Mothering Is All a Great Push and Pull

Mothering Is All a Great Push and Pull

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I have four kids! It’s an exclamation point to me whenever I say or type it out because my youngest is still so new, only eighteen months old. Sometimes it still catches me off guard that these four little people are mine, that I get to raise these four siblings.

My husband and I didn’t know if we’d be able to have kids at all. It took three years of testing and trying and poking and prodding, ending in a traumatic miscarriage before we had our Sam. After him, I had another painful loss, followed by a long wait before I had Josie. Next, our Clara was a straight up surprise gift, born just fifteen months after her sister. We waited for five years then, letting my body take a breather after it had been stretched and torn and ripped and leaky through five pregnancies. And after five years, my “just one more” prayers became Theo, our family’s exclamation point.

Siblings.

They’re so cute and funny and smart, and also sassy and screamy and really good at throwing a fit. We love being together, and we also love being apart so we can come back together. I love them and want to squish their faces, and I also want one whole day alone by myself.

Sometimes I get so mad that I laugh. Almost every night I’m exhausted, but I stay up too late on purpose because it’s the only time the house is quiet and my brain can complete a sentence. I dream of the future yet also can’t really see beyond bedtime.

Mothering is all a great push and pull. It’s a series of both/ands, of give and take, of holding close and letting go.

I read once that a goldfish will grow to fit the space it inhabits. If it’s a giant pond, the goldfish will swell massive. If it’s a little bedroom bowl, the goldfish will stay small.

And so it is with a mothering heart — growing to accommodate more, cracking and shrinking through pain and longing, spanning seasons and decades and long days and short years.

As Mother’s Day approaches, we know that it is a complex day full of many emotions and experiences. Know that at (in)courage, we are praying for each of you in this season as you remember, celebrate, grieve, or enjoy motherhood and what it means to you. Every single woman who loves, encourages, and nurtures those who become part of the next generation is doing an amazing work and is to be celebrated.

I’m grateful that here at (in)courage and DaySpring, we have some beautiful gifts and resources for and about moms of all kinds. Two of my favorites are the following:

A Mother’s Love: Celebrating Every Kind of Mom is full of reflections on God’s heart. Featuring unique and diverse stories from the (in)courage community, A Mother’s Love offers heartfelt encouragement to all kinds of moms, whether they’re a mother in a traditional sense, a spiritual mother, or a mother-like figure who breaks the mold. This book is sure to help any woman share a meaningful gift with someone who has been impactful in her life, a new mom learning the ropes, or a close loved one facing the joys and challenges of any stage and type of motherhood. Compiled with all women in mind so we can celebrate those who made us, shaped us, helped us grow, and loved us well, it’s a beautiful gift for the moms in your life.

Oh, Baby! Devotions for New Parents from DaySpring would also make a great gift for a new mom in your life! Each entry reminds her that God is close and is intimately interested in her feelings, worries, and fears surrounding parenthood. She can discover how she can find peace, joy, and grace on this new journey and how God walks with her through every high and every low.

Both of these are perfect gifts to celebrate the mothers, women, and parents in your life!

And to help you celebrate them, we’re giving away FIVE gift bundles that include a copy of each book! Leave a comment on this post telling us about one such special parent in your life, and you’ll be entered to win a copy of A Mother’s Love and Oh, Baby!.

Giveaway is open to US addresses only and ends April 25, 2022 at 11:59pm CST.

 

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When God Enlarged My Heart for Mercy

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The back of my brown legs stuck to the squishy seat. The air was heavy, ominous perhaps. I was with a collective of Christian college students from across the United States, studying in Central America. We had no idea what we would encounter on this field trip of sorts. 

Before we could see anything, a putrid smell wafted through the windows to our noses. As our group’s big yellow school bus labored through the gate, I saw mountains upon mountains of garbage. The sun’s rays skipped across pieces of shiny metal and swirling colors found among piles of paper and glass. 

Over the next several hours, our group came face to face with the most extreme poverty most of us had ever witnessed. More than 11,000 people lived and worked in that garbage dump in the heart of Guatemala City. We were told 6,500 of them were children. Many of these brothers and sisters made in the image of God were scavengers, who spent their days scouring the garbage for food and anything they might recycle or sell to survive. 

The wheels of our bus crunched over gravel then came to a stop in front of the Potter’s House, a place of refuge right in the center of the garbage piles. We met men, women, and children who had hearts to turn trash into treasure. We heard about the vision of one woman who had built a non-profit that would bring respect and dignity to those who were treated as little better than the trash where they found their existence. Young people were getting their education and pursuing a relationship with Jesus Christ as a result of her dream. As a young college student, my heart was deeply moved by their stories. 

