hearing you say is ___________. Is that correct? Is that what you’re feeling?” In some parallel universe, he started implementing helpful listening techniques on his own parents.

“So, Dad, when you mention Mom doesn’t understand, can you validate that maybe she does understand but doesn’t agree with you?”

I chuckle now thinking about this exchange, but it also fires me up because small moments multiplied over time matter. How we pursue peace and model it for our children or the neighbors or our co-workers has a long-term, multigenerational impact on others. Yes, even what we model amidst discord trains and disciples the next generation of world changers, the next leaders of families, a new culture of biblical communicators. After the visceral communication challenges surrounding the pandemic, it’s a nearly paralyzing concept at times, but the dedicated effort is worth it.

Don’t grow weary or give up hope. Don’t listen to voices that steer us toward apathetic leadership. Prioritize the importance of peacemaking because someday soon you may have raised children who moderate your next healthy, marital discussion.

Full disclosure: While my husband and I hugged and kissed (our kids made us), we didn’t leave in agreement. Committed to our love for each other and the gospel of peace, it was necessary to agree to disagree. That’s the reality of marriage, friendship, and church community. Every discussion doesn’t end with a beautiful bow. But as we finished the family meeting, our son’s college roommate who joined us for the holidays declared, “That was refreshing!”

“Refreshing?” I questioned.

“Yes. For me to watch that all unfold was so refreshing. That’s not common.”

I got teary eyed. Our conversation was heated and messy, yet as waves of love, repentance, and humility ushered in, we still modeled the hard and holy work of family as we allowed the transformative power of Christ to be seen in us. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it.

As Christ followers, we are called to be uncommon. I’ll take that label, won’t you?

 

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

Pain Is Not a Competition

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Elroy set his plate on the table and slumped into the seat in front of me, beanie pulled down low. Eyes downcast, he mumbled a greeting.

I was to learn later, as stories passed between us like bread and butter around a table over the weekend, that he had been released from prison only months ago. Sentenced when he was eighteen, he’d spent twenty-five years incarcerated for a crime he did not commit.

That morning, we ate at the table across from each other, silent and apart, strangers at this retreat for survivors of wrongful conviction.

Someone leaned in next to him, “Elroy, do you know Grace? She is an exoneree.”

“She? An exoneree?” A flicker of a question mark lifted his eyebrow. His gaze grazed my face before returning to the plate. “How many years?”

I felt ashamed to answer. I didn’t deserve to be here. My eyes darted around the table, struggling to find a place to land. I had legal help, family resources, and I was not Black or male. I felt like I cheated.

“A year,” I shrugged the answer like an apology.

Elroy’s eyes lifted. He looked straight at me. “One day,” he said, “is too long for an innocent person.”

Then he disappeared back into his plate, eyes drooping. But I knew he had just given me a gift: a largeness of heart, a generosity I had not yet learned to give myself. He was teaching me.

Pain is not a competition. There is no contest for compassion, but I often feel that I need to deserve it.

About six months into the pandemic, after sharing some of my struggles, I asked a church leader how he was doing. “I’m blessed,” he said. “I have a roof over my head, food on the table, a job. I have nothing to complain about.”

But are you lonely? I wanted to ask. Are you scared?

Shame separates. Connection comforts. Yet, too often, we disqualify ourselves from comfort. We think our pain is not big enough to deserve comfort.

But is there really a pain too small for comfort? Does God care only about headline injustices? Catastrophes? Jesus-on-the-cross level suffering?

Or did God weep the first time a butterfly tore its wing? Did He ache the first time Eve rolled to the far side of the bed and cried herself to sleep? Did He wince when His Son skinned a knee and the blood bloomed like tiny globes?

I wonder if we have become intimidated by the cross. We operate under the burden of “being thankful for Jesus’ suffering” and perpetually feeling a bit guilty that we are enjoying our blessings because of His agony, described for us so graphically by zealous preachers every year around Easter time. But by fixating on the cross as the sum total of Jesus’s sufferings, do we forget that He was a man like us? When we consider His execution, do we forget all the little indignities that made Him human? He was hungry. He soiled Himself. He thumped His finger with Joseph’s hammer. Jesus, fully man, fully felt the pain of it. It was not just the cross that brought Him near to us. It was the humanity. It was the living of life, day after day, for thirty some years. It was the sting of a rumor, the misunderstandings by His brothers, the loss of His father, the frustration of a sandal strap that would not be fixed. It was the temptation to snap at a disciple, to avoid annoying people, to have the crowds like and accept Him. It was trembling with the unfairness of a wrongful conviction.

Jesus sympathizes with our weaknesses — all of them.

If I am in the business of comparing pain, weighing it like fruit in the market, sticking a price tag on it, I might find mine lacking. When mine is unworthy of attention, will I not begin to weigh the pain of others as well? Will I not try to decide whether they deserve compassion? Either I will put them on a pedestal as too different from me, or I will tell them to be thankful and not complain.

What would happen if we allowed our pain to carry weight? Then, we might feel the weight of the burden carried by our neighbors as well. Perhaps we would feel guilty — ashamed that we had looked away, ashamed at our privilege. Perhaps we would feel overwhelmed, unaccustomed to the heaviness of it all.

But perhaps the surprise is that there, in that place where we think we least deserve it, is also the place of compassion — that spark of recognition across the table.

So you know too.

 

Listen to Grace’s words below or on your fave podcast player!

