God Is Already Working In Ways You’ve Yet to Imagine

God Is Already Working In Ways You’ve Yet to Imagine

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The only thing more intense than my cries that afternoon were my prayers.

I was laying on my bed, crying out to God, when I abruptly stopped and realized that what I truly wanted could literally never come to pass. I was less than one week postpartum with our first child, a stillborn son. I was home and he was not. What I wanted was for him to be out of the grave — in my womb or in my arms . . . it didn’t matter.

The visceral emptiness I felt sunk deep into my heart. Then came the intruding thought: “If I can’t have what I really want, what am I even praying for?”

This spiritual and emotional precipice was terrifying. Did I really believe Jesus was enough, even if I couldn’t have what I wanted? I had been taught so many ways to pray over the years, including prayers of letting go. You know? Those prayers of releasing what I hoped could be. However, those “letting go” prayers still held within them the hope that God would give back to me whatever I had entrusted to Him.

This could not be the case with our son, however. Because, regardless of what well-intentioned folks would say, this was not a scenario in which God could give back to me that which I had seemingly released. Our son was gone, and I didn’t want to simply “have other kids” as others had suggested. People don’t replace people. I wanted him back; I wanted my son back.

My wholehearted answer to the question I asked myself was, “I don’t know.” I was no longer sure that Jesus was enough, though I was certain I didn’t want Him to be enough. At that moment, having my son back was the only thing that would be enough.

Admitting this felt like flinging myself over the precipice in a reckless and irreparable way, so I prayed something else instead. My new prayer sounded more like, “God, I really want what I can’t have — and I can’t even begin to imagine what You can do with this prayer, but I am open to You doing something I don’t have the imagination or emotional wherewithal to even consider at the moment. That’s all I’ve got. Amen.”

Then I fell asleep and escaped my little world for an hour or so.

Unsurprisingly, I awoke to the same reality — the same bed, the same feelings, and without my son. Even still, I had made it through that utterly terrifying wave of grief. I also made it through what felt like the lowest faith prayer I had ever spoken. That was nearly a decade and a half ago — and we are now three kids deep. The answer to my prayer, however, didn’t come in the form of my three children, though they are a joy and bring great life to our home. The answer, in fact, is ever unfurling.

Though that particular precipice was a one-time cliff, the experience of looking into an abyss with only a darkened imagination is not. Eight years ago, my husband left his Christian faith of thirty years. The faith that held us when we buried our son and the same faith our other three children have been symbolically buried and risen into through the waters of baptism. The faith that once held us both but now only holds me. . .

The truth is, we all face our particular precipices — looking into a situation that either feels impossible or literally is impossible. Friend, I know this place all too well. So, in what manner of faith do we approach this kind of abyss? I would offer you Ephesians 3:20 (NIV), where the apostle Paul is writing to his friends in the faith, and he tells them, “Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine.” Full stop, right there — this verse lights up the darkness in my thoughts and prayers.

The unfurling of God’s work in our lives doesn’t come from our own imagination. It doesn’t come from what we can see or even ask for. God’s work doesn’t come from a plan we can concoct and pray for. We don’t have to have much of anything, really. We come, simply with a willingness to be shown something outside of what we could literally “ask or imagine.”

This abyss, this precipice you face may be awful. There is no escaping that reality. Your lack of faith may frighten you, as you may feel you need a resurrection so far beyond this death you are experiencing that you struggle to even know what to pray. This is the place Jesus knows. He knows how to let go into the Father’s hands. The only path is to believe, even if ever so slightly, there is a life beyond your imagination, a world where God himself establishes you in His love.

Indeed, God will “work His power” in you in ways so big you have yet to consider asking. This, this is truly good news.

Now, to Him who is able . . . amen.

Trees Flourish in Community, and So Do We

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We recently had cousins visit us in Central California from the East Coast. We decided to take them for a day trip to one of our favorite spots — Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. They call this intersection of two national parks the “land of the giants,” characterized by magnificent mountains, frolicking foothills, expansive canyons, caves and caverns, and the world’s largest trees.

I love taking visitors to see the sequoia groves because these trees always preach a sermon about community and resilience.

The scent in the air always serves as the first signal we have arrived in the forest sanctuary. Despite the chill outside, I rolled down the window so we could drink in the delicious aroma. A trove of tree trunks rose up around us forming a stately corridor. As we drove along the undulating highway into the park, we headed for Grant Grove where a large cluster of sequoia trees cover 90-some acres of mixed-conifer forest. Giant sequoias only grow between 4,000 and 8,000 feet elevation in the western Sierra Nevada mountain range of California. 

We pulled into the parking lot and began to stroll around the loop of the Grant Tree Trail. The sequoias were easy to spot among the other foliage. These massive trees with their ruddy trunks are like arrows pointing toward heaven. 

Giant sequoias are survivors. They weather harsh winters and steamy summers, and can even withstand fires. Their reddish bark, which can grow up to three feet thick, helps to protect them from fire damage. 

As we made our way toward the main attraction of the trail, the General Grant tree, we couldn’t help but notice the giant burn scar on her trunk on one side. Some fierce fires can still penetrate the bark. The General Grant tree has the largest diameter of any tree — a whopping 40.3 feet across — and she’s still standing, despite evidence of enduring fires. 

The General Grant tree provides a visual example of what the prophet Isaiah describes when he talks about God’s redeeming power and presence through life’s fires:

“When you pass through the waters,
    I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
    they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
    you will not be burned;
    the flames will not set you ablaze.”
(Isaiah 43:2 NIV)

As I gazed at the tree’s massive trunk, I wondered about how she survived such a destructive fire and still remains grounded today.

The secret to survival lies below the surface. The sequoia root system makes them unique. They don’t have a main taproot like other trees. Instead, these giants only root to 12 to 14 feet deep even at maturity. Their root system is relatively shallow, considering many trees stand at 300 feet tall and weigh nearly 2 million pounds. Their roots are widespread, extending up to an acre around them.

Years ago, I watched a TED talk by scientist Suzanne Simard who explained that trees connect and talk to each other through their roots and fungal threads that travel underground. Her research revealed that trees care for each other by exchanging carbon, sharing vital nutrients, and delivering water. They work in community to overcome challenges. I like to imagine the complex network of roots like the trees holding hands underground.

Apparently, there are mother trees, which are the oldest trees in a grove. Through back-and-forth communication, they share about dangerous situations, help prepare for inclement weather, and signal the presence of harmful insects. I learned when mother trees are dying, they send messages through their roots to other trees and even share their last nutrients with young seedlings.

The trees with intertwining roots provide a beautiful inspiration to us all about what flourishing together really looks like. God designed the trees, like us, to communicate, nurture, and encourage each other. We are invited to care for each other in times of need and grief. We are called to invest in the next generation. 