As we drove away that day, many of my classmates started taking pictures through the windows of our bus. I understood they wanted to remember this place, but it felt somehow strange to take photographs. I grabbed my own camera, and my lens focused on a little girl digging through the garbage. Right then my heart surged with fiery emotion. I hurled my camera to the back of the bus. I was filled with something I had never experienced before — a righteous anger that this little girl was forced to survive that way. 

I slumped into my seat and sobbed.

How could little girls grow up in such filth? Why were these people living in such poverty while we lived in such luxury in the country I called home? What could I possibly do to help?

The injustice I witnessed that day was seared in my heart forever. Two decades later, I still think about how that trip to the garbage dump in Guatemala was the beginning of God cultivating in me a heart of mercy and compassion. 

You don’t have to travel to another country to grow a heart of mercy. That was simply where God began to do His deepest work in me. He can stir compassion in us in our own neighborhoods, churches, cities, and even in our own homes.

But before we can offer up the gift of mercy to others, we need to come to an understanding of God’s heart and His great mercy toward us. 

If you go on a treasure hunt through the Bible, you will discover from the pages of Genesis through Revelation that God has a heart of mercy. Biblical mercy differs slightly from our English dictionary definitions of mercy, which often talk about giving people what they do not merit or deserve. God’s mercy is a blend of compassion, kindness, and faithfulness as beautiful and colorful as a handwoven Guatemalan tapestry.

Through Jesus Christ, God displayed both mercy and justice. He sent His son to die on the cross as a substitute for you and me. He met us in our depravity with compassion, and His mercy continues to preserve us through the gifts of forgiveness and salvation.

And as recipients of His mercy, we are called to emulate His mercy.

One way is by having a heart like God’s for the vulnerable. Jesus showed kindness to a woman at a well who had been through five husbands, a paralytic who had been disabled for thirty-eight years, and even a tax collector who was hated by the community. God also cares deeply about that girl in the garbage dump, the young widowed mother raising children alone, and the man suffering from mental illness. He has compassion for the family in Ukraine hiding from the horrors of war. 

Mercy is an invitation to align our hearts with the heart of God and to dignify those around us. It doesn’t require a large bank account or hours of time. Sometimes mercy can be extended through giving up your seat on the bus, inviting a rebellious child into your arms, defending someone who is being shamed, or delivering a meal to a neighbor.

As the Bible reminds us, “Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36).

For weekly encouragement and helpful resources on how to discover God’s glory, subscribe to Dorina’s Glorygram here or follow her on Instagram.

 

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What to Do When Our Hope Goes Missing

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Several years ago I experienced something that completely shook my foundation of faith. While I hadn’t always managed to find a silver lining for situations that were hard or messy or hurtful, I had kept my grasp firm on my hope that eventually, at some point, things would get better.

Up to that point, I had never doubted that God was good and loving and in control.

Then something new occurred, and I lost my grip. As a writer who appreciates a good metaphor, I keep wanting to tell you my hope became like sand, slipping through my fingers. But the thing about sand is that, though nearly impossible to keep hold of, it also is quite difficult to get rid of. Anyone who’s ever gone to the beach (or allowed kids to play in a sandbox) knows that for days after walking in sand, you keep on finding it — on the floor, in your clothes, between the cushions of the couch. Sand might be slippery, but it does not disappear (even when you want it to).

So my hope wasn’t like sand, but it also wasn’t something I could access, much less hold onto anymore. At every turn, every revelation, every wound that came with the situation I’d never expected but could not avoid, I wondered why and how God would allow something so horrible.

I began questioning everything I’d held dear for a lifetime. I began fearing that I’d gotten it all wrong and that things would, in fact, never get better.

It all sounds quite dramatic now, but in the moment it was devastating. I wanted to hope, but I forgot how. And when I looked around for any signs of my hope I’d previously taken for granted, it could not be found. Hope was not like sand at all.

Throughout that season God never abandoned me. Though I couldn’t see Him, He was still there. I know because eventually my heart began to heal, and my perspective began to shift, and bit by bit I found hope again. I slowly began to steady and started seeing signs of Him all around. He hadn’t gone anywhere; I just hadn’t been able to find Him — or my hope in Him.

I’d love to tell you that was the end of my struggles to hope, but it was actually just the beginning. Over the last few years, since that catalyzing event, I’ve experienced and witnessed several other things that have rocked me to my core. Like so many of us, I’ve practically heard the play-by-play commentator shouting, “And the hits just! keep! coming!”

But unlike that first season of hopelessness, I have learned one thing: When our hope goes missing, we have to become detectives and look for it.

Just like a mom relentlessly tracking down every grain of sand her children’s hands and feet have left behind, so we must be committed to looking in every nook and cranny for hope.

