Our Kids Crave Connection Just Like We Do

Our Kids Crave Connection Just Like We Do

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I rolled over to turn off my cell phone alarm and decided to hop online to find out what was going on in the world. I ended up checking email and scrolling through social media too, and before I knew it almost an hour had passed. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten breakfast so I got up and went downstairs to make coffee and toast.

When I was finished eating, I took a shower and got ready, then decided to check my work email before I read my Bible and devotional. After deleting the promotional emails and feeling like my inbox was more manageable, I hopped over to Instagram — again.

Finally, I came out of my digital daze and scolded myself for wasting most of my morning scrolling. But I knew there was a reason, and eventually when I took time to pray about it and quiet my heart to listen, I sensed I’d been trying to fill my need for real-life connections with a white screen and black alphabet keys. But my heart craved something no amount of digital interactions could fill.

That afternoon when my kids got home from school, I noticed how quickly they turned to their digital devices too, and it dawned on me that my children are dealing with the same struggles as I do.

As much as they love their screens, our kids need real-life connections and a sense of belonging that comes through relationships and spending time together. Even with their own distractions, that day I realized how much my children need my presence and my attention.

There were (and sometimes still are) times when we would be together as a family, but my mind would be somewhere else getting something done. I remember when my boys were not yet teens and we were playing a board game one Saturday night, I felt so proud of myself for leaving my phone in the kitchen. I felt like a great mom who was being fully present with my kids — until I got distracted.

Although my body was still in the living room, my mind had drifted off somewhere else, returning calls and texts in my head, making a grocery list, and thinking about all I could be getting done. I glanced at the clock across the room to see how many hours it would be before our boys’ bedtime when I could get started on my to-do list. As I looked back at the game, my younger son, Andrew, had turned his head to where all I could see was the silhouette of his face.

He looks so much older, I thought. It won’t be long before he starts counting the hours until I go to bed so he can text friends and stay up late playing video games. Lord, help me cherish and enjoy the gift of being with the ones I love while they’re still with me, I prayed silently.

Jesus knew His time on earth was limited, but He never seemed hurried or distracted. I never sense He saw people’s desire for His time as an interruption, but rather, He welcomed it as an invitation. He valued being with people over being productive.

Unlike Jesus, I tend to be a type-A, get-it-done kind of girl. Being instead of doing has always been hard for me. But I also know God wired me this way, so He’s the only One who can make me more like Him. My only hope is to take my struggles to Jesus and ask Him to help me manage the tension between desires and distractions.

When I spend time with God, He challenges me to slow down and enjoy being with my husband and children. He knows how important they are to me, and He also knows how easily I get tangled up in my tasks and to-do lists. He slows me down and gives me sweet reminders like my child’s silhouette. He also helps me come up with creative ways to stay present with my people when my high octane brain gets distracted.

  • I look into their faces and remember what they used to look like. This helps me grasp how quickly time flies.
  • I think back to what life was like without them. This makes me thankful God gave them to me.
  • I imagine a day when they won’t be with me, the day they may live in another city with their own families. This makes me want to cry! But then I freeze-frame that moment so it will last longer.
  • I sometimes imagine it’s the last time we will be together and focus on making it our best! Yes, sometimes I have to go to that extreme.

Jesus valued face-to-face connections and surrounded Himself with family and friends — spending time with people over meals, at weddings, fishing, and as they traveled together. Through His example, we see how important it is to satisfy our craving and our kids’ craving for connection by spending time together.

Lord, You created us with a longing for connection and a sense of belonging that comes when we are together. In a digital world, it’s easy to grow numb to our need for real-life relationships with screens pulling us away from what matters most to us and to You. Help me find the balance between being together and being productive. I need Your wisdom and creative ways to connect with my kids. Amen.

Want to find simple ways to give your children what they need most and be encouraged with the truth and grace your heart needs to know too? You’ll find both and so much more in Renee’s new book, A Confident Mom. Pre-order your copy today!

He Prunes Us So That We May Bear More Fruit

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With few exceptions, our house has always been a place plants go to die. I’ve tried to buy varieties that thrive on neglect to improve the odds, but I usually forget about them until I spy one that looks especially droopy. And then I water them all at once. As it turns out, that’s not a good plan. You can’t care for plants in a one-size-fits-all fashion.

When we moved in December 2020, I wanted to enliven our new home with more greenery, especially since we had a sunroom for the first time. I visited nurseries and soon became obsessed with adding plants to every room. Of course, my lovely new plants needed cute planters too.

Soon, I realized that if I wanted them to retain their fresh-from-the-nursery look (and not waste the investment I’d made), I needed to learn how to care for each plant individually. A succulent that is native to the desert and an African violet that is native to the rain forest have different needs.

My oldest daughter recommended an app which I now use to catalog our plants and their locations within our home. After entering each room and its lighting conditions, it tells me which plants are suitable to grow where and how often to water them. The long, draping ivy in my sunroom needs to be watered multiple times a week, but the fiddle leaf fig in my kitchen needs it much less often. I never realized indoor plants have different watering requirements at different times of year. Although I wrote two books about essential oils, which are produced from plants, it seems I could write another book on all the things I didn’t know about growing them.

Month after month, however, as my plants have continued to thrive, my confidence has grown along with them. I don’t own one of those cute Plant Mom tees, but if I did, I would wear it proudly instead of ironically. I really do try to mother my plants well.

That’s why I was alarmed the day one of my favorites, a majestic split leaf philodendron, appeared to go on the decline.

This plant, also known as a hope plant, has frilly, ruffle-shaped leaves that spread high and wide open toward the sky — or in this case, the ceiling. But one day I noticed one long stalk had abandoned its perky posture and began to droop toward the floor, while its large, green leaf curled up and turned yellow.

What had I done wrong? The rest of the plant looked so healthy!

After a talk with my daughter and a Google search, I learned another fascinating fact about plants: Sometimes they shed older leaves in order to direct their energy toward new growth. Sure enough, when I looked closer, I noticed fresh stalks sprouting up right in front of me. I thought my plant was dying, but it was actually redirecting its energy, prioritizing the new over the old.

Just like my plant, my life looks different now than it did not so long ago. We moved to a new area and a new neighborhood. I’ve made new friends but seldom see many who’ve been a part of my life for years. I retired after over a decade of tutoring in a one-day-per-week program.