Even in Middle of Suburbia, God Is There

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I walk the rectangle of our neighborhood in the middle of the morning, and I hear the birds tweeting, flitting back and forth from tree to tree. I smell the early scent of spring — all the flowers waking up and stretching in the warmth of the sun, pouring their fragrance generously into the wind. I notice tiny, purple flowers growing in the cracks of the asphalt, and I bend down to see them up close, marveling at life’s tender resilience to bring itself forth in the midst of hard circumstances.

It’s a quiet, suburban neighborhood, and years ago, I felt trapped in it. I felt trapped by the endless amount of houses, the sameness of everyone’s routines and goals in life, the comfort and convenience of suburbia that dull the senses. After nearly a decade away, I had come back to live in a place I had sworn never to live in again.

I had been raised overseas as a missionary’s kid with dreams of becoming a martyr in a third world country, and everything about this place was far from it. I pushed against any assimilation to it, and I scoffed at and internally judged those who had fallen drowsy to suburbia’s siren calls.

The problem was that I lived here. My home was here. My children went to school here. We were building a life here. And it wasn’t long before the tensions of hating the place I lived in with the reality of living here came to a head. I had to reckon with why I loathed it, where the underlying resentments came from, and how to learn not only to live here but to love it for what it was.

And thus began the deep inner healing work of readjusting expectations and dreams, of uncovering buried bitterness, of confessing pride in thinking I was better than the place I was in — than the people around me, of discovering God to be everywhere.

I began by looking low to the ground and paying attention to the small things: the neighbor’s unkempt rose bushes that bloom even when neglected, the perfect sliver of moon shining at night, the love given and shared in our multigenerational home. I recognized my arrogance in positioning myself above those around me, as if I were holier or more enlightened. We were the same — simply learning to live well with what we’ve been given.

I started to see how our location matters and that there is good to be found right where we’re at, even with its issues and problematic values. We are in our neighborhoods, our cities, our towns for a reason — even if it’s not by choice — and it’s in those specific places that God is there, that God is working, that God is creating life, that God is redeeming the people and the place toward His kingdom come.

We often idealize and even sensationalize places far removed from us. We’re quick to give to efforts halfway across the globe because it’s less complicated. We can easily see a before-and-after, a life made better through our donations. But we only get a two-dimensional rendering of the people; we don’t get to see the nuances of their lives. While knowing and loving the people in close proximity and being rooted in the location we live in brings with it all the dimensions of relationship — ups and downs, disagreements and joys, the complexities and simplicities of being human. It’s in those finer details though that we get to experience God’s presence, live out our faith, and love as we’ve been called to love.

I think about how Jesus came down from heaven to dwell in a specific location, within a specific ethnic community. He did His work locally, as far as His feet and a boat could take Him. He focused on the people right around Him, healing, preaching, and walking with them. And yet, what happened there changed the world.

Yes, God is in the far-off places, but God is everywhere — even here. He is alive and moving in every suburban, urban, or rural area. So wherever your here is, look for Him there. See how He is moving and engage with Him, co-create life with Him there.

In the evening, I take another walk around the neighborhood. I listen to the rustle of leaves in the gentle wind, and I realize I don’t feel trapped anymore. Instead, this place that I once despised has truly become a thin place in which to meet God. And at last, I’m finally at peace.

 

Listen to Grace’s article below, or wherever you stream podcasts!

Sabbath Is God’s Gift to Us

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Today I am spending much of my Saturday working hard to prepare for tomorrow — a day I plan on taking completely and fully off. Taking a day completely off? Doesn’t that sound like a fantasy, something we can only dream about until we win the lottery and finally hire that full-time manservant?

Not so, friend. I am out here living the dream of having one day a week, totally and gloriously and completely off.

Today, I’ll make a big pot of tomato soup and prepare all the fixings for a black and blue salad (black angus beef, blue cheese), so lunch is ready to go for tomorrow. I will prep some chicken and vegetables, so Sunday evening all I have to do is pop dinner in the oven and then sit down to a feast with people I love.

I’m also cleaning the house, doing dishes, setting up the coffee maker, and getting ahead on laundry. Outside, I’m cleaning out the chicken coop and giving the ladies food and water. My only to-dos tomorrow will be to attend worship services, hang out with friends, and eat amazing food — and, if the day decides, take a nap.

Not a bad list. All of this is preparing for Sabbath.

This has not always been my sabbath routine. You see, Sabbath and I have had a complicated history.

For so long, I felt the tug to be a “good Christian” and follow all the rules about Sabbath. It somehow showed my devoutness that I would turn down invites from friends to go do something fun on a Sunday. (Yes, I was a snot.)

I’ve finally discovered, after way too long, that I was doing Sabbath all wrong. I’d always looked at it as a long list of “you can’ts” and “you shouldn’ts” I had to follow. To me, Sabbath was just a set of rules I was constantly breaking. (Nothing like long-term religious guilt served up on a weekly basis.)

After spending some time with people of the Jewish faith, I realized they had a totally different perspective on observing the day. Their day was one of rest, one to be celebrated and protected. It wasn’t a punishment or a long list of the things that they couldn’t do. It was a list of things that they didn’t need to do because the day is reserved for God and others.

After considering Sabbath as something special God has set aside for me, I’ve had a different way of approaching my Sundays.

Now, almost every day during the week, but especially Friday and Saturday, I dedicate some time to prepare for Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I try to get ahead on some projects, just a little at a time. Friday is our day to go into town, so I make my shopping list and meal plan on Thursday. On Friday, I go shopping for whatever we need, and then Saturday is my day to prep for Sunday. Saturday dinner is the signal to our brains and our bodies that the work is done.

We are not legalistic about it. Sometimes we are on a work trip or vacation and things need to be done on a Sunday. But no matter where we are, we set aside some time to honor God and be with those we love. It is our rest and reset for the week. And it is what my soul has needed all along.