In his book, The Hidden Life of Trees, Peter Wohlleben writes, “A tree is not a forest. On its own a tree cannot establish consistent local climate. It is at the mercy of wind and weather. But together, many trees create an ecosystem…”

Resilience grows in community. The trees need each other, and so do we. Despite our differences or the distance between us, we are all interdependent. 

Isaiah later provides a vision of what it looks like for all Creation to live in harmony and praise God together:

“You will live in joy and peace.
    The mountains and hills will burst into song,
    and the trees of the field will clap their hands!
Where once there were thorns, cypress trees will grow.
    Where nettles grew, myrtles will sprout up.
These events will bring great honor to the Lord’s name;
    they will be an everlasting sign of his power and love.”
(Isaiah 55:12-13 NLT)

Friend, these days may feel heavy and hard. Storms rage, fires burn, and we must face life’s challenges. God did not design us to stand isolated and alone. He created us to be part of a forest, an ecosystem, a community of diverse people who lift each other up, who provide necessary nutrients and water.

May we be like the trees — messaging, mothering, and making space for the next generation to become rooted. 

The sequoias lead the way: pointing toward heaven, surviving life’s fires, and flourishing together in community.

Dorina helps people feast on the glory of God through her weekly Glorygram and daily encouragement on Instagram.

The Scars We Can’t See

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“Is that a port scar?”

Her question startled me out of the blue. We were standing in waist-deep water, watching our kids play in the pool, making small talk as women do. We’d swapped names, shared kids’ ages, and laughed as they jumped into the water together, making fast friends from strangers as children do.

But I didn’t think she and I were going that deep, this soon.

By instinct, my fingers flew up to the small line across my collarbone, still puffy where it was healing after surgery and so many infusions. I took a deep breath. Did I really want to tell a stranger my story?

“Yes, it is,” I answered, not knowing what to say. “How did you—”

Before I could finish, she traced a similar line near her neck, a paler scar. I hadn’t noticed it next to her brightly colored swimsuit, but our eyes can learn to see what we didn’t see before.

“I always notice them now,” she said. “Sorry — I didn’t mean to make you feel weird. I know it’s a personal question. Sometimes I just feel this connection with women who get it, you know?”

Next thing I knew, we were swapping stories: lumps and bumps, mammograms and mastectomies, chemo and radiation, so many surgeries, so many losses, so much suffering that most people don’t see. We laughed and teared up behind our sunglasses, watching our kids splash carefree in the sunshine while we shared how cancer had cannon-balled into our lives.

“But look at us!” she said, waving her arms between us, stretching toward our loud and laughing crew of kids. “We’re here. We get to be with them still. Doesn’t it just make you all the more grateful?”

I can’t remember her name or most of what we chatted about on that sunlit day. But I’ve never forgotten how it felt to be seen. To have a stranger notice something important about my life and invite me to bring it into the light, if I wanted.

I’ve never felt embarrassed about my scars — and after cancer, I have many. I know one friend prefers to cover up her port scar, wanting to forget entirely about how her port pumped months of chemotherapy, immunotherapy, and bag after bag of IV fluids into her body. We have different ways of living with our scars, and we don’t always have to share them.

But we’re called to remember that we each bear them.

Human bodies are fragile and powerful, vulnerable and resilient. I taught my kids to marvel at this ability God gave our bodies. “Look at how you’re healing!” I’d say to them a day or two after placing a band-aid on a skinned knee or a playground cut. “God made our bodies to heal. It’s so amazing how God takes care of us that way.”

But as adults, we know that scars can stay. God gave the human body an incredible capacity for healing, but this doesn’t wipe away the physical and spiritual wounds that remain.

The scars from accidents or burns or cuts, literal or emotional.

The scars from surgeries we needed, to remove or repair injured parts of our bodies.

The scars from birth — or the medical treatments we hoped would bring babies, but didn’t.

The scars from sickness or disease or disability — and our doctors’ efforts to bring healing.

The scars from our cries of despair. The scars from dashed hopes.

The scars deep inside, from the ones who wounded us, in body or soul.

Some of our scars are visible. My younger kids will sometimes ask what happened to make the crisscrossed lines across my body, and I’ll share the story. But many scars cannot be seen. Which makes it even more important that we remember how we share them.

I love the resurrection stories in the Gospels, how vividly they describe Jesus’ resurrected body. He walked and talked and ate with His friends; He was no ghost. But even more powerfully — for those of us who are the walking wounded, which is all of us — He still bore the scars from His crucifixion.

What a remarkable gift of resurrection, that Jesus kept this visible reminder of what He had suffered. He did not show up on Easter morning with a super-human body, sparkling and smooth. Quite the opposite; He still bore the marks of his passion and death: the cut in his side, the nail holes in his hands and feet.

His wounds were the way His friends knew Him.

On a long-ago day in a bright blue pool, a scar made the way for a stranger to share a sliver of my suffering. The stories we offered to each other created kinship in the most unexpected places.

But no matter how we choose to live with our scars — to care for them in quiet or to hold them with a trusted confidant — we can move through the world with more tenderness and compassion when we remember that we have each known deep pain.

May we remember that to be human is to be scarred. Jesus knew this, too. But we can help each other bear our suffering. Because no part of us — body or soul — is hidden from our God who made and heals and loves us.

If you’re looking to journey through suffering to hope, check out Laura’s new series on Jesus in the Gospel of John, I AM: A Pilgrimage Through Lent.

Listen to Laura’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Your Value Is Determined by the Price He Was Willing to Pay

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It was time to sell the house.

Those words still catch in my throat when I tell the story. They mark the reality of a season I never imagined for myself — a season of heartbreak and deep grief. After nearly twenty years of marriage, my husband declared he was done, and I found myself sitting in Starbucks, trying to make sense of a life I no longer recognized.

The house wasn’t just a place on a map for me. It was our family home and a symbol of the life I thought I had — a life I fought hard to preserve. Selling it felt like giving up the last shred of what was.

At Starbucks, my sweet friend and realtor sat across from me. Her face was gentle as she looked at me.

“I’m so sorry, Nic. I can’t believe this is happening.”

It’s one of the problems with blindsides and betrayal, isn’t it? The confusion of the reality of things leaves us grappling with a nasty narrative about our worth. About our place in the world. Our value and identity.  

Clutching a latte in one hand and a wad of napkins in the other, I asked the question I dreaded most: How much do you think we should list our home for? My heart pounded in my ears as my friend explained the current market. And then, as though Heaven reached down and tuned me in, I heard her say the words that pierced right through my grief.  

“The value is determined by how much someone is willing to pay for it,” she said.

At that moment, the entire coffee shop melted away. There we sat, just my friend and I, her words lingering in the grief-drenched space between us. “Can you repeat that?” I asked quietly.

She nodded confidently and then proceeded to say, “The value is always determined by the price someone is willing to pay.” 