I didn’t realize how weary I’d grown from an extended period of labor — years of working on book deadlines and lesson plans, months of preparing our old house to sell, the physical and emotional toll of moving — until I slowed down and slid into an unplanned season of rest. The changes of the past year reset my rhythms more than a list of new year’s resolutions.

By nature, I’m work driven, and I’ve struggled with taking downtime. This slower season of life has felt so different I’ve wondered if I’ve been doing it all wrong. I’ve felt guilty about the things I’m not doing (like work) and also the things I am doing (like staying up late with a book I can’t put down or bingeing Spider-Man movies).

Pruning a tree, plant, or vine can increase its fruitfulness and the Bible uses the same analogy for periods of spiritual growth:

Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit, He takes away; and every branch that bears fruit, He prunes it so that it may bear more fruit.
John 15:2 (NASB)

The verse begins with barrenness, followed by productivity, and finally abundance. Periods of seeming barrenness — metaphorically pulling the weeds and tilling the soil — can help to prepare us for the harvest to come. Just as my plant redirected its energy from old to new growth, the Lord often prunes us before periods of fruitfulness.

As things in my life become pruned and as I learn to rest in the barrenness, I trust that this is a season that’s good and necessary, from which I will one day reap a harvest of fruitfulness in the seasons to come.

How has the Lord pruned an area of your life and led you into a season of greater abundance?

You Are Beautiful in Your Bareness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was beautiful. She had nice hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just beautiful.

Empowered to Say No

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Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: “Everyone is looking for you!”

Jesus replied, “Let us go somewhere else — to the nearby villages — so I can preach there also. That is why I have come.”
Mark 1:35-38 (NIV)

I wash the rice robotically as my mind zigzags between every worry and concern and my increasing to-do list. The braised beef ribs stew in the Dutch oven on the stove, and the aroma of soy sauce, garlic, onions, and ginger fills the kitchen with the smells of home.

I taste the sauce for the beef ribs, and though I’ve made this dish a dozen times before, I still get nervous when I’m making it for a new mama. I want it to be perfect — for her to experience a mother’s love when her own is far away. I was a new mom once with no family close by, so now I want to show up whenever I’m able and provide what I never had. And though my life was overflowing with obligations, I signed up for the meal train anyway.

I pour the rice into the rice cooker, use my index finger to measure the correct amount of water, and I’m amused that somehow it’s accurate every single time. I press the cook button to get it going, and as I turn my attention to the next dish I’ve promised to make, my phone buzzes. I miss the call just as I reach for it and see that a friend has called me twice already.

It must be an emergency. Why else would she be calling me so many times?

I dial her number, and every possible scenario flashes through my head while I wait for her to answer.

“Hi!”

Her chipper greeting dispels all worries, but before I can tell her that I’m busy, she chatters on about her day, how it’s been at work lately, her complaints about this and that person, and how exhausted she’s been. I watch the minutes pass as I try to stir and juggle the phone and make sure I’m on schedule to get the meal delivered to the new mama on time. I don’t know how to get off the phone without seeming rude, so I say nothing but the occasional “yeah” to let her know I’m still listening.

By the time dinner is dropped off and I’m driving home in the quiet of my car, I realize how spent I am. I can feel the whining coming up through my heart to my mind, annoyed at no one specific but taking it out on the slow driver in front of me and . . . myself.

I’ve passed my limit of pouring out, and I knew it was coming. I probably even knew it when I first signed up to provide a meal, but I have such a hard time saying no. I don’t want to be thought of as unfriendly or as someone who doesn’t show up. I want people to know that I’m trustworthy and dependable, that I see them and can carry their burdens with them. The problem is that I want to do that for everyone. It seems like the thing Jesus would’ve done — isn’t He the one who sacrificed it all for us?

But when I look closely at His life, I see that He didn’t do everything for everyone. He wasn’t always available. He made choices, saying yes to some and no to many. In Mark 1:35-38, Jesus’s disciples find Him and exclaim, “Everyone is looking for you!” People are clamoring for Him to heal them and to cast demons out of their loved ones. Everyone needs and wants something from Jesus.

But Jesus responds by saying, “Let’s go somewhere else.” He knows not only His purpose but also His capacity.

He demonstrates this so many times in His life, establishing boundaries with unhealthy people, setting new standards for unsustainable patterns, and upending unjust practices. He retreats to solitary places to pray (Mark 1:35-38). He takes His time and rests when needed, even in the midst of a storm (Mark 4:35-41). He overturns tables in the temple — a hard no to those exploiting the poor (John 2:13-16).

Saying no actually is being like Jesus. He knew the wisdom of setting boundaries, and He empowers us to do the same. When we are being pulled in every direction, we can say yes to His purpose within our capacity.

Lord, You don’t require us to do all the things all the time. Help me not to get the needs of others confused with what You’re asking me to do. Give me the courage and ability to say no, to establish boundaries with those who often cross them, and to see my limitedness as a good thing and not a selfish thing. Amen.

Reflect:

  • In what areas of your life do you need to build healthy boundaries?
  • What’s one no you’re going to say today?
Empowered to Say No was written by Grace P. Cho, as published in Empowered: More of Him for All of You, coming in February from (in)courage.

Empowered: More of Him for All of You, by Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell is designed to incorporate the five major components of our being — physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual. The sixty Scripture passages and devotions invite you to see from different angles how God empowers us, and each day ends with prayer and reflection questions to deepen the learning.

Empowered: More of Him for All of You is unlike any other book we’ve ever written at (in)courage, and we are SO excited for it to be in your hands. It’s honest, hopeful, and beautiful in both design and content.

Sign up today and we’ll send you five FREE devotions from Empowered!

It’s our prayer that as you read this book, you’ll be empowered in every part of your being to live fully as God created you to be.

 

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When What We Want Equals God’s Desire, the Difference Means Everything

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A year ago, in the midst of a global pandemic, I did something I hadn’t done in almost thirty years: I returned to a traditional, nine-to-five(ish) job. Family and friends were largely supportive, though a few didn’t understand my decision. Why would a fifty-seven-year-old woman who didn’t “have” to work full time (thanks to my husband’s job and my part-time income) be willing to give up the freedom and flexibility that came with her work as a writer?