This celebration of Sabbath has brought a beautiful rhythm to my seven days. Saturday night and Sunday are the natural culmination to our week, so everything during the week leads up to that day of rest and restoration.

We can take our example from Jesus, who was reprimanded more than once for “breaking” the Sabbath. His response stunned the religious leaders of the day:

Then [Jesus] said to them, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath.”
(Mark 2:27 NIV)

Since my mindset change, I have a different relationship with Sabbath. While it may look like I’m being legalistic, nothing could be further from my heart. I am receiving Sabbath as the gift that it is.

This practice of Sabbath takes practice. We humans are not good at the not doing. I feel so much more comfortable with a checklist and a lot of rules.

If observing Sabbath is new to you, a couple of things to keep in mind:

  1. At first, you’re not going to be great at it — and that’s okay. Keep trying. Eventually, you will go from wrestling with it to looking forward to it.
  2. Realize that observing Sabbath doesn’t change your day; it changes your week. Decide on a Monday that you will participate in Sabbath that Sunday and plan backwards, doing a little each day to prepare for Sunday. This is not to “earn” your Sabbath. This is to take the pressure off and truly be able to enjoy it.
  3. Make Sabbath special. Plan your time for worship. Plan your time with people you love. Finally, and this is important, plan for a time when you will decide whether it’s a nap day or not.

Because remember, Sabbath is a gift.

Overwhelmed? An Abundant Place is a daily retreat for women who can’t get away.

Gentleness Is Stronger Than Force

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One of my favorite stories as a child was “The North Wind and the Sun” from Aesop’s Fables. The story goes that the north wind and the sun were debating between themselves about who was stronger. As they argued “with much heat and bluster,” they see a man walking across a field. They decide whoever is able to strip the man of his coat is stronger. The north wind goes first. His large gusts of wind almost knock the man over, but all his cold air accomplishes is to make the man grip his coat harder. Then it’s the sun’s turn. He steps forth from behind the clouds and radiates his warmth. The man is so comforted and relaxed by the sun’s rays that he takes off his coat and lies down under a tree. The lesson of the story is that gentleness is stronger than force.

In some ways, we all need to take the story of the north wind and the sun to heart. We live and breathe in a world that tells us that it’s okay to use force. We’re often told that the way forward for change in this world is to strong arm people. Both in person and on social media, I see folks spewing hate at each other for having different opinions on politics, race, gender, family, and religion, as if that’s going to get someone to change their mind and see a different perspective. I see metaphorical walls erected between Black, Brown, and White Christians because so many of them think they’re right and they have no problem alienating someone else for their “wrong” perspective. Our sad human inclination is to use violence in our words, to knock people over with shame, in the belief that that will convince them to change.

But, if I can be completely honest, I’m tired of people thinking the path to change (whether racial change or otherwise) is through force. When was the last time you were humiliated and thought, “Yes, what that person is saying to me is right. I need to change”? When was the last time you were metaphorically knocked over and then changed what you were doing? Our hearts and our minds don’t usually work that way.

As my friend and fellow (in)courage contributor Lucretia Berry once said, “Shame is not a teacher.” In fact, shame is like the north wind in the story from Aesop’s Fables. When we make people feel small and verbally hurt them, it only makes people want to retreat and to stop trying to work toward change. They pull their coats tighter to their chests, resisting our efforts. That’s not the effect we want to have on people. Rather, what people need, what we all need, are warm rays of love and kindness and a gentle invitation to a better way.

When I see our world today, I see a world in need of gentleness. Gentleness is one of the fruits of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-23). It’s also a characteristic that’s mentioned throughout the whole Bible. For example, Colossians 4:5-6 writes, “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” And Proverbs 16:24 states, “Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.”

This verse from Proverbs is a verse that we recite often in our home. We want our kids to know the power of their words and how gentle words will always be more inviting and more loving than a harsh rebuke. Gentle language, after all, is the model of Jesus. I think about how many times He walks up to strangers and calls them “brother” or “sister.” Jesus goes to the people on the margins of society and has meals in their homes. He befriends people, treating them like family, and lovingly invites them with His words into a better way — His way.

One of Jesus’ gentle approaches to people was asking questions. Instead of rebuking the Samaritan woman at the well in John 4, Jesus asks her a series of questions to help her reflect on her life and come to the conclusion that she needs him. When the religious authorities of the day came to fight with Jesus, He didn’t shout a three-point argument back at them. Jesus was calm, gentle, and asked simple questions to redirect the conversation and get to the heart of what really mattered.

Asking questions, instead of just trying to teach and correct people, is one way we can express gentleness like Jesus. Questions are a helpful way to get people to reflect on their words and the impact of their views. Perhaps in a moment that we really disagree with someone, we can pause, pray, and then respond with something like, “Oh wow, that’s interesting. Tell me more about that” or “I’d like to better understand how you arrived at that conclusion. Can you share more?” There is an art to asking questions so that the other person doesn’t feel attacked or insulted as well as giving space to truly listen to their perspective as well.

Affirming a person first before asking a question goes a long way too. We need to affirm the good in someone, even if it’s the good-gone-wrong, and paint a vision for them of the best they can be. Let’s challenge ourselves to be gentle like Jesus and to radiate His warm, loving rays. When a heated debate arises, let’s watch our facial expressions, the way we hold our bodies, and the words and tone we use. May we treat the people we engage with with love, dignity, and gentleness. If we want to create change in this world, let’s pursue that change gently. Gentleness is what will empower people to pursue healthy, collaborative change for the future.