In a heartbeat — in a divine interception that changed everything — my mind went right to the cross, right to that perfect Man sent to rescue us. Jesus. He paid the ultimate price for us. His arms stretched wide, willing to sacrifice everything. For you. For me.

Right there, in the middle of Starbucks, with my mind turned to the cross, a message from my Father grew loud in my ears:

Your value is determined by what I was willing to pay. 

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your ancestors, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.”
1 Peter 1:18-19 NIV

On the cross, Jesus declared our worth in a way nothing else ever could. The God of the universe didn’t send a stand-in or a second-best offering. He gave His very life. That is what we’re worth to Him.

On the heels of the unthinkable in my marriage, I had been accepting hand-me-down messages about my value. I had been viewing myself through the eyes of the man who had walked away instead of through the eyes of the One who never would.

In that moment, God reminded me that our worth is never tied to a house, a marriage, or any earthly thing. Our worth was — and always will be — rooted in Him. Our value isn’t determined by the world or anyone in it. The cross has the final word on you.

So, my friend, if you ever find yourself questioning your worth — if rejection or pain whispers lies to your soul — remember the cross. Remember Jesus, remember the price He paid, remember His history-altering pursuit with you on His mind.

Your value was determined long ago. You are priceless. You are deeply loved — and you are wanted by the One who gave everything just to be with you.

Listen to Nicole’s devotion below or wherever you stream podcasts.

Freedom in Accepting Our Imperfections

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When I was a little girl, my grandmother and great-aunts taught me to quilt. I loved stitching together carefully cut scraps of colorful fabric with their guidance. However, if I thought my row of stitches wasn’t straight enough, I would stitch a second, neater row alongside the first. My aunt quickly identified my misstep and my desire to make it better. I wanted it to be perfect.

That desire for perfection followed me through life. I played softball from the fifth grade through high school but didn’t enjoy it nearly as much if the temperature was too hot or the ground too muddy. I wanted the conditions to be just right.

I envy women who can claim the title of “reformed perfectionist” because, try as I might, I can’t seem to kick the habit. It seems I didn’t stumble into this mindset as an adult — it’s been there all along. Perfectionism has been woven into the fabric of my life. But God, in His grace, continually invites me to let go of control, embrace imperfection, and trust Him instead.

One of the most tangible lessons in this came under a looming photo deadline for my book It All Began in a Garden. With fifty chapters requiring fifty unique photos —  plus a front cover — I set out to capture perfect images. The book is about essential oils and the plants, trees, herbs, shrubs, fruit, and flowers that make them, so I  photographed outdoor plant material from Georgia to Utah, purchased specimens from local nurseries, and even ordered from Etsy.

With each photo I checked off my shot list, the challenge of capturing fresh, creative angles grew. I kept a few fragile plants in water in our refrigerator and took clippings from our yard. But the lighting was unpredictable, and plants would wilt before I could get the perfect shot.

My perfectionist’s heart was distressed.

For the indoor shots, I turned our dining room into a makeshift studio. One afternoon, after arranging and rearranging the book cover display, adjusting little bottles by millimeters, and shooting the setup from every possible angle, I thought I had it — my perfect cover photo.

But when I imported the RAW files onto my computer, my heart sank. The natural light had faded too much, leaving the image dull and lacking the vibrancy I envisioned. The prospect of trying to keep the little rose perky in the fridge another day; clipping more oregano, spearmint, rosemary, and lavender; and creating another curvy, curling piece of lemon peel felt overwhelming. My creative high was about to crash and burn.

Then I remembered — this book had been covered in prayer from the very beginning. God had given me the idea, and I had to trust He would see me through to completion. I sat down with that photo and carefully edited it, step by step, until what once looked lifeless transformed into what a friend later called “an author’s dream cover.”

That experience — and many others — remind me of the words God spoke to the prophet Jeremiah: “Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand …” (Jeremiah 18:6 NIV). My striving for perfection is like a lump of clay resisting the Potter’s hands. Yet God, in His love, keeps molding me, not into an image of perfection, but into a vessel for His glory.

Working with less-than-ideal circumstances reminds us that God is there to mold us and fill our gaps.

Last summer, an accident led to surgery on my right arm. Recovery has been slow and I don’t know if my arm will ever be the same. But out of necessity, I’ve learned to be more comfortable with imperfection. Surprisingly, that mindset extended to areas beyond my physical abilities.

I’ve invited others into my creative process — beta readers for my first novel, a professional editor to critique my early pages, and writing peers to give honest feedback. It’s vulnerable, but if I avoid criticism out of fear of imperfection, I’ll miss out on the growth that comes from refining my work.

For so long, perfectionism held me back, making me afraid to try new things, to risk looking foolish. But lately, I’ve been stepping forward — attending online writing workshops, asking questions even when I feel tongue-tied, and volunteering examples from my work. Each time I push past the fear of not being “good enough,” I see God’s grace meeting me in the process.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: God never called us to be perfect — He calls us to be faithful. He asks us to trust Him with our weaknesses, to bring Him our best effort, and let Him do the rest. In Him is where we find freedom.

Our fruitless attempts to pursue perfection often hold us back or distract us from what’s good and possible.

So, dear friend, are you a recovered perfectionist or still trying to break free from its grip? What would it look like to surrender your perfectionism to God today? He isn’t waiting for you to be flawless — He’s simply asking you to be willing. And that is more than enough.

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

Something Good Is About to Happen

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During 2020, when the world was in pandemonium, and things were confusing, a phrase sprung up inside of me. I mentioned it to my husband, and it registered in his heart too. We then shared the phrase with our children. Soon after we heard them repeating it to those around them: “Something good is about to happen.” 

That year for Christmas we had sweatshirts made with that quote across the front. You’ll catch any one of us wearing that sweatshirt on any given day. As a family, we now live by that motto. 

Something good is about to happen. 

Living by that motto doesn’t excuse us from having hard things come our way and having to live by faith. Everyone faces trials and challenges on the daily. Hard things are part of life. 

To us, “something good is about to happen”  simply means we know we’re going to get through them. Not only are we going to get through them, we believe something good is going to happen as a result of those trials.

After all, the Bible does tell us in the book of Romans that “in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28 NIV). There’s another verse in Psalms that tells us everything we do as godly people will turn out well (Psalm 1:3 NIRV). 

These powerful Scriptures are written to us. Our job isn’t to make them happen. Our job is to believe the One who said them is faithful to do them. 

It’s easy for us to believe that God will work hard circumstances into good for others. If something unfortunate happens to a friend, we are quick to believe that God can turn their situation around. Yet, when it comes to ourselves, we don’t step into faith as easily. 