Their concerns were valid. I’d wrestled with similar questions for years.

Before writing For All Who Wander, I had toyed with the idea of going back to work. Our youngest was in college and our older two had established careers. I led and attended Bible studies and volunteered with a high school ministry. I wrote every day and led a writing critique group. I was able to say yes to freelance opportunities or to serve others. My days were planned with intention and purpose, but I still had time on my hands — something unheard of when my children were younger.

From all appearances, life was good, and yet, I was secretly struggling. Why couldn’t I just be thankful for what I had? What was wrong with me? My discontent ignited a snarling cycle of guilt as I considered how I must be failing God. If I were grateful enough and trusted Him, how could I feel this way?

Nevertheless, it was becoming increasingly difficult to write, and my overall lack of productivity was alarming to me. Despite purposeful effort to be with others, I was lonely.

I longed for more structure to my days and daydreamed about being part of a team working for a greater good. This desire to return to work didn’t make complete sense to me, especially compared to family and friends who were eager for retirement. I wondered if it was God-given or straight from the flesh.

At times I felt crazy. I certainly wasn’t thriving. In extreme moments, I felt like I was dying on the vine. I tried to share my heart with those closest to me but found it difficult to express myself fully. Even when opening up, I withheld the magnitude of my frustration and feelings of worthlessness.

After I turned in my book manuscript, I began applying for jobs. Ideally, I wanted to work at a retirement community. My last full-time job at a Life Plan Community had been one I’d adored. Regardless, I pursued a communications or marketing-related position.

To my surprise, I received an offer right away. I cried when I had to turn it down because the pay was shockingly generous but the time off was meager. Work-life balance was more important to me than salary.

Still, the offer seeded hope that I was employable. At my age (I hate qualifying myself this way, but it’s a thing.), I knew some companies would overlook me. I had confidence in my skills and experience and believed my part-time jobs, volunteerism, and entrepreneurial work as a writer would serve the right role well. But would anyone else see past my age and thirty-year sabbatical? That offer gave me hope.

I prayed for the wisdom to follow Jesus. I’ve been awesome at jumping ahead, but that’s never ended well. I begged God to give me His desires for my heart, to protect me from conjuring them myself.

Over the next eighteen months, I applied for several jobs. Sometimes I’d receive a swift rejection; more often, I wouldn’t hear anything at all. One day, I mustered all my courage and walked into a retirement community to personally deliver my resume. The short story? Bad idea. Another time, I endured three intense interviews for a dream position, only to come in second.

Though I continued to meet disappointment, this desire never wavered. On the way to yet another interview, I prayed: Lord, please! If this isn’t what you have for me, help me let go and show me Your way!

Truthfully, it was more of a demand than a request. And yet, God is ever gracious, even when we’re bratty. He calmed my anxiousness and spoke to my heart, reminding me of a passage I’d recently read —

Delight yourself in theLord,and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him, and he will act.
Psalm 37:4-5 (ESV)

It was as if God’s truth was hiding in plain sight. He loves us beyond comprehension, and He wants only the best for us. I could know that the desires of my heart were His desires for me because I was delighting in, following, and trusting in Him. So many times in the past, I’ve relied on my own strength, abilities, ingenuity, and resources, and asked God to bless what I was doing. This was different because I was seeking Him first. God had used those feelings of discontent and longing to draw me closer. How astounding that God can use waiting and rejection to prepare us for His calling! Sometimes the only perspective that enables us to see God’s hand in our lives is hindsight.

Against the odds (a story for another time), I received an offer from a retirement community I initially received a rejection. Last week, I celebrated my first anniversary, and I love my job so much I haven’t worked a day since I started.

When what I wanted equaled God’s desire, the difference meant everything. I was right on track, right where I was supposed to be.

 

Listen to Robin’s article today!

 

Also today, download a special bonus episode of the (in)courage podcast! Listen to a conversation with Empowered authors Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell.

What You Need to Get Up Again After a Hard Fall

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A few months ago, I was out on a training run on the trail near my house with a group of mama friends. The air was brisk. Rays of light danced across the path and through the branches of the trees. Jewel-toned leaves carpeted the ground. Then suddenly my foot snagged on a crack in the sidewalk.

I went flying.

I skidded on my elbows and knees with no time to brace my fall. Thankfully, I didn’t break anything. After the wipeout, I felt a little dizzy and out of sorts. My friends asked if I needed help. With three miles to get home, I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together.

Drawing my body up gingerly, I put one foot in front of the other and ran home. Somehow, I had enough adrenaline — or maybe it was pride — to carry me. When I got home, I assessed the real damage. My knees, palms, and elbows were pretty scraped up.

The next morning the real damage of the fall was revealed. My body ached all over. My right knee was tender and couldn’t bear any weight without a sharp, piercing pain that radiated through my knee cap. I winced anytime I bumped against a table leg or tried to kneel on it.

I’ve been running for thirty-five plus years, but I can’t remember ever falling like that. It was hard and humbling.

Whether literally or figuratively, wiping out is a part of life. There will be times when we try something and fail. There will be moments when we are blindsided by life’s circumstances and find ourselves nose to sidewalk.

What matters is how we respond.

John 5 highlights the story of when Jesus goes to the pool called Bethesda, which means “house of mercy.” This pool was a gathering place for the sick, blind, and physically disabled. The people believed that the first person to jump in when the waters were stirred would be healed. Jesus notices a man there who had been sick for thirty-eight years.

Can you imagine that kind of chronic illness?

When Jesus saw him and knew he had been ill for a long time, he asked him, “Would you like to get well?” “I can’t, sir,” the sick man said, “for I have no one to put me into the pool when the water bubbles up. Someone else always gets there ahead of me.” Jesus told him, “Stand up, pick up your mat, and walk!” Instantly, the man was healed! He rolled up his sleeping mat and began walking!
John 5:6-9 (NLT)

The man believes healing is impossible for him, but nothing is impossible with Jesus.

In His mercy, Jesus proves Himself the Healer — not the pool of Bethesda, which people believed had healing properties. Jesus gives the man three directives: Get up, pick up your mat, and walk.

Jesus offers these similar instructions to people in other parts of Scripture. In Matthew 9:6, He heals a paralytic and says, “Stand up, pick up your mat, and go home” Matthew 9:6 (NLT).