Sometimes hope is big and bold and right in front of our faces. I think of the morning my daughter got baptized or the afternoon my husband and I started counseling. I think of time spent in Psalms or simply meditating on a favorite passage, like Lamentations 3:22-24, that reminds me of God’s new mercies given freely every day. I think of a clean bill of health, a job offer, a particularly inspiring Sunday morning service. Sometimes my hope is so tangible and familiar that I truly feel I can wrap my arms around it. I trust without a doubt — no matter what might be happening in the world, at home, or in my heart — that God is good, that He loves me, and that He has a good plan He will see through for my life.

But other times, hope is like those tiny grains of sand — or clues in a tricky mystery. Rather than believe it is not present or does not exist if we do not spot it easily, we must determine to pull out our magnifying glass and search for it.

Where? Well, each of us will likely find signs of hope — clues that God is still good and still loves us and is still in control — in different places. However, you might try looking for people doing good or people helping others, for flowers or vegetable gardens sprouting after a cold winter. Look for puppy videos. God didn’t have to make puppies, but He did! (Which might be a clue that He is good.) And if you aren’t a dog person, try otters. Otters holding hands — it gets me every time!

Look for sunsets and sunrises and wispy clouds and blanket clouds and skies that look so much like paintings that they actually take your breath away. Look for little kids giggling and old people dancing. Look for memes that so thoroughly capture the human experience that you can’t believe you didn’t think of them yourself.

Listen to music. Listen to the water. Listen to the cars passing by. Pay attention to the prime parking space you snagged at the last minute and the friend who texted just when you needed a kind word. Take a moment to notice the satisfaction of a finished project or a good book or a freshly vacuumed carpet.

Remember a kind word from the past, a gift that delighted you, a relationship reconciled, a scene from a movie that made you laugh out loud. Think back to the last time you were so moved by gratitude or appreciation that you clapped or shouted or simply uttered, “Thank you.”

Even when we begin to believe that our hope is gone, it’s not. We might just need to put on our detective’s hat and look for the clues.

Where have you found hope recently?

 

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What if Our Happy Place Isn’t a Location?

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It was a hot summer day in Northwest Arkansas. The back-to-back Zoom meetings in the middle of a pandemic were wearing on me. My overwhelming thoughts were getting loud so I decided to take a walk around the block.

I’ll be really honest with you: I just wanted to quit everything. At the ripe age of twenty-six, I found myself wishing for retirement more days than not. Have you ever caught yourself in this place?

“There has to be more to life than this,” I thought to myself. If you’ve had the same thoughts, there are two things you need to know before we dig in:

  1. You’re in good company and not alone.
  2. Your thoughts are spot on: There is more to life than this place we often catch ourselves in.

Up until this point in time, my happy place had only been a physical location. If you would have asked me what my happy place was, I more than likely would have said any beach along Florida’s scenic Highway 30A or Jackson Hole, Wyoming or hanging with my husband in a cozy coffee shop, even though moments in these places are few and far between.

Why was I wishing and dreaming of escaping from the very place God had called me to? On my walk that day, I picked a random Christine Caine podcast to listen to. Guess what she talked about on the episode? Retirement and how we are called to do kingdom work every day of our lives!

You know those moments when it feels like God is speaking through someone else directly to you? This was one of those. As I took one step in front of the other on my walk, my mind led me to a question that has challenged me to pivot my perspective ever since: What if our happy place is our everyday journey with God?

Trust me, there are days when I look at my own life and I remember picturing it to be so different. I was a public relations major. Have I ever had a PR job? No. I love running and being outside. Do I sit behind a computer screen every weekday for work? Yes. The list could go on and on.

Life often looks very different from how we pictured it, but where God has positioned us is exactly where we need to be. This is where the freeing yet challenging choice we have to make comes in: Would we rather spend our days wishing we were somewhere else or spend our days soaking up the very place where our feet are planted?

Just this week, my friend Olivia said something on the phone that stuck with me. She told me how her pastor refers to our time on Earth as “going camping.” Think about that for a minute: When you go camping, you typically bring a light load with you and have a posture that is expectant for some type of crazy adventure.

Friends, we’re on an everyday journey to do kingdom work until we are called to our forever home. It’s not an arrival moment we are aiming for but a voyage with Him. Our God is not only for us but is with us.

Are you ready to pivot your happy place from a precise location to anywhere He takes you in this life? Ephesians 2:7-10 in the Message Version says it best, “Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work. All we do is trust him enough to let him do it. It’s God’s gift from start to finish! We don’t play the major role. If we did, we’d probably go around bragging that we’d done the whole thing! No, we neither make nor save ourselves. God does both the making and saving. He creates each of us by Christ Jesus to join him in the work he does, the good work he has gotten ready for us to do, work we had better be doing.”

There’s no better time than now. Welcome to your everyday happy place!