Maybe we doubt God’s ability to make bad things good because we know ourselves and we think we don’t deserve it. But His goodness has never been based on whether we deserve it. Jesus paid the price that we deserve so we can have access to God’s goodness. We may think it’s selfish to even ask the Lord for something like that. Yet, Jesus Himself told us His Father would give us anything we ask for in His name (John 16:23 NIRV). 

Perhaps it’s hard to believe that God wants something good to happen for you because it seems like your past has been full of hurt, brokenness, or abuse. I have a friend who grew up in an extremely abusive home. She simply thought good things were for other people, not her. Today she would tell you that she was wrong. When she began to believe that God was good, she encountered His love and realized He is for her; He changed her entire world around. 

Still, I can understand all of those feelings. I’ve definitely had them and still do at times. But then I remind myself that God is also my Father. He’s good. Any good father out there wants the best for his children. A good father would take any pain from his child, he’d mend any heartache, he’d help him out of a bind. That’s what good dads do. They take away the pain, they don’t cause it. 

The other day, I overheard my husband, Darian, talking to a construction worker about the crawl space under a home. They both had some pretty terrible stories of what they’d found in those spaces. Towards the end of that conversation, Darian mentioned how our oldest son needed work done in the crawl space of his last two houses, so he’d strapped on his old clothes, got on his hands and knees, and army-crawled into the mud and muck of those houses. Why? Darian is a good dad. He’s not afraid of mud and muck. Plus he possesses the power, knowledge, and ability to fix the problem.

Mud and muck happen in everyone’s life. The Bible refers to them as tests and trials. Only God really knows what the crawl space of our lives looks like and He isn’t intimidated by it. He’s a good Dad. He possesses all the power, knowledge, and ability to fix all of the unfortunate things in our lives. Whenever we have a trial, challenge, or something hard come our way, let’s just consider it another thing in the crawl space of life. Give it to the Lord. He’ll clean that up too. The Bible is filled with promises and answers. He is always faithful. 

When we, like my friend, truly encounter the love of our good, good Father, we begin to realize good things are for us as well. We gain a new outlook on life. It’s not that God changed — we change! He’s always been good. Jesus beautifully described our Heavenly Father when He said, “So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him” (Matthew 7:11 NLT).

When we realize the Lord is our good Father, we are not shaken by anything that happens around us or to us. 

If you’re facing a situation that seems extra muddy or mucky in your life today, talk to your Heavenly Father about it. He is faithful. He fights our battles for us. He is our Healer, Provider, Friend, and Comforter. He makes all things turn out well. He’s cleaned people’s mud and muck up all the way through the Bible, and He still does it today. He will do it for you. 

Get ready, friend, because something good is about to happen.

A Prayer for Strength and Trust: Seeking God in Psalm 86

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Sisters, pause. Breathe. Invite God to meet you in this moment.

Life can feel overwhelming, can’t it? Maybe today you’re carrying burdens too heavy to bear, feeling unseen, unheard, or uncertain about the path ahead. But here’s the good news — God is listening. He sees you. He cares. And He invites you to bring your whole heart to Him.

Let’s pray as David did in Psalm 86. Let these words be both your cry and your confidence.

Psalm 86 (CSB)

“1 Listen, Lord, and answer me,
for I am poor and needy.
2 Protect my life, for I am faithful.
You are my God; save your servant who trusts in you.
3 Be gracious to me, Lord,
for I call to you all day long.
4 Bring joy to your servant’s life,
because I appeal to you, Lord.

5 For you, Lord, are kind and ready to forgive,
abounding in faithful love to all who call on you.
6 Lord, hear my prayer;
listen to my cries for mercy.
7 I call on you in the day of my distress,
for you will answer me.

8 Lord, there is no one like you among the gods,
and there are no works like yours.
9 All the nations you have made
will come and bow down before you, Lord,
and will honor your name.
10 For you are great and perform wonders;
you alone are God.

11 Teach me your way, Lord,
and I will live by your truth.
Give me an undivided mind to fear your name.
12 I will praise you with all my heart, Lord my God,
and will honor your name forever.
13 For your faithful love for me is great,
and you rescue my life from the depths of Sheol.

14 God, arrogant people have attacked me;
a gang of ruthless men intends to kill me.
They do not let you guide them.
15 But you, Lord, are a compassionate and gracious God,
slow to anger and abounding in faithful love and truth.
16 Turn to me and be gracious to me.
Give your strength to your servant;
save the son of your female servant.
17 Show me a sign of your goodness;
my enemies will see and be put to shame
because you, Lord, have helped and comforted me.”

What verse spoke to your heart the most? Share in the comments below.

Let’s pray together. Leave your prayer request, and as you do, take a moment to pray for someone else’s request. Let’s lift each other up and trust that the God who hears will also answer.

God Never Asks Us to Bear Our Burdens by Ourselves

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My phone lights up and vibrates against the stack of books resting on my desk. I stop typing, fingers hovering above the keyboard, long enough to glance at it. A notification waits for me on the screen: a text from a friend. I swipe the text open and quickly read it. Mentally, I try to formulate a response. My phone times out while I’m still staring at it and the screen goes dark. I go back to work without responding. I know enough now to know it’s a sign that the darkness is starting to close in. 

When things get tough, I fold into myself. It’s not a conscious choice I make, but rather something that happens so incrementally I have a hard time noticing the pattern before it’s too late.  

The draw inward is two-fold. On one hand, it’s an attempt at self-preservation, a sort of hibernation I believe will allow me to emerge a rested and restored version of myself. On the other hand, it’s my way of making sure no one around me knows the truth. Turning inward allows me to keep the realest parts of myself — the ones that feel messy and complicated and hard to explain or love — buried deep. I convince myself it’s altruistic, that by removing myself from my public-facing life I’m sparing people the burden of who I am. 

But there’s a problem with my instinct to withdraw. It leaves me carrying my burdens alone. 

By the world’s standards, there’s nothing wrong with that course of action. The world tells us to power through and to fake it until we make it, to avoid being vulnerable with one another at all costs. Vulnerability, the world tells us, is dangerous. It’s safer to keep people an arm’s length away, to smile and insist we’re fine — even when we’re not. 

But the Bible tells us something different. In Galatians 6:2 (ESV), we’re instructed to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” It’s a command most of us readily embrace when it comes to helping others. We willingly step in to offer our friends help or a listening ear. We try to love our people well. Why, then, are we so hesitant to let others meet us in the same way? If we are to bear each other’s burdens, there’s a flip side to that assignment — we must also let other people bear ours.  

God designed us to live in community with one another. True community requires us to build relationships that aren’t predicated by perfection. When we’re honest with the people closest to us about where it hurts and the ways in which we’re struggling, it allows us to experience community as it was intended. When we let others help bear our burdens, we can be seen and loved . . . not for the person we pretend to be, but for who we are.  