The book of Mark details a story about the daughter of the ruler of the synagogue who is raised from the dead. “Holding her hand, he said to her, ‘Talitha koum,’ which means ‘Little girl, get up!’ And the girl, who was twelve years old, immediately stood up and walked around!” Mark 5:41-42 (NLT).

All three of these people are offered healing by Jesus. He invites them to move out of this place of sickness and pain and to make a home in healing.

Friend, I hope these words remind you that Jesus is our Healer. We have to trust Him, get up, and walk in the direction He is calling us. 

We are nearing the end of January, and some of you are shaming yourselves over broken resolutions, forgotten word of the year practices, and feeling bone weary of a pandemic that has drawn on for almost two years.

Maybe you are still battling long COVID or lingering discouragement or imposter syndrome. Maybe you feel a little scraped up and sore from these last few years. I’m here to remind you it’s never too late to get up and walk. Jesus offers you a hand of healing.

We know that Jesus doesn’t always miraculously heal people from sickness or disease. Sometimes He heals them by taking them to heaven. And sometimes He heals us over time in a way that our hearts, minds, and bodies are transformed. We can trust Him in that. He is the Healer calling us to rise, get up, and walk.

The following Sunday after my fall, I ran the half marathon I was training for with my friends. I knew from the start I had to take it easy. There would be no personal records or placement medals for me. I didn’t have anything to prove. The real victory was simply getting up and running my pace to the finish line.

Is there any area in your life in which you need to rise, get up, and walk toward healing? Share in the comments. I’d love to pray over you today.

Dorina wrote a devotional and training journal, Walk Run Soar, to help you get moving in the right direction in the new year! Sign up for her Glorygram newsletter and get all the insider details about her book and other projects.

 

Listen to Dorina’s words and subscribe to the (in)courage podcast!

What I Wish for You More Than Anything Else

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I spent the past four months living in a former Carthusian monastery in Austria. I was studying abroad, traveling through the European countryside on the weekends, sipping cappuccinos, waltzing through centuries-old cathedrals, and climbing every mountaintop.

“You’re living the dream!” family and friends back home would say to me.

Upon reflection, perhaps there was some truth to their words. Life seemed to fall right out of a fairytale — or so it appeared from my words and photographs.

It was a good and true and beautiful semester — one I had long desired for. It was the awakening of a persistent wanderlust in my soul — one that will continue to seek wit and whimsy in this ancient, glorious world.

But I think we get lost in the fantasy of “pack up and go,” of running away from the boring, habitual nature of our lives. We have made an idol out of escaping, a god out of leaving. We have made escapism the chief goal and highest king. We have so detached ourselves from the fruit and blessings of our own days that abandonment of what we have been given, of whom we have been given, is the hope, the wish, the dream.

What the photographs of my semester can’t show you are the long days and the sleepless nights. The missed trains and the food poisoning. The sweat trickling down my back as I walked through cities in stifling heat. The losing of patience and the asking for forgiveness.

The photographs also can’t depict the breathless awe, the genuine joy, and the tangible presence of God around every bend.

The photos can’t portray the way I ran into my own humanity — in ways I did not anticipate or ask for. They can only give you a shadow of a glimpse of what I experienced, and who I am now because of it.

Who we are, I quickly discovered, does not disappear the moment we are placed in extraordinary circumstances. On the contrary, who we are is only further revealed.

When we say we will leave it all behind and be free, we take with us the one thing we can never leave behind — ourselves.

We cannot fully live out what we think it means to be free because we, in and of ourselves, are desperate for something more. We’re always lacking and continuously seeking — on a hunt threaded with our own human nature and laced with the hope of something more.

The thing we seek then is not being free of inhibitions; we seek the One who frees us from inhibition. The One who unravels and undoes all that we are. The One who sees the tiniest elements of our brokenness and in this intimacy delights in us — not in spite of, not anyway, but simply because this is who He is. This is what He does — love.

We can spend our lives grasping for more, attempting to bolt from the crossroads of ordinary and mundane, or we can rest in His grasp, relinquishing ourselves to the peace of the present.

We can pursue life to the fullest, or we can live in Him who gives us the fullest life. And perhaps a life of abundance looks less like losing ourselves through escape and more like finding Him right where we are.

The semester abroad was the sweetest gift and the greatest honor. But I’ll be the first to say that it was not the fulfillment of my heart’s greatest desires and deepest longings. There is only one answer to this expectant hope that resides in my heart — God.

What I wish for you, dear friend, is that you have your breath taken away when you step into St. Peter’s Basilica, to have your heart skip a beat when you see the Cliffs of Moher, and for your laughter to ring out golden as you dance in the streets of Assisi. But what I wish for you more than anything else is that you never lose sight of what will really fulfill you — of Who will really fulfill you.

The truth is we don’t need to pack up and go to be completely satisfied (as if we ever could) because God is here and He is pressing in to stay.

 

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The Wonder of January and of Second Chances

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This month I planned a New Year’s Eve do-over. We also planned to celebrate my husband’s birthday — a month late. And making plans for 2022? Actual plans? For work and ministry and walking a 5K and reading more books than I did last year? Well, instead of happening in December, it all happened this month as well.

This month has felt like a second chance.

If I’m honest, January always feels like a second chance, as I find myself limping to the last days of December, exhausted and burned out. I scroll past all the prompts for reflection and sigh at another round-up of the best of the past twelve months, and I wonder why I can’t ever get it together. (Seriously, this is nothing new for me. I’ve written about it so many times I offer this collection of essays on the theme!)

But last year’s end was especially disappointing, as my family got sick right after Christmas and spent days in bed — the days I’d planned for decluttering, organizing, and goal-setting. I’d set aside time between Christmas and New Year’s to finalize my business plans for 2022, to declutter my kitchen cabinets and make a healthy meal plan for my family, to start a new book club, and to finish the room makeover we started for my oldest daughter back in October.

Instead, we watched a lot of movies and slept on pretty much every soft surface in our house. We ate a lot of popcorn and drank a lot of Gatorade, and yes, we went through a few boxes of Kleenex. (I’m not saying popcorn has any medicinal properties, by the way. We just like it.) And every day that passed, I reminded myself that it was okay — we would get a second chance.

I promised my family we would make our traditional apple cake and celebrate my husband’s birthday once we felt better.