Tips & Tricks for Creating Your Everyday Happy Place:

  1. Accept your ticket from God to let Him be a part of your daily journey.
  2. Lighten your load. Give your burdens to God and allow yourself to receive grace. It’s the ultimate gift that has no strings attached and requires no transactions.
  3. Get in the Word and really get to know God. Lean not on your own understanding and focus on seeking Him every day.
  4. Spend time in prayer and confiding in God. He truly listens and will find the most creative ways to speak back to you. Instant gratification has nothing on the satisfaction you experience when you start seeing God reveal Himself to you. Come to Him with the good, bad, and everything in between.
  5. Make moves and know that God is with you wherever you go. Love people on your journey and enjoy the abundant life He wants you to have now.

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Do you need a new perspective on life? Are you looking for cozy, inspiring, guided journal pages that will both meet you where you are and encourage you to keep going? Look no further than the new journal from DaySpring, This Is My Happy Place: A Positivity Journal to Finding God’s Light, by Hope Reagan Harris! In it, you’ll find encouraging messages, fun, interactive activities, and compelling, thought-provoking questions that will lead you to a deeper understanding of yourself and God’s purpose in your life. You’ll be challenged to choose a positive perspective in which, with God’s help, all things are possible. Write your heart out, explore your God-given potential, and find your happy place in the pages of this truly unique positivity journal.

Get your copy of This is My Happy Place today, and for a chance to win another copy for a friend, tell us in the comments below who you’d like to gift a copy to. We’ll be choosing FIVE winners!

Then join Hope and (in)courage community manager Becky Keife for a chat all about This is My Happy Place! Tune in tomorrow, 4/20/22, on our Facebook page at 11am CST for their conversation.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes on 4/21/22 at 11:59pm CST.

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Gratitude Helps Us See There’s More to the Story

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It was painful, and I contemplated why they chose not to attend my wedding. To me, it felt like a boycott — against this new season of my life, against my decision to hold the wedding in Iowa instead of my home state of North Carolina, against my husband being White. My spiral into an abyss of despair was abruptly interrupted by my brother.

“Let’s not be worried about who is not here. Let’s focus on who is here. The people who are here deserve the bride’s attention,” he demanded. 

He was absolutely right. And not only did I need to be fully aware of those who chose to witness the beginning of our union and pay money to plan, travel, and lavish us with gifts, my wedding guests needed to see me reveling in the celebration. My brother’s interruption snatched me off the path to negative nowhere and welcomed me back to the big picture. While it was okay for me to be disappointed that a few people who I counted on to show up to such a special occasion chose to stay home, it was unacceptable for me to allow that to define the day or become the whole story. 

Why do I do this? I settle into brewing over something that hurts, while the joy of accomplishment, celebration, and goodness in general evades me. It’s like allowing nine hours of nighttime to cause me to miss out on fifteen hours of a sunny day. It seems ridiculous and unnatural. I learned, however, that it is quite natural and common to fixate on negative experiences, like mistakes, insults, and disappointments. Brain studies show that there is greater neural processing in the brain in response to negative stimuli, which is why negative events have a greater impact on our brains than positive ones. The sting of a rebuke is more weighty than affirmation and joy. Past traumas linger long past their expiration dates. Bad news demands more of our attention than good. Criticisms overshadow compliments. 

But better than understanding my wiring is knowing God’s desire for me to experience the fullness of His glory. God understands why it’s easy for me to focus on the negative but offers a way for me to revel in the positive.

Paul writes, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you” (1 Thessalonians 5:18 KJV).

God helped me see how gratitude overrides the propensity for negativity and allows me to embody the joy of the bigger picture. For example, when I expressed gratitude for the wedding guests in attendance, my mood shifted immediately! I saw the sacrifices that people made to join in our celebration. I saw people who came to witness our new beginning. I saw people investing in our future. I had to rejoice. I had no time for disappointment. My bridal cup runneth-ed over with joy!

Practicing gratitude helps me see the story unfolding from God’s perspective. It helps me anticipate and recognize God’s grace.

Jesus gave thanks in every situation — when prayers were answered, as He performed miracles, in the midst of suffering, at His last supper with the disciples — and He was able to tap into the joy of God’s bigger picture. Inspired by His expression of gratitude, I decided to create my own daily practice.

In the morning, I express gratitude for all the great things that are coming my way that day. As I carpool, my children and I share what we are grateful for about ourselves and why. This allows us to show an appreciation for assets we might otherwise take for granted — our bending knees, hearing ears, seeing eyes, curly hair, melanated skin. We then express our gratitude for the things that touch our lives, like books, friends, and grandparents. At night before bed, I look at the calendar to review events, appointments, and to-do’s for the following day. I say a thank you for each person and project that I get to touch. I then take a moment to reflect on the day’s moments, events, wins, insights, and lessons. And for each I say thank you.

While I don’t pretend that night’s darkness does not exist, in gratitude, it doesn’t overshadow the sunny days.

Friends, it is God’s will that we practice gratitude — not because God needs our praise but so that we don’t miss out on living in the glory of His bigger picture.  