Although it feels unnatural, I pick my phone back up and respond to my friend’s text with vulnerable honesty. The words aren’t perfect or polished, but I hit send before I have the chance to overthink them or second-guess my decision to tell the truth. I’m not surprised when my phone buzzes a minute later with another text, but I am surprised by the relief that floods through my body. Not because any problem has been solved or any angst eliminated, but because, suddenly, I’m not standing in the darkness alone.  

God never asks us to bear our burdens by ourselves. Through the people He’s placed in our lives, He reveals His own care for us. In choosing to let others in, I’m reminded that I’m not only held by the people in my life — I’m also held by Him.

Hidden in the Quiet, but Seen by God

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A few years ago, I went alone to London, England for the summer. It wasn’t the first time I’d traveled solo, but it was the first time I’d spent the majority of the time with myself. London was alive with people, but most days I was alone.

My aloneness was not, in fact, loneliness. One doesn’t always equal the other. (Just like how sometimes you can be surrounded by people and still find yourself a little lonely.) Of course, I sometimes felt lonely, but I was always sure Jesus was close. I remember walking through Hyde Park, an ice cream cone in hand, chattering away in my heart to Jesus, telling Him exactly what I was thinking and feeling and dreaming. I genuinely believe He replied. He was my Friend and my Companion. I talked to Him constantly. He was my solitude.

I’ve lived alone for six years. There were long seasons where sometimes my aloneness felt palpable, almost thick. I knew each night when I woke up it would still be just me in the morning, in my one-bedroom apartment, day after day.

Maybe you can’t relate to that. Maybe you’ve wanted to escape the hordes of humans in your home. But no matter if you feel deeply alone, or if you’d pay a lot of money to be alone right now, I believe what both of us need is solitude.

One of my favourite writers, Henri Nouwen, was possibly the king of solitude, and aside from Jesus, most of what I’ve learned is from him. Nouwen was convinced that without solitude it was virtually impossible to live a spiritual life.

Except, when I actually carve out the time to meet with Jesus in solitude, I find myself suddenly distracted by 600 different things. Nouwen called this our “inner chaos”. When I sit down to meet with Jesus in silence, I instantly remember all the things I need to do, the projects I need to finish, the texts I need to send, the dishes I need to put away, the fears I have about now and the future…

My inner chaos comes out, and it comes out loudly. Getting alone — really, deeply, truly alone — with God can feel far too vulnerable and scary. Solitude asks me to bear my heart, to admit my sin, and to trust my fears and dreams to God. And then solitude asks me to do it again and again.

Nouwen said, “Solitude is not a spontaneous response to an occupied and preoccupied life. There are too many reasons not to be alone. Therefore we must begin by carefully planning some solitude.”

I wonder what planning for solitude might look like for you. It’s not simply planning to be alone, but planning to slow down long enough to become aware of God’s presence in and around you.

When I practice solitude, I’ll close my eyes and sit with my legs curled under me, slowing my breath.

I’ll say a simple prayer: Abba, I belong to You, or Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, or I inhale The Lord is my Shepherd and exhale I have all that I need, or whatever else the Spirit brings to mind.

Or I won’t say anything at all, and instead picture Jesus in my mind’s eye: how He smiles at me (because He’s delighted to see me today), or I’ll see Jesus laughing (because I’m convinced He has one of the best laughs), or I’ll just picture His eyes. Sometimes His eyes cry along with mine.

There are days when I open my eyes again, and only thirty seconds or a minute has passed. I can’t help but wonder: how can I so easily devote four or five hours to Netflix and only bear 30 seconds with You? But I know Jesus gives me a lot more grace than I give myself, and I know disciplines come with practice, and practice comes with time.

And I know, the more time I give to Jesus, the more I’ll learn to hear His voice. More than anything, I want to learn His voice.

Sometimes solitude feels like I’m wasting my time. But sometimes in solitude, the presence of God is so near to me that I can’t help but cry. And that’s why we all need solitude — because whether you’ve been alone often or not at all, we need to hear the voice of Jesus. To sit in His presence. To be keenly aware that God is with us and that the love He has for each of us is like a waterfall — how it pours out over and over, never ending.

Jesus said, “When you pray, go into a private room, close the door, and pray unseen to your Father who is unseen” (Matthew 6:6 NIV).

So this day, this month, this year… pray unseen, friend. In quiet. In solitude. With words or maybe without. And when you do, you will be deeply seen.

I promise you.

 

Listen to Aliza’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast anywhere!

The Myth of Being 100% Sure

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My parents tell the story of how I, at age five, climbed up a ladder and fearlessly jumped off a high diving board. I remember that moment — the smell of chlorine and sunscreen, the blue water beneath me, the Texas summer heat radiating off the board.

What I sometimes don’t remember as a grown-up is how it feels to be that brave, to stand at the edge of a dream or opportunity and have the guts to just go for it, let my feet leave what’s solid, let my fingers touch the sky.

My husband Mark and I had a conversation about this recently. I’d been dreaming of doing something for years. I’d tip-toe up to the edge of it then back away slowly. “Not now,” I’d tell myself, “Tomorrow. Today it’s too scary.” Then I’d research more, re-reading things I already knew just to make myself feel more certain. But it never really worked.

I asked Mark, “How sure do I need to be that I can do this before I start?” He’s a wise and responsible person so I expected him to say, “One hundred percent, of course.” But instead, he said, “Seventy-five percent.”

For whatever reason, I took his answer seriously. I climbed the diving board of this dream again and jumped right off the end of it. It wasn’t perfect but it was good enough as a start. And because I’m actually doing it rather than just dreaming about it, I’m getting better at it every day.

After this experience, I started wondering why so many of us believe we need to be one hundred percent sure to move forward with something. One reason might be thinking God is a micromanager and His will is a very tiny, mysterious target we must figure out how to hit or there will be catastrophic consequences.

But Jesus told a parable about a boss going away on a trip and leaving his workers in charge (see Matthew 25:14-30). When the boss comes back, he asks each worker what they did with what was entrusted to them. To the one who invested what he was given, took risks, jumped off the diving board, the boss says, “Well done.”

Grace is not a tiny target; it’s an endless pool.

Here’s what that parable made me realize: God is in control and we are in charge. Saying we have to be one hundred percent sure about something can be a way of avoiding the fear that comes with taking responsibility for our lives.

When we make a decision about something that matters to us, we will always experience fear. It’s how we’re wired as humans. Fear is our brain’s way of informing us, “Something important is at stake here.” We can try to avoid fear by telling ourselves we need to be completely sure about what we’re doing. But as long as we care about what we’re doing or how it turns out, our fear will never go away completely. The opposite of fear isn’t certainty; it’s apathy.

I’m not advocating for impulsivity. I believe in intentionality. This is about the times when fear is trying to hold us back from all God has for us, when we’ve known for a long time deep down what we want to do. When we’re standing at the edge of the same diving board for the one-hundredth time, toes curled around the edge, endless horizon in front of us. As poet Erin Hanson said…

“There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask “What if I fall?”
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?”