Don’t Agree with Someone? Try Using These 7 Simple but Unexpected Words

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I’m sitting across the table from someone I love, but in this moment, we do not agree with each other. My hands are curled into fists, and my heart is pounding so hard I wonder if they can hear it. This conversation has been coming for months. We’ve lined up dominoes of small conflicts, little misunderstandings, tiny judgments, and a recent event finally made them all come toppling down.

I feel angry and afraid, confused and hurt. Above all else, I want to defend myself. I want to prove I am a very good person. I am right, and they are wrong. All will be well if they will just listen to me and do what I say. There’s only one problem: Deep down in my soul, I know Jesus does not treat me this way.

I recently read the book Gentle and Lowly by Dane Ortlund. He points out, “In the four Gospel accounts given to us in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John — eighty-nine chapters of biblical text — there’s only one place where Jesus tells us about his own heart.” What are the only two words Jesus ever uses to describe His heart? “Gentle and lowly” (Matthew 11:29).

The Jesus kind of gentleness is not weakness; it is strength under control. It’s the courage to choose compassion instead of condemnation. It’s not forcefulness but tenderness, not imposing our will but seeking intimacy with others, not pushy but patient. It is hard.

Lowliness is humility, the willingness to be curious, the art of not exalting ourselves or opinions but washing the feet of the undeserving. It is coming to even the hardest conversations not from a position of “knowing it all” but seeking to understand. It’s not demanding our way but choosing to serve. It is almost impossible.

Sitting at that table, I whisper my favorite one-word prayer, “Help.”

What comes to mind is asking a question that starts with this phrase, “Can you help me understand . . . ?” As I say it, I feel a shift in the room; the person I’m asking looks surprised. They answer slowly and with hesitation, unsure if I’m sincere or waiting to pounce.

I listen, nod, and when they’re done talking I ask, “What else?” We go on this way until they’ve said it all. Then I share my perspective too. I say what’s okay in our relationship going forward and what is not. I ask that we commit to working through things together, not letting them build up or venting our complaints to other people. It’s not an instant cure. Birds don’t sing or unicorns appear, but it feels like a start.

We’re in a world where we are all sitting across the table from someone we disagree with these days. Maybe it’s in your kitchen. Perhaps it’s on social media. It might be at church, at work, or at school. Our natural inclination as humans is to shout to make our voices heard, push our opinions, cross our arms instead of remembering we are people of the cross.

It’s both deeply challenging and comforting to me that our Jesus didn’t walk through the world this way. How can we love more like Him this week? Perhaps we can begin with a one-word prayer for help and asking two questions:

Can you help me understand?

What else?

Seven words total. They are not magic. They won’t instantly make all our anger or fear go away. They won’t solve every problem. We might need to say them through tears or gritted teeth. But they are a start. They are a way to reach across the table and dare to love a little more like our Savior, who is still gentle and lowly in heart.

What’s causing you stress? Whether it’s the conflict in our world, everyday struggles, or a personal crisis, you can find encouragement and help in Holley Gerth’s new devotional book What Your Soul Needs for Stressful Times: 60 Powerful Truths to Protect Your Peace.

 

Listen to Holley’s words below or on your fave podcast app!

All Truth Can Point Us to the Ultimate Truth: God

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If you’re like me, you grew up in a culture war between sacred and secular. Certain shows were off limits, and while some of us lined up to buy Harry Potter books, others forbade consuming them lest their children were going to join a Wiccan community. And when it came to music? It was a steady diet of contemporary Christian music in which we listened to songs about potential martyrdom, the end times, and also how there’s a God-shaped hole in all of us.

And I’m not here to hate on it. I get the strange and wonderful nature of the church in the 90’s. We hosted trunk-or-treats, and I actually owned a shirt that said “I pray like a GIRL” with neon flowers against a highlighter green backdrop. Carman was a rapper (or maybe a spoken word poet?) who fought in a boxing match against the devil himself during one of his music videos, and you could not convince me that there was a better band than Superchick. Still, as I got older and moved my way out of the church bubble I’d been raised in, things started to get a little . . . complicated.

First of all, there were threats that never came to be. No one was going to beat me up if I claimed to be a Christian, and no one was asking me to join a satanic cult if I listened to something other than Rebecca St. James. And the most interesting thing happened when I started to study theology: I realized that God existed outside of those safe and hyper-spiritualized contexts. He wasn’t only on K-Love; He was also found in gas stations and art museums and books by people who didn’t have a single title on the shelf at my local Christian bookstore.

At first, if I’m honest, it was jarring. I don’t think we intentionally villainized the whole world outside of the walls of the church, but in a well-meaning attempt to protect kids from the darker things that exist, we closed off our imaginations. We said, “It can only be this way,” when the truth is, sometimes we have to have hard conversations because someone’s going to discover the world and it’s important to know how Jesus offers even more.

I studied theology for my masters and something that came up over and over was this refrain: All truth is God’s truth. What it means is that when something is true, no matter where it comes from, it can honor God. For example, someone can sing a pop song about how much they hate being lonely. And it’s true! We’re made for community, and God designed us that way. Or someone can write a book about how complex gardening can be. And it’s true! We see how God provides the miracle of new life in plants and how He created seasons for us to grow too. We see His goodness in the harvest and His provision in the food it yields.

I thought for a long time that if I just avoided words that weren’t written in red letter, I would stay holy. But now I rejoice that God is so big that His hand is seen in countless examples of the human experience and that He is the answer for the aches in our hearts. When Sandra Oh talks about the beauty of diversity or when Katy Perry sings about the desire for unconditional love or when Dax Shepard talks about addiction and how hard it is to overcome, all of these statements are true. And most importantly, they reveal the heart of man and the kindness of a God who is endlessly creative and entirely loving and who satisfies our deepest cravings.