 

Listen to Lucretia’s words via the player below or wherever you stream podcasts!

Empowered to Be Known

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O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me.
You know when I sit down or stand up.
You know my thoughts even when I’m far away.
You see me when I travel
and when I rest at home.
You know everything I do.
You know what I am going to say
even before I say it, Lord . . . .
How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
They cannot be numbered!
I can’t even count them;
they outnumber the grains of sand!
Psalm 139:1-4, 17-18 (NLT)

My degree is in youth and family ministry, and my first job fresh out of college was working with middle and high school students as the director of youth ministries at a large church. As a former camp counselor, I tried to bring those faith experiences into practice in a congregational setting. For instance, we dug a firepit and had bonfires throughout the summer. And it was at one of these bonfires that I shared a favorite devotion I’d used throughout my camp counseling ministry.

I had each student lick their fingertip and swipe it through the dirt under their feet, then told them to count the grains of sand now stuck to their fingertips. Obviously, there was no way they could. Then I asked them to envision a lakeshore. How many grains of sand are there? How about under the lake water? And what about an ocean beach and the grains of sand that make up the ocean floor? The number is unfathomable. And yet Psalm 139 states that God’s thoughts of us outnumber the grains of sand.

From the looks on their faces, I could see that my students’ minds were blown. And I understood their reaction.

When I was their age — and even throughout college and sometimes as an adult — I never felt like anyone’s top friend choice. I never felt truly, fully, wholly known. No friend was finishing my sentences, no friend could seemingly read my mind, no friend wanted to spend every waking hour hanging out or talking on the phone, and no friend could fully understand my feelings. (Note: I realize these are massively high expectations for a school-age or any-age friendship. I blame the copious number of YA novels I read during those years for raising my friendship hopes and dreams.)

As unrealistic as those dreams were, I still have days when it feels like no one really knows me or wants to take the time and energy to get to know who I am. My husband of almost fifteen years is the one who comes closest to knowing me fully. But even with him there are feelings or reactions I need to explain, parts of my personality that surprise even me, and pieces of me that fall apart with little advance notice.

So it’s mind-blowing to realize that the Creator of the universe thinks of us nonstop, knows every single intricate detail about us, and yet adores us.

Being known so fully sounds enticing and also a little terrifying. I mean, fully known means all the way. Completely. Totally. Every single part. There’s a good reason that no person can fully know someone else: it’s overwhelming. God is the only one who can know us completely, and thank goodness. He doesn’t just see the best, prettiest, and most presentable portions of our selves. God also sees every deep, dark, ugly, secret part, and still He chooses to love us. He sees it all, knows it all, and loves us completely anyway.

Psalm 139 contains so many treasures that can bring calm and joy to our hearts. Because of the truths it lists, we can be empowered to rest in being known. We are knitted together by the One who created the original pattern, the One who chooses us again and again, the One who loves us as we are. We are examined and still adored. What a gift!

Lord, You have searched me and You know me, and still You love me. Thank You for an indescribable love that embraces all of me as I am. Even when I feel unknown by others, help me to remember that Your knowledge of me is a comfort. May I spend my days living into the strength You offer in being known. Amen.

Who comes the closest to fully knowing you? How do the truths in Psalm 139 make you feel?

This article is an excerpt from Empowered: More of Him for All of You.

 

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Stop Hiding and Show Up as Your Full, Authentic Self

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There was a hole-in-the-wall Indian buffet we used to stop by almost every Sunday on our way home from church. The kids would order the mango lassi and my husband would eat samosas and tandoori chicken with warm soft naan till he couldn’t move. But one day, everything was different. It looked the same, but the flavors and spices were off as if they had poured water into all the curries. I was disappointed and frustrated. In fact, I didn’t understand why it bothered me so much until much later after marinating on it. To me, most buffets adulterate the authentic flavors to make dishes more appetizing for the general public. They water it down to make it consumer-friendly. But that is misrepresenting the food of my country — for profit.

I realized the reason I was so angry was because that was what I had to do to myself for most of my life. I had to water down the Indian part of my identity to make everyone around me comfortable. I would avoid my culture, get rid of my accent, and cater to the dominant or majority culture that I was immersed in. A part of me had to stay hidden so I would be welcomed and given space at tables where I was the only one who looked like me. Personally, I think the hardest part of being an immigrant was giving up so much of my cultural identity to fit into the majority culture but still remain an outsider.

It was only in my thirties that I realized this transformative and liberating truth: God made me Indian. My cultural identity was chosen by the Creator on purpose. It was not accidental. My skin tone, my cultural heritage, my mother tongue were all handpicked for me to display to the world — for His glory and my good. All this time I had been trying to cover it up to make everyone like me, yet it is when I embrace all of me and show up fully and authentically that I don’t simply impress people but I get to influence them.