I planned a New Year’s Eve party do-over with the friends we’d planned to spend that evening with (who were also sick).

And I looked desperately for blank spaces on my calendar to squeeze in the planning and organizing I’d hoped to complete last month.

January is a second chance.

Something about a second chance, when I really think about it and look at it head on, is breathtaking. It’s almost overwhelming how grateful I am for a second (or third or twenty-third or I’ve-lost-count) chance. And I’m not just talking about a day to prep a few meals, organize a few cabinets, or fill out a content calendar or to-do list.

Those things are great, but the second chances that fill me with wonder and move me to on-my-knees gratitude are the ones we get from God Himself.

Our God is a God of second chances. He’s the One who gave do-overs to Adam and Eve, Moses, David, Jonah, Peter, Paul, and so many more. He’s the One who urges us to give one another second chances by forgiving one another, and most importantly, He’s the One who took the punishment for our sins so we can spend eternity with Him — the ultimate second chance!

When we’ve messed up or missed the mark . . .
When we’ve intentionally chosen our way over His way . . .
When we’ve put our wants over anyone else’s needs . . .
When we’ve forgotten what matters, to us or to anyone else . . .

God says, “It’s not too late. Your life isn’t over. I will forgive you. You can start again.” And He does it again and again and again. He gives us another chance with every ounce of forgiveness, never forcing us to wait for the next Monday or the first of the month or the turn of a calendar page.

If you’re afraid that you’ve missed your chance, that you’ve messed up too much, that you’ve wandered too far, that you’ve waited too long, know that God will never give up on you. He is here to give you another chance. Though the weeks and seasons and years come to an end, His mercies never do.

Take heart. Our God is a God of second chances.

​​Yet I call this to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s faithful love we do not perish, for his mercies never end. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.
Lamentations 3:21-23 (CSB)

 

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Salt, Snow, and Shoveling Till Kingdom Come

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I grew up in California, very used to gentle weather. One year, we had a series of storms, and I’d seen heavy rain and lightning so few times in my young life that I hid under the couch cushions because it was all so overwhelming. When I got older and went to college, I moved to Chicago and learned that weather is a whole dang thing. Still, my school was connected by underground tunnels and I didn’t have to shovel anything, so I didn’t know that the true winter experience was on its way.

For graduate school, I moved to the place I now reside, just north of Boston, Massachusetts. I quickly learned about what great cardio it was to shovel snow, and if you want to leave at noon, you’d better walk out the door at 11:30 to start digging. At first, it was a novelty, and I do have to confess I love shoveling. But that’s mostly because my porch is small and my parking place is for just one car.

It’s been a fairly mild winter, but last week we got our first storm that dropped just over a foot of snow. It doesn’t sound like a ton, but when there’s a foot of snow everywhere, it can add up quickly. A post went out on my church Facebook page asking for help shoveling. This wasn’t just a porch or a parking spot. This covered doorways and sidewalks and the places the plows had missed.

Two volunteers took snowblowers and started bigger projects, but anything with stairs or narrow spaces needed the good, old-fashioned shovel. Myself and another friend moved from place to place, shoveling heavy loads anywhere we could put it as it continued to come down on us.

It was fun for a while, but then I started thinking: I wanted to stop. I wanted to be done. I wanted to hide around a corner and drink hot chocolate. But there weren’t many of us, and it was getting dark. My heart wanted to make excuses and talk my way out of putting my hand to the work we needed to get done. And then I recalled the people who would be there in another day or two trying to go to church.

They needed access to the building. If you leave snow, it starts to melt, and then cold temperatures turn it to ice. So after we shoveled, we put down a layer of salt to prevent it from being too dangerous. It brings a new understanding to the phrase, “You are the salt of the earth.” Without the salt, we’re all going to end up a meme of someone sliding down the sidewalk with a caption, like “Me tryin’ to get thru 2022.”

I have a complicated relationship with my church. I’ve hurt others, and they’ve hurt me. I’ve been misunderstood and cried over disagreements, but we always come back and talk it out and do what we can to live at peace with one another. We are human beings looking for the grace of God in the face of one another, and the only way we’re going to work things out is to work together.

So I shoveled. We shoveled. To clear a path and to love those who probably wouldn’t even notice our work if we did it well because the sidewalks would look fine. And that’s what we as the local church are called to do. We keep showing up in our messiness. We keep serving and celebrating. We keep ironing out the wrinkles. We clear the way and make room for one another to come home. After all, at the end of the day, we belong to Christ — and each other. 

Raising a Hallelujah in the Middle of a Storm

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I’ve been pounding on my piano keys a lot lately. Yes, pounding them hard, wrestling with sadness and questions and frustration. Creating beautiful music isn’t my goal. His glory is the goal and praising Him in the middle of pain is my desire. I’m compelled to turn my worry into worship even when the enemy is trying to chase me down, but it’s coming at a cost.

Pound, pound.

O God, be not far from me; O my God, make haste to help me! 
Psalm 71:12 (KJV)

When words fail me, when I have no immediate answer for our son’s devastating call, I raise my hands to the heavens and cry, “Why? Why, Lord? It’s just not fair . . . Please be near me, Lord.” With moments of kicking and screaming, I go to Him a bit like a little child. I know He wants what’s best for me, for our son, but the unfolding of that story isn’t known yet. And right now, in the midst of it, His story isn’t the one I’d choose, so those out-of-tune ivories have been getting a much needed workout.

Pound. Praise. Pound.

I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping.
Psalm 6:6 (ESV)

When Jesus declared, “Let the little children come to me,” He didn’t put any caveats on that statement. He didn’t demand that only the well-behaved children come. He didn’t ask the disciples to bring the little children who would sit quietly by His side and never ask questions, nor do I assume it was the calm, tranquil environment of which children’s’ picture books paint that scene.

No, Jesus welcomed all children to come to him, so I’m fairly certain that included the messy, crying, loud ones too. But one thing I assume is that they came with all the questions. Envision it: “Why, Jesus? Why? Why?” Since we are His children, His most beloved daughters, He welcomes our questions and our cries because the answers are laid out for us. His Word does not return void.

Pound. Cry. Pound. Praise.