Jesus says that He alone is the way, truth, and life. In a world desperate for answers, it is good to know that our longing and restlessness all point to a need for the truthiest truth of them all: God. He is, by nature, Truth. And in the same way our little glimpses of goodness can point us toward His ultimate good, small truths in the world around us allow us to look up to the one who is the Truth and who sets us free.

 

Listen to Melissa’s words below or on your fave podcast app!

What If Lent Was More About Feasting on the Presence of God?

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The guitar and piano notes weaved together with the voices of our church family as we lifted the generations-old lines to heaven.

“O come, O come, Immanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear . . . ”

I heard my youngest daughter’s voice rising next to me — full of volume and unbridled joy. She loves to worship through singing just as much as her mama does. Christmas music is my favorite, especially the carols that often proclaim a deep theology.

Although the text for “O Come, O Come, Immanuel” springs from a seven-verse poem that dates back to the eighth century, it feels like these words could describe our present era. In fact, these words meet us right here after two years of navigating a global pandemic, racial tension still dividing our country, and constant news of natural disasters riddling our earth.

“O come, O King of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind. Bid all our sad divisions cease and be yourself our King of Peace. Rejoice, Rejoice! Immanuel shall come to you, O Israel.”

Throughout December, I found myself lingering over the word rejoice like a hummingbird hovering over a flower before diving in for the nectar. There is energy and light in that word that draws me in and encircles me with a sense of warmth.

What does it mean to rejoice? And why do we seem to reserve rejoicing for Christmastime?

In January, I chose rejoice as my word of the year for 2022 and began a treasure hunt through the Bible, paying attention to this word. (It’s everywhere, by the way, and not just in the passages we traditionally read in December.)

After just a little digging, I quickly discovered rejoice is often connected with words like joy, gladden, exult, triumph, or be merry. The prefix “re” means again, going back to how something was before, or repetition. When we re-joice, we are re-joy-cing or returning to joy. I decided to follow this word through my year to see what God might teach me.

So far, I’ve noticed that rejoicing often comes after a season of grief. In the Psalms, David laments, cries out to God, processes his pain with God, and then often returns to praise. David tastes sorrow and sickness, darkness and a deep sense of longing, but then often returns to joy and leads listeners to gratitude.

One of my favorite examples of this is in Psalm 30 when David tells the story of how God has pulled him from a season of grief into a spacious place of joy. David pens these poetic lines: “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning” (Psalm 30:5 ESV).

When Shawn and I got married six years ago, we chose these words from Psalm 30:11-12 for our wedding:

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
    you have loosed my sackcloth
    and clothed me with gladness,
that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
    O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!
Psalm 30:11-12 (ESV)

These verses held special meaning after my late husband and Shawn’s dear friend died of cancer. God was ushering our family from a time of mourning into rejoicing. He was calling us back to joy and worship.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. Many use the time from Ash Wednesday to Easter Saturday as a time to reflect, repent, and return to God in prayer. In some traditions, people choose to fast on the forty weekdays that span the season, entering into the forty-day fast Jesus undertook in the wilderness (Luke 4:1-2). They might choose to take a break from chocolate, meat, social media, or some other indulgence.

We often focus on the fasting. The heart behind this practice is to align ourselves with Jesus’ suffering as we approach Holy Week and Easter. We deprive ourselves to delve deeper into connection with God, but sometimes we get distracted by the fasting itself. At least I know I do.

What if Lent was less about fasting and more about feasting on the presence of God?

People who enter the practice of fasting during Lent often break their fast on Sundays, which are considered feast days of celebration throughout the year. Like the ebb and flow of ocean waves, there is a rhythm of fasting followed by feasting.

This year I’m taking a different approach to Lent. I’m accepting God’s invitation to focus on rejoicing. I invite you to fast from distractions and join me at the table to feast with our Savior, the Bread of Life. Let’s lift our eyes from the loneliness and lack of these past few years and look to the horizon, the resurrection to come.

Twelve years ago, was the first time I chose a word of the year to follow. As I flipped back through the pages of my journals and reflections on my blog, I discovered the first word I chose was joy. Is it any wonder that God is calling me to return to joy this year — to rejoice in all seasons – to re-joy-ce in Him?

Perhaps it’s time to turn the chorus of that familiar Christmas carol into a celebration song anticipating Easter: “Rejoice, Rejoice! Immanuel shall come to you, O Israel.”

Dorina loves to help people chase after God’s glory down life’s unexpected trails. Subscribe to her Glorygram for more encouragement and inspiration on the journey.

 

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

Through the Dark Years, a Beautiful Story Is Being Written

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Did you know DaySpring has a magazine? It’s true! And the brand new spring issue just hit newsstands!

From cover to cover in each issue of Everyday Faith magazine, you will find stories and articles to inspire hope and encouragement and to remind you that you are His. In this spring issue, you will find tips on spring cleaning and how to start a book club, stories of difficult times, and stories of Easter traditions. There are tear-out prayer cards, scannable QR codes for freebie bonuses, and exclusive goodies tucked inside. You will find true stories of hope and encouragement, and you will find truth from God’s Word.  

You care about your faith — that’s why you’re here today! — and we hope Everyday Faith will help you know and share God’s love in fresh, true, and inspiring ways. Keep reading for an empowering article from the spring issue of Everyday Faith magazine and a huge giveaway to win a copy!