In 2020, God placed a burden in my heart for Indian women. As I told a friend about this new passion, she immediately responded, “You don’t ever really talk about being Indian.” Without even thinking, I said, “It’s hard when I tried to hide it for so long!”

Esther in the Bible was in a similar place. She was a Jewish girl, but no one in the palace knew. She was now queen and had grown comfortable in the new identity she had adopted so she could belong. But she had hidden her Jewish identity for so long that she didn’t see her people’s struggle. She had to be reminded that she wasn’t safe simply because of her status as queen and that perhaps it was a setup for her to save her people. When it was time to step into her God-given purpose, Esther had to be fully authentic and honest about her cultural identity, even if it meant rejection and death.

I had to do the same. God spoke to my heart, People need to see Jesus in someone who looks like them. So I decided it was time to talk about Jesus but in my own voice as an Indian American woman. I began to share about my struggles with finding identity and what it meant to live in this third culture and raise children in it, which is not always easy. I shared about my love for Indian clothes and food. All of a sudden, women who looked like me from all over the world began to reach out to share their struggles, asking for prayer and advice.

Friends, we don’t need to hide or water down any part of us to fit into culture. God intentionally made every part of us and wired us together. Nothing was accidental. The way we walk and see this world is unique in the same way He made us unique. Therefore, our reasonable act of worship is to surrender every part of us to bring Him glory because the things that make us different are often the very things that point others to the Divine.

To begin the process of authentically showing up, I urge you to invite the Holy Spirit to convict your hearts as you ask this question to yourself: “For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man?” (Galatians 1:10 ESV)

 

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When It Feels Like God Stops Talking

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It was over breakfast when she told me. My niece reached across the restaurant table we both sat at, leaning over her pancakes and my eggs and bacon, and said, “I have something to tell you.” 

At almost four-years-old, it seemed important to her. “What’s up?” I asked. 

She scooted off the booth chair and came nearer. “It’s a secret,” she said. Then she leaned closer, her lips next to my ear, and whispered softly, “I love you.” 

I loved her secret: a love song she’d deemed important enough to interrupt our breakfast for and whisper in my ear. It was said softly but reverberated loudly in my heart and mind for the rest of the day. 

Sometimes the quietest things mean the most — the murmurs of a mother rocking her child to sleep, the way a husband and wife make eye contact across a room without saying anything, how friends can sit in comfortable silence during a long road trip. 

It can feel like what I hear most loudly is God’s silence. I’ll sit and listen for His voice, fed up and frustrated when I don’t hear something in the five measly minutes I’ve set aside for Him.⁣

But perhaps silence doesn’t always equal absence. ⁣When I sit in silence with a close friend, I don’t feel awkward. Instead their silence is a comfort to me — a reminder that even if they have no words, they have presence in my life. ⁣⁣

I read the beginning of John 8 this morning, and before Jesus ever spoke to the woman caught in adultery, He looked down, silent. But He was still present. His silence did not equal absence or judgment. ⁣And when Elijah hid in the mountain of Horeb (1 Kings 19), He encountered the Living God — not with a miraculous sign or a mighty voice but in an almost silent whisper. 

During this Easter season it can be easy to focus primarily on Good Friday, on the pain our Savior endured for us. Each year, it wrecks me. Then we eagerly fast forward to Easter Sunday: the best, most life-changing news our world could experience. 

But in the middle of those two days lies Saturday — silent. It feels like crickets. I try to imagine how the disciples felt that first Easter, particularly on the Saturday when Jesus was dead and buried in a tomb. I can’t fathom it: Jesus was dead. Everything His disciples and followers had been a part of for the last three years was suddenly over. I wonder if they asked themselves, quietly, terrifyingly, eyes rubbed raw with grief, “What if everything I’ve believed about God is a lie?”⁣

Have you ever wondered the same?

It can be easy to believe there are times when God stops talking — when we can’t feel His presence, when the nights feel dark and long, when people’s opinions feel loud. Sometimes God’s silence has us questioning everything. 

But God isn’t afraid of silence or the dark. Even on that first Saturday — when the friends of Jesus had probably shuttered themselves in a room, cocooning themselves in a bed, praying that everything they believed wasn’t a lie — Jesus was preparing a way through the dark. ⁣

Perhaps God’s silence is a comfort, a reminder, a presence that actually speaks volumes, telling us, “I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.” ⁣

⁣Perhaps God is nearer than we ever imagined. It may feel like He’s quiet but maybe it’s because He is so close — His mouth to your ear, His breath tickling your neck, never far from reach, close enough that you could reach out and touch Him. 

Maybe He whispers because He is so near in proximity. He doesn’t need to yell or talk very loudly because He has always been close by. A still, small voice, murmuring love songs over breakfast. His right hand beside you, ready to catch you when you reach out. Leaning over the table, His lips next to your ear, whispering softly, “I love you.” 