Now if any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God — who gives to all generously and ungrudgingly —
and it will be given to him.
James 1:5 (CSB)

I choose to usher my heart of sadness into song because over four hundred times, Scripture references us to sing. Fifty of those times, God assigns direct commands to sing, so I pound those keys through my frustrations and sing the truth found in Psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs until they’ve pointed me to His faithfulness.

Why else do I sing and pound and lift His name up high?

I sing Scripture to impart solid theology to memory, but I also sing Scripture because songs of lament pierce my soul and allow the Holy Spirit to move my heart into a deeper connection of reverence and repentance before Him.

I sing songs of thanksgiving, not only because it’s commanded but also because I sing in response to His rescue and redemption of my life. He saved me from my sin, so how can I not sing?

Miriam, a woman, was the very first worship leader in Scripture. In Exodus 15, after the Israelites witnessed God’s power to miraculously destroy their enemies and deliver them from bondage, she picked up a tambourine and led with her song, testifying in gratitude His power to save. As we’re rescued from bondage, our souls ignite with a response of gratitude like Miriam’s. The Lord is worthy of our trust, so how can we not praise?

Sing to the Lord, for he is highlight exalted.
Exodus 15:21 (NIV)

Praise. Pound. Praise.

I sing of His love because when life doesn’t make sense, He does. I sing of His faithfulness because when Satan tries to tell me otherwise, God’s goodness is still worthy of our praise.

I fight to praise in the middle of my pain because He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

Praise. Praise. Raise a hallelujah.

So, crank your favorite worship song. Sing with abandon. Raise your hands to the heaven and dance in the kitchen. Boldly declare the truth in times of trial because when we sing His name, darkness flees.

This is my declaration today:

I raise a hallelujah, in the presence of my enemies
I raise a hallelujah, louder than the unbelief
I raise a hallelujah, my weapon is a melody
I raise a hallelujah, heaven comes to fight for me

I’m gonna sing, in the middle of the storm
Louder and louder, you’re gonna hear my praises roar
Up from the ashes, hope will arise
Death is defeated, the King is alive!

I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me
I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee
I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery
I raise a hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me!

I’m gonna sing, in the middle of the storm
Louder and louder, you’re gonna hear my praises roar
Up from the ashes, hope will arise
Death is defeated, the King is alive!
Raise a Hallelujah (Bethel Music)

Won’t you come pound some praises with me? How can I lift you up?

You Are Essential Because You Have Influence

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Being a healthcare worker has been difficult the past two years. We were told by the world that we were essential, so we needed to show up. We were supposed to show up even if we were scared we could get the virus or bring it home to our families. We were essential, but we had to work with fewer resources than ever before. We were hailed as superheroes, but we were also scared to lose our jobs as we watched coworkers get laid off when certain departments got shut down. We were told we were essential, but we felt disposable, replaceable, and as if our voices didn’t matter. This was the story of almost every healthcare worker in 2020 and 2021.

It was one of the toughest seasons in my career. There were days I wished I could take a break from it all for the sake of my mental health. There were moments of regret that I chose the health care field. I felt anything but essential.

But one day, I walked into work and saw a new face in the clinic.

We had a physical therapy student who was starting her clinical rotation with us, so I introduced myself as I walked past her to go to my office. Her clinical instructor found me at lunch break and said, “You have to meet my student. She knows you. In fact, you’re the reason she chose to be a physical therapist.” I was puzzled. She continued, “You didn’t recognize her? When she was a teenager, she came to you for physical therapy and the way you made her feel was why she chose this as her career. She is so excited that she crossed paths with you again!”

I held back tears.

There are special moments in life when God will use people to remind you of who He has made you to be. This was one of those moments for me. He reminded me in a very dark season of doubt and disappointment that I am essential because I have influence.

Friend, can I remind you of the same truth? You are essential. You may not feel like it. Your platform or job may not lead you to believe it. But you are essential because you have influence — far greater than you realize.

Honestly, I didn’t remember this student as a patient because I’ve been doing this work for over eleven years. But the seed I sowed, the words I spoke, the care I provided for her as a young teenager changed the course of her future, even though I had no idea.

I believe there are people like her in your life. It could be a Sunday school student, a coworker, neighbor, classmate, or a stranger who reads your words on the internet who has been impacted by you though you may not be aware. There is always someone who needs to see your kindness, hear your story, or read your words. You are not replaceable or disposable. You matter more than you know.

I showed up for that teenage patient like I do for all my patients — prepared to serve, educate, and treat in the area I am called to. That made me essential in her life. Your circumstances may seem hopeless, your platform may be small, your job may feel mundane, but when we are faithful to what we’re called to do, we are essential to someone. And that person is essential to another.

We don’t always get to see the end of the story or see the ripple effect of our lives. But if we did, we would see that we are indeed indispensable. We need to realize that truth about ourselves so that we can live our lives with purpose and influence the world around us.

So don’t quit what God has called you to do when it gets hard and dark. Instead, let your light shine.

 

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

Your Weakness Is Exactly What God Wants

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Everything ached. Muscles I didn’t know I had throbbed within me. Pain bloomed in my neck, my hip, my left knee. I gasped as I got out of bed. I hadn’t done anything mighty or heroic; all I’d done was go skiing. Truth be told, I’d spent far less time on the skis and far more time skyrocketing down the hill towards a face plant.

When I had strapped on those skis and glanced at the hill, I realized I somehow needed to get down. Panic rushed inside of my chest, and fear filled my lungs. I shuddered. 

“You can do this,” I pep-talked myself. “It’s just a little snow on a bit of an incline. Besides, you have no choice. You have to get down this hill.” 

I’m Canadian. Knowing how to ski ought to be embedded within me. I watched young kids fly past me as I inched my way down the slope. My friend waited patiently for me at the bottom. I was terrified. I regretted my choice of embracing a Canadian winter. I should’ve stayed home with a book.

I began to pick up traction down the hill and, much to my dismay, started moving faster and faster. I lost control. I tried to stop, but instead my body flew, crashing into the snow face first. 

“Ow,” I moaned. I looked like the abominable snow monster, my face cold and covered in snow. Somehow my ski poles had landed on opposite sides of the hill. 

The next morning, each step I took reminded me of the many crashes I had the day earlier. I ached and ached.