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My marriage was dying. It was like a slow, silent kind of dying at first, and then I nearly finished it off with what I did. I refer to that time as “the dark years.” We were out of hope, hurting and broken, living in the same house and unsure of what the future looked like. 

I had once heard a radio DJ, who I’m sure got their information from somewhere reliable, say that if a marriage is struggling and can hold on for five more years, the couple will make it. But five years sounds like a thousand to someone in the middle of the journey. 

But there we were, ten years into our marriage, facing an uphill battle. We both knew in our hearts that leaving wasn’t the answer, but while my husband tried his hardest to make things work, I met his efforts with complete resistance every single time. 

He wrote notes and left them where I’d find them; I skimmed them and ignored him. He hired a sitter so we could go to the movies; I ended it with a fight. He gave me a marriage book to read; I told him all the ways I had tried before and how they didn’t work. I was a delight. 

But little by little, parts of the wall I had built up around my heart began to crack. 

I joined a prayer group with a friend of mine so she wouldn’t have to go alone, and it turned out the prayer group was specifically to pray for our husbands. Really? I thought, but I went anyway. God started to chip away at my icy heart as I kept going, and I found myself genuinely praying for my husband, wanting good for him. 

Slowly, God changed me. He showed me where I was holding back, that my focus was misdirected, and He kept redirecting me back to Himself. He showed me forgiveness in a way I had never known it and restored my marriage, making it better than it ever was in the beginning. 

On our sixteenth anniversary, I was reflecting on how it had been the best year of our entire marriage, and wouldn’t you know it? That was five years from our hardest time. 

It’s overwhelming to reflect on the work God did on our marriage, and though marriages can be restored, I know they don’t always work out the same way. Marriage involves two humans and a lot of unique circumstances, but the part I want you to see most in my story is that God walks with us during our dark years and never leaves us. My story is about how once we see our depravity we can know more of the fullness of His grace. I sinned, yet He loved me still. He kept speaking to me, guiding me to make things right, to put me back where I was supposed to be. 

Those dark years burst with the resurrection not only of my marriage but also my relationship with Christ, and that is a story I can’t quite get over. 

I don’t know what your dark days or years are looking like right now, but know that no matter how they end, there is a beautiful story being written. He is with us every ugly step of the way, chiseling away at the cracks and making all things new.

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This article by Jen Chapman is one that features beautiful tear-out prayers to share for husbands and wives and more info on a set of new devotional journals from DaySpring.

Everyday Faith magazine is perfect for tucking into your purse, setting on the coffee table, or sharing with a friend. And to help you do just that, we’re giving away FIVE sets of copies — one for each winner and one for each of them to give to a friend! Leave a comment telling us who you’d share a copy with, and we’ll draw five winners.

Giveaway open to US addresses only, and will close on 3/4/22 at 11:59pm central. 

 

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

We Are Many Hues but One Humanity

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“Mommy, today at school, I learned that we are all shades of brown!” our preschooler announced at the dinner table. I perked up and leaned in to listen. She matter-of-factly explained, “Daddy is a little brown. You are really brown. And I am medium brown!” I was ecstatic! I could hardly believe it. 

You see, years before we had children, my husband and I contemplated how we would equip our children to navigate our hyper-racialized society. We understood that our multi-ethnic children would need to navigate their interracial social context in ways that Nathan and I, as children, did not have to. We knew people would ask, “What are you?” We knew that some White people may see them as Black and some Black people may consider them “not Black enough.” We considered how we would instill a sense of belonging to humanity, whether or not they were rejected or embraced by a racial group. We wanted them to know the essence of their personal identity — who they were and Whose they were. When polite society inevitably inquired about their origins, we wanted them to understand that they were fearfully and wonderfully made in God’s image — that each of us is a reflection of God. 

We knew we didn’t have all the answers, and we couldn’t anticipate every awkward racial encounter. But we wanted our family and our home to welcome learning, conversation, and growth. We wanted to normalize the diversity of God’s human family, while also acknowledging that race is a man-made construct designed to diminish God’s glory. And guessing that our children, like their parents, would have friends from various backgrounds, we wanted to normalize belonging amid differences. We desired for our children to love differences — for them to see and honor God’s glory in all people!

So when our preschooler used “brown” to encompass our various hues, we embraced it. “Yes, hues of brown!” I agreed. Without hesitation, I explained how melanin is brown and how the amount of melanin we have depends on where our distant ancestors lived in proximity to the equator. “Daddy’s ancestors lived further away from the equator. My ancestors lived closer to the equator.” We also nurtured understanding about ethnicity, culture, and nationality.

Our family-oriented, life-giving lessons and conversations became a beacon of hope for friends and neighbors. Moms, especially, reached out to me to help them move beyond the colorblind approach, which had deprived them of understanding how each of us is a unique piece in God’s mosaic. As a result, they had been afraid to even talk about skin tone and race. Moms wanted to learn and understand how to nurture natural curiosity without the fear of perpetuating racial division. And I was more than happy to pour from our family’s cup.

Because of the finished work of Jesus, we don’t have to be afraid to break free from ideas and practices that discourage us from seeing, valuing, and loving our neighbor.

In Romans 12, Paul reminds us to avoid aligning with ideas and practices that are not a reflection of God. He wrote, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is — his good, pleasing and perfect will” (Romans 12:2 NIV). Paul encourages us to renew our minds so that we can align with God’s will — to see as God sees. In that same chapter, he illustrates how we are parts of one body, though we are individuals — “each member belongs to all the others” (Romans 12:5 NIV). Paul then implores, “Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves” (Romans 12:10 NIV).

As our minds are renewed, a glorious vision for humanity is restored. From the conversations within our home, I am encouraged that what I thought was for the love of my own children, God has multiplied for the love of all children, for the sake of families and communities all around.