So go ahead — climb the ladder, step to the edge, and take the leap. You don’t have to be one hundred percent sure; you just have to be willing. God’s grace is deep enough to catch you, His wisdom is strong enough to guide you, and His love is wide enough to carry you. The question isn’t What if I fall? — it’s What if I fly? And, my friend, with God, you just might soar.

Are you trying to find the courage to take your next brave step? I created 12 free Fear-Fighting, Faith-Building Scripture cards to remind you of what’s true! Get yours today.

 

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

Never Underestimate the Power of Sharing What God Has Done

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I walked aimlessly, leaving a trail of tears behind me. I was seventeen and had been withdrawn to Canada after living in the U.S. My grandmother and brother were still in Arkansas, 900 miles away. I was completely alone. 

I had been living in Ontario for three weeks with a family I had never met before arriving on their front porch – and now I was desperate to forget them. I felt shattered and deeply in need of rescue. But who? No one was coming, and that was a fact. Although I can’t recall expressing my prayers verbally, my tears conveyed the overwhelming sorrow and sadness in my heart, which seemed to be the only emotions I could experience during those days.

With no destination in mind, I stopped at an intersection in front of a red brick house. Wanting to avoid drawing attention to myself, I tried to clean my face and prepare to return to the place where I was staying. As I attempted to gather myself, I heard a woman call out as she approached, “Hey, are you okay?” Something in her voice brought so much comfort. When she got closer, she introduced herself and invited me to come inside her home for a cup of tea. 

Weary of barely surviving and in desperate need of comfort, I accepted. 

Dorothy guided me through her home and into the kitchen, asking me to overlook the mess as she eagerly prepared tea. Seated at an old, cluttered kitchen table, I shared my story for the first time — from childhood to the present. I recounted the heartbreak of my parents’ abandonment, the love I had received from my Abuelita who had moved from California to help raise us, and how I had to leave her behind in Arkansas after being withdrawn from the USA. I spoke of returning to Canada without a support system and the fear I felt about both the present and the future — yet the hope that Jesus was with me and the faith I had in Him.

I told her I was clinging to God’s promise that He would make a way if I continued to trust Him, even amidst the suffering. 

As I finished sharing, Dorothy looked at me, taken aback, and said, “Kid, you’ve been through some tough times.” We chatted a bit more, and over the next few weeks, we began to develop a new friendship. She quickly became part of my life. I no longer felt alone.

Dorothy helped me move out of the toxic situation I was in and settle into an apartment of my own. She sewed colourful curtains, lent me an old kitchen table, and found a broken-in loveseat I could borrow to furnish my new place. Somehow, our conversations always led to me sharing about Jesus. I wasn’t trying to convert her or be some kind of “holy-roller” Christian, but I knew that my life was the greatest evidence of God’s existence to a woman who wasn’t even sure she believed in Jesus. So, I just kept sharing authentically, vulnerably, always pointing to the hope we can find in Him.

As the years passed, Dorothy and I drifted apart. Life took us in different directions. I frequently thought of her and wondered whether I would ever get to fully express my gratitude for everything she had done for me. Unbeknownst to her, she embodied the love of Jesus, which He used to remind me that I was loved, seen, and cared for in a season when I desperately needed it.

A couple of years ago, my family was driving back from visiting friends near Toronto and I recounted the story of Dorothy and her importance to me. As we exited the freeway and stopped at a red light, I noticed a woman standing at a bus stop to my right — it was Dorothy! It felt like a movie! There she was, after not seeing her for over twenty years. 

“There she is!” I exclaimed, shell-shocked and filled with adrenaline. 

My husband pulled the car over, and I jumped out of the vehicle, my family in tow. I ran toward her, calling out her name. Dorothy immediately remembered me, and we embraced as tears streamed down our faces. We exchanged brief updates about our lives. She met my kids and was in awe that I was now a mom. She shared the heartbreak of her divorce and the unexpected changes in her health. 

Amid our updates, she said, “Ligia, one good thing happened. I became a Christian. I now believe!” With tears of gratitude, we embraced one more time and celebrated her newfound hope in Jesus!

Dear friend, one of our greatest blessings is God’s rescue story of hope, salvation, and redemption found only in Jesus. Our stories provide compelling evidence of God’s existence and steadfast love for us even when facing life’s challenges. Your willingness to share His goodness prepares the way for someone — whether now or later – to embrace the rescue that Christ offers. 

So, share your faith humbly and boldly. Testify about your need for Jesus unapologetically. You never know how your words are planting seeds of belief. 

 

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

Celebrating One Million Podcast Listens!

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FRIENDS!

We could not be more excited to celebrate this milestone of crossing a million podcast listens with you, our dear community! Thanks to each and every one of you who tune in to the (in)courage podcast daily on your morning walks, driving to the grocery store, waiting in the school pickup line, alone in your kitchen, or as you wind down for the evening.

We adore being able to share our weekday devotions and articles with you in this way! In 2021 when we launched the (in)courage podcast, it was with obedient, soft, and creative hearts.

It started as a weekly conversational series focused on our new-at-the-time Bible studies. For months, together with our staff and writers, we explored what it looked like to have Courageous Joy, Courageous Kindness, and Courageous Influence. Then in 2022, we transitioned to a weekday format, bringing the daily devotions you read here at incourage.me right into your speakers and earbuds! Since then we’ve published over 750 episodes and featured dozens and dozens of guests through special bonus Books We Love episodes. What an honor to spend that time with you!

We have listeners in over 40 countries, in thousands of cities, on all kinds of streaming platforms and phones/tablets/speakers. We have listeners faithfully tuning in on their favorite podcast app, and others who press play while reading the words published here on the site.

However you listen, we’re just grateful that you do.

Here are a few of our top streamed episodes of all time! (As these are from the archives, please disregard any ads or promotions.)

  • Let God Define the Good by Jenny Erlinggsson – listen here.
    “Letting God define the good doesn’t disregard the tangible struggle or frustration we may feel. This mindset doesn’t justify hurtful moments or actions that are not right. It’s simply an invitation to submission and surrender. Just like God deemed what He made “good” at creation, we can let Him define what is good even now.”
  • Three Words from Jesus to Give You Hope Today by Holley Gerth – listen here.
    “What’s causing you to lose heart today? Whatever you’re facing, it matters to Jesus. He has seen all you have endured. He knows how many nights you’ve stared at the ceiling, trying to sleep. He has heard every prayer that feels like it’s still unanswered. Jesus knows how hard it is sometimes to just keep trusting, keep pressing forward, keep believing that change is possible. He looks at you not with criticism but compassion, not pressure to hurry up your healing but infinite patience, not disapproval but deep love.”
  • God’s Cure for Negative Thinking by Barb Roose – listen here.
    “It’s so easy to focus on what is missing, broken, or changed in our lives that we forget God’s blessings or minimize them in our minds.”
  • When You Keep Praying But Nothing Is Changing by Aliza Latta – listen here.
    “I don’t know why some prayers seem to be answered clearly and quickly, while others seem to go unanswered. But I do know prayer always ‘works’ because prayer always brings us closer to Jesus — and the answer is always Jesus.”
  • Jesus Never Asked Us to Count Calories by Kathi Lipp – listen here.
    “I’ve decided to stop making food the enemy. Food was important to Jesus. And what have I done? I’ve spent most of my life trying to pretend food wasn’t important at all. That I should be OK living on lettuce and 100-calorie packs. For some of us, one of the bravest acts we will partake in is untangling decades of lies about food and, instead of fearing food, actually finding the meaning in it.”