I hate the feeling of being weak. I don’t like being bad at new things. It was ridiculous for me to assume skiing would have somehow been easy or that I could have had the grace of an Olympian after a few tries. But I wanted to be great. I think of Amy March’s words from the recent movie adaption of Little Women, “I want to be great or nothing!” 

It’s a trap I fall into over and over — believing I need to be great in order to be loved, thinking I need to be interesting in order to be liked. I convince myself I need to perform a song and dance to prove to people I’m worth sticking around for. I want to be special and significant, to make a mark on the world, to leave a lasting legacy. Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, I want to take a shortcut and become like God. Over and over, I find myself thinking, “Okay, God, I can take it from here and do this on my own now.”

Instead, I am reminded of how weak I am, how finite and how ordinary. How much a tumble down a ski hill hurts the next morning.

God doesn’t need our bravado, charisma, or strength. He doesn’t need a blue checkmark on Instagram, a book deal, or a decent salary. He doesn’t need us to perform, pretend, or produce in order to ensure He’ll stick around. 

He wants us to come exactly as we are — limping and weary. It turns out God can do a lot with ordinary and finite and weak. Jesus said the man who prayed from his heart, repenting in his utter weakness, was the prayer He preferred, and the widow who gave a penny away gave more than the rich who’d given plenty. In the upside-down kingdom we reside in, weakness is exactly what Jesus wants.

Paul said in 2 Corinthians 12:9, “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

The thought of boasting in my weakness makes me cringe. A friend recently told me, “I think I’m meant to wear my weakness instead of hiding it.” 

Wear my weakness? It’s exactly what Jesus did time and time again. God chose a teenage girl to give birth to His Son. A couple of lowly shepherds to be the first disciples. A woman to be the first preacher of the gospel. 

And most of all, God Himself hung on a cross, wearing our pain and our shame and our weakness. 

There’s no need for greatness at the foot of the cross. It’s not about us anyway. Instead, we can come exactly as we are, knowing all the glory belongs to Jesus.

Your weakness is the best spot for you to be. Come to God in your neediness, limping and tired, and surrender every part of you. 

Then just watch what God can do.

 

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

When All You Wanted for Christmas Was Peace

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I closed my eyes and asked God for what felt like the millionth time just that week, “Peace. Please let peace rule here.” The quiet Christmas tree lights winked at me from the corner of my eye like a promise. All was calm at 6:15 a.m. while the kids were still asleep. It felt like anything was possible in that quiet space before the sun stretched up into the sky.

By breakfast, two of my kids were already arguing about who was smarter and who had more orange juice in their cup. I’m still amazed at the power of their glare game and quick comebacks when they argue with each other. Pushing her juice cup forward to compare amounts with her brother, our daughter jerked her cup one way, then the other. The juice sloshed up the sides of the cup and onto the table, spilling everywhere.

I feel like that cup of orange juice a lot of days.

In those dark, pre-dawn hours, I was calm, contained, prayerful, and hopeful. But by breakfast, I was a good morning greeting gone haywire with juice spots on my glasses.

What happens when you hope and beg for peace and then the day spills out all sticky with words you regret and too many emotions at once?

After the juice spill, I tried to reel myself, the wet towels, and my kids back in with reminders about what matters more than their school grades and orange juice. I looked at our quiet Christmas tree, lighting the corner of the next room, and sighed.

As believers, we are called to be peacemakers, yet I still find myself spending energy trying to keep the peace in my home as if it’s something I can grab a hold of and secure in a jar with a screw-tight lid. It turns out, Peace is a person, not a program I regularly fail to maintain.

Almost thirteen years into parenting, I’ve all but given up on calm and quiet. Sure, there are ways to keep the peace and maintain peaceful moments with rules and structure. Those things aren’t bad, but they also aren’t what makes lasting peace.

Lasting peace comes from an everlasting relationship with Jesus, who is our Peace.

Like me, my kids have their own struggles and sin, and together, our bouquet of these things rub against each other at the breakfast table, after school, during board games, and when we’re deciding on desserts. I used to think — and sometimes still do — that the strife and chaos were evidence of my failure as a parent. I thought, If I was _________, then there would be peace. If we had _________, or if I was like so-and-so, then our home would feel peaceful.

But here’s what I’m still learning this season: Every moment of strife, selfishness, and coming up short (at home and far beyond) is a chance to ask Peace to come and be near us — to be with us. It’s an opportunity to turn towards Him in our need. It’s counterintuitive, isn’t it? It’s the last thing we’d expect. Peace doesn’t run from our chaos; Peace shows up right in the middle of it all. Right in the middle of every argument, misunderstanding, voice raised, or worse, we can cry out to Peace — Jesus — and lean hard on what cannot be mustered up or maintained in our own strength.

It’s long after Christmas, but our tree is still up. The twinkling lights shine warmth though the now brittle branches are weighed down by all the things we hoped this holiday season would be, alongside of all the good and hard things it actually was. We had some beautiful family moments with Sunday night Advent meals and candle lighting, all-day cookie baking, laughing with extended family, and wrapping gifts with anticipation. If you happened upon them, you might have thought peace was in our grasp — something we’d mastered. But if you stayed a while longer, you would’ve seen our unique style of chaos and tears and how far from peacekeeping we can actually be. I know those parts aren’t as pretty, but it’s there where I’m learning to find Peace with an outstretched hand, again and again. Maybe if I invite you in, you’ll see Him there too — Jesus, Emmanuel, with us, for us, despite us — offering all of Himself, the ultimate, lasting Peace.

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

 

Empowered: More of Him for All of You

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The word empowerment brings to mind motivational speakers and the self-help section of a bookstore. Messages from the stage and page tend to run along the lines of “If you believe in yourself, you can do anything!” It’s an inspiring slogan in the moment, but its energy fizzles out in the long run. It falls short of what we truly long for — to be empowered in the fullness of who we are.

The problem is that we’ve learned to compartmentalize ourselves — our physical bodies, our mental health, our emotional well-being, our relationships with one another, and our faith in God. We seek empowerment in each category by watching fitness gurus on YouTube or listening to Enneagram podcasts, reading books by celebrity pastors or trying the latest health food.

But what often happens is that we prioritize certain parts of our being over others because it feels more spiritual or urgent. We might nourish our souls but neglect to eat well and drink plenty of water. We might exercise our minds but lack meaningful friendships. When we do this, we become lopsided in our being, forgetting that every aspect of our lives is important to cultivate because God is in it all.