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Hues of You: An Activity Book for Learning About the Skin You Are In offers a smart and honest starting point to help you have natural, effective, and meaningful conversations about skin tone and race. Divided into four main sections — Hues of You, Hues of Your Family, Hues of Your Ancestors, and Hues of Your Friends — each page offers space to explore identity in a variety of social contexts, so that you are empowered to openly recognize, embrace, and honor God’s multi-hued world.

We are so excited about this new book from our dear Lucretia! It’s such a wonderful resource and will enhance any child’s library. Leave a comment today and you’ll be entered to WIN one of five copies we’re giving away!

Then join Lucretia and (in)courage Community Manager Becky Keife for a chat all about Hues of You! Tune in tomorrow on our Facebook page at 11am central for their conversation.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes on 3/3/22 at 11:59pm central.

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

Accepting Our Child the Way We Want Others to Accept Us

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When my son Joshua was little, he was extremely shy and did not like big social settings, which included school events, fall festivals, Christmas parties, family reunions, Easter egg hunts, and neighborhood parades. In my mind, he didn’t like all the fun stuff.

When he was three years old, I dressed him up in a cute Hershey’s Kiss costume to wear to our church’s indoor fall festival. I envisioned taking lots of photos of him and his best buddy smiling and posing in front of the bales of hay. But instead, as soon as we walked through the gymnasium doors, Joshua clung to my leg like a koala bear. He refused to go play with the other kids and would barely say hi to his best friend.

I tried everything to get him to stop hiding behind my knees, but nothing worked. Chatting with other parents, I envied how their kids were jumping in the bounce house, chasing each other, comparing costumes, playing games, and posing for photos. I wanted Joshua to have fun, but I also started to feel a little embarrassed.

A few mom friends tried unsuccessfully to talk him into playing with their kids, and I got the impression some thought I should push him a little harder to socialize. And I wanted to walk around and see all the decorations and festivities without a little boy holding on to my leg for dear life.

It kills me to admit this now, but, in situations like that one, I wished my little boy was like other kids: talkative, outgoing, and playful with his peers. It wasn’t until I accepted Josh for exactly who and how God made him that I was able to get to know the unique ways he processes life (and crowds) and the depth of his heart, mind, and soul that brims with wisdom. You see that little boy became a teenager and eventually graduated from high school, moved out on his own and got married. He is now a young adult who I love hanging out with and who I frequently go to for advice and wise counsel.

God uniquely designed our children (friends, family members, neighbors, and co-workers) with unique preferences and individual personalities. Listen to how King David describes the intricacy of God’s creativity and the intimacy of His knowing us from head to toe:

You created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
Psalm 139:13-18 (NIV)

Just like us, our children have a God-given longing to know their parents’ delight in them, quirks and qualms, as well as ideas and interests. There is no one whose approval and acceptance matter more to our children than ours.

Accepting our children is not always easy, especially if they don’t match what we expected or hoped for when we envisioned being a parent. It’s challenging when our children don’t have the same interests or personalities as we do, or when our hopes and expectations don’t fit into the way God created them. That is when we have to open our hands and let go of what we wanted, so we can get to know and enjoy the child God gave us.

I know this isn’t easy. It’s especially difficult to give our children acceptance and approval if we don’t offer ourselves the same. I’ve found that sincere and lasting acceptance for my children and for myself can only come from an overflow of finding my true worth from the One who created me.

God invites us to come to Him every day and to let Him remind our hearts of how He sees us and how much He cares about us, just like King David did. The more we receive God’s acceptance and believe His affirmation, the more we will have to give away.

Let’s look for and celebrate our children’s natural tendencies and unique traits. When we do, we will discover a child who makes the world a better place because they are in it!

Lord, I confess expectations have sometimes blinded me from seeing the unique way You created those I love. I want to not only accept my child and others but really delight in them. Teach me the language of approval and affirmation as I hear You speak it over me so that I can speak the same to them. Help me to slow down and see my children and others through Your eyes and cherish the unique way You made them and the interests You’ve given them. Amen.

This is an excerpt from Renee’s new book, A Confident Mom: Simple Ways to Give Your Child What They Need Most. If you’d like to know more about different personality traits and temperaments, Renee is giving away 3 copies of her book with a free personality resource on her website!

Breaking the Power of Shame by Telling Our Stories

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I didn’t know her, but I could tell she was having a panic attack. As soon as the flight took off, she began wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans. She tugged on her hoodie and pulled it down to cover her face as if she wanted to be invisible. She held her hands tightly together, every muscle in her body tense. The woman who sat next to her, her mother, placed her hand on the girl’s thigh and gently patted it. The girl quickly slapped her mom’s hand off her thigh, as if she didn’t want any attention drawn to her weak moment. She flung her upper body over her legs, with her head curled in underneath, but she couldn’t escape. No one can ever escape that moment when panic takes over and fear starts screaming in your ears, “You’re going to die!”

I couldn’t stop looking at this girl, because this girl was just like me. For me, anxiety isn’t triggered by flying but by driving on the highway. I don’t like talking about it so I just avoid it. The thing about a panic attack is I am aware of how irrational my fear is, but I can’t help but succumb to it. I want to snap out of this false narrative that my mind keeps telling me, but I feel so weak that I bow to its beating. I give up. I cry. I get angry at myself that I can’t do something that any sixteen-year-old child can do.

Growing up, I was involved in five car accidents, and I totaled three vehicles. Luckily, I walked away from all of them without a scratch on my body. But the last wreck traumatized me and left me with panic attacks, and I haven’t driven on a highway for over ten years.