Find all past episodes here, or wherever you stream podcasts!

We’re so grateful that the (in)courage podcast is brought to you by DaySpring. Without their support and partnership, it would not be possible. Let’s also take a moment and thank the women who physically create the podcast behind the scenes — Anna Rendell for voicing each episode, Rachel Kang for producing all the episodes, Becky Keife for editing all the words and hosting bonus episode conversations, and Joy Groblebe for believing in the podcast in the first place. Teamwork makes this dream work!

We celebrate this amazing milestone of over a million downloads, and look forward to reaching the next million listens!

We want to hear from you! Where and when do you listen to our podcast?

Leave an answer in the comments and you’ll be entered to win an (in)courage care package of goodies!*

*Giveaway open to US addresses only and closes at 11:59 pm central on 3/3/25.

One Discipline We Need for the Calmness We Crave

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“Lord, teach me to pray.”

This was my first prayer for 2025. I’m not one who typically chooses a word or theme for the year. But on December 29, when I pulled out a fresh spiral notebook and started journaling thoughts around the coming year, these five words poured immediately from my pen.

“Lord, teach me to pray.”

A strange prayer, perhaps, considering I’m a 50-something woman who has been church-ing and praying for half a century. Don’t I already know how to pray? Am I not yet proficient at it, even after all this time and practice? I can quote The Lord’s Prayer by memory as well as several Scripture-based prayers. I have the Book of Common Prayer sitting strong and stocky on my bookshelf, not far from multiple textbooks and trade books on the subject of prayer. I’ve done Bible studies on prayer, studied various practices of prayer, and utilized different tricks and techniques to boost my prayer life.

Am I not yet a master pray-er? Alas, I am not. I am a desperate, desiring, hungry prayer-wannabe. A woman who often struggles to do the one thing she needs most.

Why? Perhaps it’s because prayer is a lifelong relationship, one that ebbs and flows and changes in seasons. Besides, relationships aren’t about mastery, but about authentic, honest, and consistent connection. It’s more than that, however. I think my struggle is, at least in part, because the kind of prayer my soul needs most requires stillness. And I don’t do “still” well.

Maybe I’m yet another victim of our tech-infused, busy-addicted, attention-deficit-disordered culture. It seems ten minutes don’t pass without a buzz or a beep or a real live person needing my attention and response.

And yet, what if stillness isn’t a product of nature or instinct but the result of boundaries and discipline? I think it is. This is how the Psalmist described it:

“My heart is not proud, Lord,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.

But I have calmed and quieted myself,
I am like a weaned child with its mother;
like a weaned child I am content.

Israel, put your hope in the Lord
both now and forevermore.”
Psalm 131 NIV

“I have calmed and quieted myself,” the author says (emphasis mine). Did you hear that? I have the ability to quiet myself. Yes, I can ask the Holy Spirit for help. But asking the Lord to quiet my soul while I’m scrolling my phone doesn’t solve my stillness problem. Asking the Lord to calm my anxious heart while I’m watching the news 24/7 isn’t productive.

It’s not enough to want stillness. I must do stillness. That means, like any habit or discipline, I need to take action to make it happen. To help us with this practice, I created a short heart poem from the five letters of S-T-I-L-L and pulled from the words of Psalm 131. When said in tandem with the act of breathing, it can help produce the stillness we crave:

  • STAY, oh my soul,
  • for a short TIME
  • to INHALE God’s presence, [breathe in]
  • LET GO of all worries, [breathe out]
  • and LOOK toward Hope.

Be STILL, my soul. Be still.

Here’s the good news, my friends: On the other side of the discipline of stillness sits a feast of contentment for the starving soul. Our God promises to fill the cavernous void, cure our broken hearts, calm our anxiety, and quiet our chaos. And it begins with you and me choosing to sit in the Lord’s presence. To look toward His hope. And be still.

 

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

Am I Making a Huge Mistake?

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“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;
my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.”
Psalm 18:2 NIV

I sat outside on my apartment balcony, a light breeze wisping strands of hair against my shoulders. My fingers sat atop my laptop keyboard, my heart pounding with every press of the keys. I googled, “How to write a resignation letter” and slowly began crafting my own. Was I making a massive mistake?

I had a clear path in front of me, each rung of the corporate ladder shiny and sparkling above me. I knew I could keep climbing. I could stay comfortable. But the still, small voice inside me was inviting me to leave my job and enter a new season. Truth was, I had no inkling of what that new season might contain. The idea of leaving my job felt akin to jumping off a cliff, and I hadn’t a clue what was waiting for me below.

I was an associate producer for the largest news corporation in Canada. Everyone disagreed with my decision to leave. My family. The news corp. Normally when everyone disagrees with me it’s a sure sign I ought to listen to their wisdom and not my inner rebel.

But it wasn’t my inner rebel I was listening to this time . . . it was my Good Shepherd.

I’d fasted and prayed for months. I’d asked a spiritual director to talk me through the decision. And over and over, I kept getting a word from the Holy Spirit: He was my Rock. I didn’t know what was ahead, but I knew I had a Rock to land on. I was still afraid, but I trusted that God would lead me. He did.

I left the world of news producing and weeks later found myself accepting a job to plant and pastor a small church. I had planned to be a journalist, telling the truth to hundreds of thousands. Now I was a pastor, telling a far greater Truth to a congregation of eighty.

I never thought I’d find myself here. But my Rock did. And in Him, I will always take refuge.

By Aliza Latta from 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle

Thousands of women are finding fresh hope and renewed strength in our favorite (in)courage devotional journal, 100 Days of Strength in Any Struggle. Grab a copy for yourself or a friend. We know God will meet you on every page as you meditate on Scripture, learn alongside (in) writers like Aliza, and journal your own prayers and reflections.

Tell us: How have you experienced God as the Rock in your life?
Where do you need more of His strength today? 

 

The Spiritual Practice of Not Giving Up

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We’ve lived in this new home, this new city, for six months now — both no time at all and also an eternity.