Emmanuel, God with us — on earth-shattering Fridays and resurrection Sundays and every silent Saturday in between — who quietly comes nearer, and nearer, and nearer still. 

 

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Debbie, Detours, and My Near Death Experience

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Debbie from the plane. Her name caught my attention as I was going through the contacts on my phone. Debbie! I closed my eyes. I could see her bouncy hair matching her boisterous southern drawl. Instantly, I was transported back to that June day when I’d met Debbie. It was the day my plane almost crashed.

I’d boarded a plane headed from San Diego to Denver on a cool morning. As the plane approached the landing strip, it bobbled back and forth like a ping pong ball in a hurricane. The pilot immediately pulled the plane straight up like a rocket launching into space. My hands clenched the seat divider. The pilot said something about air pockets, the storm, and how everything was going to be okay. Out the window everything was murky; the clouds were as dark and thick as molasses. 

Unsuccessfully the pilot attempted one more dangerous landing before we were rerouted to Grand Junction Airport, an hour away.

Every passenger belted out a hearty cheer as our plane landed and slowed to a halt.

When I finally got off that dreaded plane, I ran toward the rental cars. I refused to take a bus all the way back to Denver. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same idea and the cars were completely gone. The rental car guy said, “I do have one twelve-passenger van.” He dangled the keys. A tantalizing idea tickled me. I looked to my right and saw a single woman and to my left was an Asian couple with a baby and another family of four. I started doing the math. Yes! We could do this. It might just work. I gathered the closest strangers in a huddle like we were planning out our next strategic play. In a wild turn of events, we almost felt giddy. Twelve strangers from around the country, meeting for the first time, overcoming a near-death experience, were now traveling together in a van with one destination in mind — Denver.

The road trip took most of the day. That’s when I met Debbie. “Debbie from the plane” sat right next to me. She was sassy, blunt, and full of quick, say-what-everyone’s-really-thinking-but-too-afraid-to-say-out-loud comebacks. This small group of strangers bonded. We shared Goldfish crackers, told stories, and used each other’s phone chargers. We passed around family photos. We all laughed so hard. My heart expanded like those magical foam mattresses you get in the mail. I grew to really enjoy these people.

On the drive Debbie told me about her faith and how disheartened she was by the church. I didn’t offer answers, but I listened. She shared about how her grandfather was a preacher and how she wants to raise kind children. I reminded her of how God never loses sight of us no matter how broken life gets. I shared my Jesus journey too.

We all have a story, don’t we? Every stranger, every human, every soul has a story. I got to hear Debbie’s. And in the most unimaginable way, with the gray sun dropping behind the storm-covered Colorado mountains, I smiled. This journey that ended up taking me a total of sixteen hours was what my soul needed. I needed to be stuck in a van with strangers to see people again. I needed to remember how fragile life really is. I needed to listen, laugh, and connect on a human level with people who were in many ways just like me. I needed this detour as a reminder of how much I loved humans. God always knows what we need. He will take us on the long route if it means He can give us the water our souls are really longing for. 

Sister, stay awake to the detours God gives you as divine invitations to the greatest, deep-down, soul smiles.

I know you have desires. I know your soul is hungry. You might even be in a place where you feel like your desires have been forgotten. The path you are on might not make logical sense. Perhaps the place you are in isn’t where you thought you’d be. When you look at your current circumstances, you may feel behind or off-track from your plan. The temptation will be to look at your life like it’s a calculus problem to solve. Resist this.

Instead, be where God has led you. Stay where He has invited you to be. Let your body, mind, and heart all be in the same place. Be fully in it even when it feels muddled, uncomfortable, and incredibly confusing. Wake up even when you are tempted to fall asleep, check out, and numb everything. The sweet taste of God’s love when you are connected to the life He has entrusted to you is better than any dream you could ever imagine. Detours aren’t actually detours; they are the way we were always meant to travel.

I wonder if I’ll ever see Debbie again. I wonder what everything meant. I’m not sure I will ever know why things happened the way they did, but I do know that tucked into that tumultuous day were moments popping with joy. I do know that at the end of my life I want my phone filled with contacts that say things like, “Mike the guy from the grocery store,” and “Alice the gal who served us breakfast,” and “Debbie from the plane.” I want to know I followed the detours, the long, arduous, dying-to-dreams, talking-to-strangers kind of detours because they always lead to an awakening of God’s love story inside of mine.

—

You’ve felt it — the underlying anxiety that you’re missing out on the good life. So you zone out, swipe up, work hard, and spin in circles trying to get it. Anjuli Paschall calls it carpe diem syndrome — the fear of not living life to the fullest. But the full life isn’t found by chasing it. It’s found by coming awake to it. In her new book, Awake: Paying Attention to What Matters Most in a World That’s Pulling You Apart, Anjuli casts a compelling vision for you to live a soul-awake life too. The invitation might be as gentle as a song or as abrupt as a rooster’s crow, but God is always waking you up. You can have the life you really want, and you don’t have to lose your soul trying to get it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Full life is right here.