A few years ago, I accidentally took a wrong turn and ended up on the highway. Luckily, I was on the phone with my husband. He was calmly trying to direct me off the highway, but once I felt the other cars speed past me, the panic attack hit me. I couldn’t hear him reassure me, like the girl slapping her mom’s hand off. I cut him off and screamed over and over, “I am going to die!” My hands shook, tears streamed down my face, and every muscle in my body was tight like I was in a fight. Somehow, I was able to take an exit and get off on the side road.

Along with the fear, shame comes with these panic attacks, and it often makes me want to hide and deal with it alone. A part of me feels like no one will understand because I myself don’t often understand it. It feels like something is wrong with me that I am just weak, yet I feel the pressure to carry it all on my own because of the shame.

This is what anxiety does. Anxiety makes me more aware of me — my weaknesses, struggles, and insecurities. But what if I didn’t allow panic attacks to push people away? What if instead of cutting my husband off on the phone, I let him speak truth into my mind until the negative thoughts faded? What if that girl on the plane held her mom’s hand instead of slapping it away? What if we realized our people are actually part of the cure to fight fear and shame?

Four years ago, I was asked to speak at a women’s retreat on the topic of shame. The Holy Spirit kept putting it in my heart to share about my panic attacks. After I shared, several women shared with me me how they also had similar histories with car accidents and how some suffered with panic attacks. I began to feel the shame slowly dissipate.

It is hard to share our stories and be vulnerable because relationships are complicated and people can hurt you and the enemy wants to us to hide in shame.

But we look at Jesus in His weakest moment, about to be arrested and crucified. Knowing His closest disciples have doubted him and were about to betray Him, deny Him, and leave Him in His greatest time of need, He still invites them into His pain: “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me” (Matthew 26:38 ESV).

Jesus sets a powerful example of vulnerability and walking with community in our struggles.

I still have panic attacks and avoid driving on highways, but anxiety’s power has diminished and I am no longer held captive by shame because I chose to share my story.

Friend, freedom is on the other side of vulnerability. You don’t have to hide or carry your burden alone. And you can choose to embrace the hand that wants to hold you during the hard moments of life.

You Can’t Air Fry Faithfulness

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It’s official: I’ve joined The Air Fryer Fan Club. My sister purchased me one of the appliances for Christmas. It’s miniature and mint-green and fits perfectly in the corner of my apartment kitchen. I got to work straightaway finding recipes on Pinterest. I’ve cooked all sorts of things in the last two months: garlicky shrimp, chicken satay, sweet potato fries, and a variety of other delicious, crispy vegetables. 

My favorite part? It hardly takes any time at all. For someone who isn’t the most patient person in the world, it’s the ideal cooking companion. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about faithfulness recently. It feels like there’s so much constantly vying for my attention, begging for my allegiance. But I earnestly want to be faithful to Jesus. I spent the month of January reading the Bible cover to cover with a few friends, about forty-ish chapters a day, and I saw similar themes throughout. One of them was how faithless humanity is; the other was how faithful our God is. Over and over, God called His people to be faithful to Him. And over and over, they gave in to worshiping other gods and idols.

We are easily wooed away from Jesus. I want to resist worshiping at another altar, and instead each day become more faithful to my Savior.

But unlike how quickly I can air fry my dinner, I can’t air fry faithfulness. ⁣⁣

⁣⁣Faithfulness is like cooking curry. It has to simmer on the stove in order for the spices to mix and mingle, in order for the coconut milk to thicken and froth, in order for the chicken and vegetables to steep in the spicy liquid. It’s long and slow.

Faithfulness is like compound interest. It starts slowly. You put a few dollars away each month, over and over, and decades later, you realize how much wealth you actually accrued. ⁣⁣

⁣⁣Faithfulness is like a garden. You plant seeds and add water, tilling the soil and praying something is happening underground. You can’t see how the roots are forming, how they’re plunging their spindling arms into the depth below, how they’re forming something solid and secure. You don’t see what’s forming in the dark — until one day a tiny shoot sprouts from the ground and grows slowly into something beautiful. ⁣⁣

⁣⁣Faithfulness isn’t flashy or splashy or dazzling. It’s perseverance and resilience and showing up day after day. It rarely feels like anything special, except that over time it amounts to something spectacular. ⁣⁣

Faithfulness doesn’t form overnight. It doesn’t catch a big break. It’s a few small decisions every single day. Over time, it becomes a rhythm. It becomes the way you live. ⁣⁣

What we do each day is who we become. ⁣⁣What we give our attention to is what or who we’ll ultimately worship. 

This idea of faithfulness isn’t meant to breed legalism or shame; it’s the opposite. It’s God pouring His grace onto every single one of us. 

I try each morning to spend time alone with Jesus. Some days, I sleep through my alarm. On those days, there is grace. Other days, I wake up early and hear God’s voice speaking to me in the quiet. On those days, there is grace. Other days, I come to my chair, exhausted and weary with nothing at all. On those days, there is grace.

When we practice habits that help us know Jesus better, it’s not about becoming an expert in those habits. It’s about knowing Jesus more intimately, loving Him more intensely, and following Him more closely. 

My spiritual director said recently, “Jesus has made a covenant with us, fully knowing that He is the strong one.” 

In this relationship of ours, Jesus is the strong one. He is the faithful one. His faithfulness is and always will be an overflow of grace.

Here’s to choosing faithfulness: the slow, steady, consistent, daily living that leads us closer to Jesus. 

I’ll leave the speed to my air fryer.

 

Listen to Aliza’s words below or wherever you stream pods.