For six months now, I’ve attended anything and everything, all in an attempt to find a friend, plant some roots, belong somewhere. I don’t know any other way.

I guess I thought it would be easier? 

I shouldn’t have, truth be told. I should know by now, as a military spouse, that things take time, even if you don’t want them to. I know about the slow work of God, the long-haul process of forming a community, the little-by-little growth of new life in a new place. I know re-building, re-starting, reminding myself again and again of the goodness of God — even when I’m tempted to forget.

We’re in our new home for three weeks before my husband has to leave for his first unit training. I’m tempted to forget.

It’s the beginning of a new school year and my three girls come home in tears for a solid month straight. I’m tempted to forget.

I attend women’s brunches and school functions and neighborhood meet-ups and everyone seems too busy for the new gal. I’m tempted to forget.

I lament to my husband how I can’t quite find my footing here, my purpose, my people. I tell him how I want to just quit everything. I’ll just stay at home, I say. I don’t need people after all, I’ve decided. He reminds me of how much I love community, how much I love teaching women, he reminds me of the best parts of me.

I tell him he’s sweet but that I’m mostly tired. 

It’s a Thursday morning and I’m sitting in my chair, feet tucked underneath me with my Bible open on my lap, a candle burning next to me. The sun isn’t awake yet and my children aren’t either. My guided morning reading has me in Isaiah but I’m only partly paying attention — my distracted mind can’t stop running circles around my disappointment and exhaustion for having to start over again and again. 

I get to a verse I’ve read so often that it has become familiar to me but never personal. This time, though, something in my soul catches, tears spring to my eyes and I read the verse again and again:

“But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”
Isaiah 40:31 NIV 

A verse I’ve seen on posters and in cards, it felt overused and inaccessible. But in the desperation of weariness, I read it with a renewed awareness. This time I see grit, I see endurance, I see abundance. 

It’s the final two statements that really hold me: They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. This renewal of strength isn’t a finish line moment, I realize. It’s a call to action, it compels me forward. There’s still running, there’s still walking, there’s still movement — only it’s powered by hope in the Lord. 

The morning moves on and so do my days, but I move through them with a new perspective, a new drumbeat inside of me compelling me forward: Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up. I decide to lead a Bible study class with our local women’s group. It’s an act of defiant hope, really; a rebellion against despair. It’s an intentional choice to not give up, to actively seek the good for myself and others. 

Building a foundation in our new city didn’t necessarily get easier after that moment, but I don’t think that easy was ever the goal. An awareness of God with me in each of those moments, inviting me into a renewed way of living — one that endures, believes, and hopes in all things — that was the goal. 

I’m walking into the women’s Bible study one morning and another woman comes up to me. She connects with me in a way I hadn’t yet connected with anyone — she stops what she’s doing, looks in my eyes and says, “You’ve been on my mind so much lately. How has the settling in process been for you here? Are you doing okay in this move?” 

There was something different in the way she engaged with me — she wasn’t making small talk. She genuinely wanted to hear how I’ve been doing. Because of this, she felt safe. Unbidden tears spring to my eyes as I tell her how I’ve really been. She asks more questions, I say more words, wiping away tears the whole time. “Thank you for seeing me,” I tell her at the end of our conversation. 

“Well, God put you on my heart this morning and now I know why.” 

I realized I wasn’t ever as alone as I had felt. Through the power of showing up in community, this woman helped me see the goodness of God that was surrounding me the whole time. Her presence helped strengthen me as I grew in hope and endurance.

I’m so glad I didn’t quit. We really are stronger together.

What if Self-Care Is Submitting to God’s Care?

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This became oh-so evident during a corporate fast my church recently facilitated. Though I did my best to take a break from social media and keep myself from indulging my sweet tooth, the outpouring of words I expected to fill my journal with didn’t come. Instead, what continually rose to the surface were all the ways I had tried to come up with my own attempts to settle and self-soothe.

It’s easy to point fingers at our Biblical brothers and sisters who were often tripped up by figures of gold or bronze or clay. But, dear Lord, all my acts of self-denial during this corporate fast only drove home how much I needed to rethink the insufficient ways I attempt to satisfy my needs and care for myself.

I tend to justify my own wants by masquerading them as needs. And, because I think there is a chance I won’t get what I need, I exchange trust for control until what was meant to be restful and peaceful is just another thing I hold tight in my grip. Not so fun, especially when I feel like I’m in the grip of so.many.things.

Jesus, without doubt, invites us to be whole, well, rested and at peace. On the other hand, circumstances, the enemy, and sometimes other people try really hard to get us off that path. Even the most well-intentioned, good, and authentic ministry can deplete us of energy. Jesus was aware of that in His own life. The Bible said He often drew away to be alone and pray. One of my favorite passages is when He brought His disciples along in that process.

“Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, ‘Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.'”
Mark 6:31 NIV

Jesus noticed. Jesus paid attention. Jesus knew His disciples’ need for rest more than they did themselves. And as they followed Him, He beckoned them to come away and receive exactly what they needed.

Jesus sees what our hearts cry out for. He formed and fashioned our bodies and is aware of every longing and ache. He intimately knows even every craving for adventure and fun, or for a relaxing beach trip under the sun. Submitting ourselves to His tender care deepens our reliance on Him and allows every cell of our being to be taken care of in only the way He can.

Self-care is submission to the One who cares for you more than you do for yourself. God is a good Father. He knows us deeply and intimately. If we always equate self-care with what we can buy on store shelves or flip on from our streaming service, we might miss out on what our hearts really need.

I’m definitely not trying to dismantle anyone’s routine or wellness rhythm. I’m not trying to break up spa day with the girls or limit the sleep many of us probably need to catch up on. I definitely have no desire to challenge your consistent trips to the gym (mad respect) or the commitment to forego the drive-through in order to feed your body more whole food (double respect). I’m not even coming for the chocolate cake or shortbread you just made at home.

However, the more that my life unfolds with the weight of complexities and challenges, the longing for convenient comfort seems to increase exponentially. Indulging in “what is good for a moment” feels so easy. Yet, at my core, I’ve been wrestling with the realization that caring for myself has to be intentionally deeper than a trend.

Does this mean we can never get our nails done or go on vacation? Does this mean we can’t take breaks or enjoy a much-needed nap? Of course not. And, as I recall, one day Jesus deemed a storm the perfect time and place to rest. He didn’t start with what seemed obvious or convenient. He started from rest.

The way we care for ourselves doesn’t have to start from what others dictate. It can start from rest with and in Him. It can overflow from laying our heads on His chest, hearing the rhythm of His heartbeat, and letting that infuse our own self-care routines.

Truly, it is from this place that what we deeply crave will be satisfied by what He sees and says we need.

What is your typical self-care impulse? Where do you sense Jesus inviting you to rest a little deeper?