Leave a comment below telling us how this book could be the encouragement you need, and you’ll be entered to WIN a copy of Awake!

Then join Anjuli and (in)courage community manager Becky Keife for a chat all about becoming Awake! Tune in tomorrow, 4/13/22, on our Facebook page at 11am CST for their conversation.

Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes on 4/15/22 at 11:59pm CST.

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Honest Questions Lead Us to Deeper Intimacy

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He sits next to me, untwisting the small, green cap of an applesauce snack. After each squeeze, he tells me something small about his day — how there’s a brand-new classmate, how he played soccer and fell in the mud at recess, how he’s learning about the American Revolution. And then he asks me, “Why is Russia attacking Ukraine? And why do people kill each other?”

I take a deep breath, noticing how small his hands are and that he has dirt on his jeans.

I think of the kids his age who are sheltering or fleeing as refugees right now and about how many have been doing this for as long as there have been nations. A few of his school classmates have had to leave their homes, and he knows them and calls them friends because of this reality. A few years ago, before COVID, I remember meeting one friend in particular when I visited my son for lunch. When I found out he’d recently moved, I asked him what he missed most. He shared about family members and all the foods he missed while the rest of the lunch table fell abnormally quiet to listen.

My own mom lived through war and loss, and however removed he is, I know my son feels it all when they are together. He asks me often why she’s had to go through so much.

His questions about war poke at so many hard realities I wish none of us had to face. I tell him, “That’s a really good question,” then whisper, “Help” to God as I realize I have the same questions.

I say a few things about power and greed and how little choices can grow into bigger and bigger choices like wildfire. But what he also needs to know is that I ask God the same questions he asks me. He wants a black-and-white answer that will appease him for a moment, or maybe even a few years, but I know how the questions will come back again, as persistent as the dusk of another day.

I want my kids to know that we can go to God when we doubt, when we’re afraid, and when we don’t understand why things are the way they are. I want them to know that yes, we can be part of the change we long to see, but I also want them to know how courageous it is to ask honest questions.

Honest questions can lead us to deeper intimacy with God. They aren’t a slippery slope or something to shut out of our system or defend against.

My natural tendency is to shield my kids from the harsher realities of the world and run from some of these questions. But while talking about things in age-appropriate ways is good, running from the realities of the world is impossible if we are honest and awake to the world in and around us.

The best response to a hard question is to ask ourselves another question:

What am I afraid of?

Then sit still long enough to face the answer.

Our fear of questions and doubt reveal our limited understanding of love. This isn’t something to be ashamed of; instead, it’s indicative of our own pain. The world is crying out in pain, and it seems like most of us have been trained to refuse to face our own.

James Baldwin wrote this in The Fire Next Time, “I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hate so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.”

John, a disciple of Jesus, wrote this in one of his letters, “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love” (1 John 4:18).

We can welcome the questions of our children, neighbors, enemies, and our own. Doing so will require us to dig beyond them and find the pain we’ve buried down deep, the fears we harbor and hide, and offer it all to God. Our fear is an invitation to step towards healing. Our questions are a doorway to humility and help. Our doubts can lead us to a deepened faith.

Later that night, at bedtime, the Holy Spirit reminded me of my after-school conversation with my son. I asked him if he wanted to pray and ask God anything. He shook his head and asked me to pray instead. I asked God the same question he’d asked me hours earlier, prayed for Ukraine, then gave room for a little bit of silence. I kissed him goodnight, then silently asked God to help him always feel more-than-permission to ask hard questions and for God to come near to him in the middle of each one.

A prayer for all of us:

God, who isn’t afraid of any question, we are so often afraid. We cover it up with statements of faith and stubborn platitudes. Reach past it all — reach us and wake us to your pursuit. Show us our real questions. Forgive us for being dishonest and defensive. Help us face the pain we bury so deep. Give us the courage to trust You. Be near to us in our doubts. Be near like our breath, flesh, and bone. And deliver us from our fears with Your perfect love. Amen.

 

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Holding On to Hope When We Just Can’t Anymore

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

Until it seemed the only option I had left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet Jesus didn’t lose hope.

Why?

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

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

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

But God’s promise of Himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I Hope but Help Me In My Hopelessness

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

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

My baby cried. So did I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The expectancy of hope was enough.

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

The expectancy of hope begets hope.

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

The promise of hope begets hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Jesus Accepted Help So You Can Too

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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When You Cannot Hope, Be Heard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is faith if not remembering we have a Witness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Introducing Three New (in)courage Contributors!

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

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

Barb Roose:

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

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

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

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

Kayla Craig:

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

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

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

KJ Ramsey:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Are His, and You Are Forgiven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are forgiven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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