God cares about our whole being because He, who is spirit, became flesh in order to dwell among us (John 1:14). Jesus, who is fully God, took on Himself the vulnerability and beauty of being human. He enjoyed eating meals and napped when He was tired. He wept when His friend died and raged in anger at injustice. And His work of redemption includes the restoration of our bodies, minds, and souls.

God is invested in our wholeness and the empowerment of our whole being. This involves more than “You go, girl!” statements that lead us to believe we can do everything in our own strength. God empowers us to be all that He’s made us to be by the truth of His Word and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit.

And at (in)courage, we’ve taken all of these thoughts, convictions, truths, and experiences and put them into one place. Meet our next book:

Empowered: More of Him for All of You, by Mary Carver, Grace P. Cho, and Anna E. Rendell is designed to incorporate the five major components of our being — physical, mental, emotional, relational, and spiritual. The sixty Scripture passages and devotions invite you to see from different angles how God empowers us, and each day ends with prayer and reflection questions to deepen your learning.

Friends, Empowered: More of Him for All of You is unlike any other book we’ve ever written, and we are SO excited for it to be in your hands. It’s honest, it’s hopeful, and it’s beautiful in both design and content.

Order your copy, from DaySpring, Amazon, or the retailer of your choice.

It’s our prayer that as you read this book, you’ll be empowered in every part of your being to live fully as God created you to be.

 

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When We Are Only a Bud and Not Yet a Flower

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Have you ever watched or listened to something many times, but this particular time, something new grabbed your attention? Perhaps you were listening to a song you know well, and then for the first time, a lyric resonated with you differently than before.

Recently, I was listening to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1967 speech addressed to members of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and titled, “Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?” The title sounds ripe for today, doesn’t it? In the speech, Dr. King continues to advocate for human rights and a sense of hope. He first acknowledges the accomplishments of civil rights organizations and leaders. As I listened, I imagined how hearing such accomplishments must have replenished the men and women who had been dreaming and striving for freedom for decades. He admonished his listeners — those stripped of rights to make decisions concerning their destiny — to assert their own dignity and worth, to rise up with affirmation, and to sign their own emancipation proclamation within! His encouragement still rings with truth today, which is why we are so captivated by Dr. King’s words.

As I continued to listen, Dr. King pressed the listeners to “recognize where we are now.” And then he said something that, though I’m familiar with his speeches and work, jumped out and grabbed me this time. It’s so weighty, yet I’ve never seen it on any of the MLK-memes that flood social media when people want to share his words.

Dr. King said, “The plant of freedom has grown only a bud and not yet a flower.”

Wait, what? I paused the audio recording. I thought about how in that moment in 1967, after the passing of the Civil Rights Act, at a time when many of our nation’s citizens had pushed hard to manifest so much change, Dr. King was reminding them that they were not even close to the finish line.

Of course, a bud is significant! But a bud is not a flower. However, the presence of a bud does mean that the soil and seed are doing what they were designed to do and that a root structure is thriving. A bud is evidence of proper nourishment from the sun and rain. But a bud is not a flower or the fruit we are reaching for. A bud means we have more growing to do!

If I had been there listening in 1967, exhausted from constantly pushing back against powers committed to preserving injustice, I might have felt discouraged. I might have thought, “We’ve done all of this, and you’re telling me, Dr. King, that we are just getting started? That we’ve got more growing to do?” But listening now in 2022, I am relieved to know they understood they were tilling the soil, sowing the seed, and laying the foundation for future generations to build on. 

So yes, we have more growing to do! This revelation caught me off guard because it shattered a narrative I had been taught about the civil rights movement. As a child, I thought it had concluded with the assassination of Dr. King. My misinterpretation was partially derived from the way I was taught history in school — a documented sequence of past events with a beginning date, an end date, and a dash between them. Also, adding to my misunderstanding was how people referred to the civil rights movement as a bygone era, a time overflowing with strategy and struggle, promise and progress — a tangible, radical outcry that has since lulled to a compromising nap. Of course, as an adult, I’ve come to understand that the civil rights movement lives on. As long as there are nations and people groups who treat the image of God unjustly and resist God’s plan for love, advocates for justice will rise up. 

Later in the speech, Dr. King reiterated, “We still have a long, long way to go before we reach the promised land of freedom.” A popular misconception is that Dr. King and other justice advocates of his time had already delivered us to the promised land and that the present-day push for justice is somehow taking us backwards, away from the dream. But here’s what Dr. King knew back then: They didn’t complete the work of reconciling injustice; they helped instill it. They didn’t fix racial and economic injustice; they helped justice take root. When we wrongly perceive or assess the work as finished, we see threats where we should see growth opportunities. And recognizing where we are now — that we’ve got more growing to do — is essential. 

We don’t have to be afraid, overwhelmed, or discouraged in the work that’s still before us. We have this promise from Philippians 1:6: ” . . . the God who started this great work in you [will] keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish (MSG). Jesus taught us how to manifest justice wherever we are, and Dr. King’s life is an example of what this great work can look like. Jesus first showed us; Dr. King reminded us. We are on course to flourish.

Today, as we commemorate the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and the impact of the civil rights movement, may we be dissatisfied with a bud. In faith, may we flourish into a flower of freedom. May we choose growth over preserving the status quo. May we reach to learn beyond our current understanding, listening and hearing in a new way. And may we seek to see humanity as we were designed to be and continue the work toward change and freedom.

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

There Is an Appointed Time for Everything — Even Mourning

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“It’s back.”

My husband Brendan uttered those two words, and it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

“It” is ulcerative colitis, which Bren first had as a little boy. Ulcers multiplied in his colon, forcing him to run outside and bury his belly in the snow to numb the pain. After years of failed treatments and embarrassing incidents that scarred him for life, the doctors suggested the last resort: a colostomy bag. To eight-year-old Bren, this was unspeakable. “No mum,” he said. “I think you should let me die and go to heaven.”

Later, nudged by the Holy Spirit, a friend offered to pray for him again. As they prayed, warmth rose in his stomach. He cried, “Jesus healed me!” When they returned to the hospital for a check-up, the doctors were stunned: The ulcers had vanished.

I’d adopted this miraculous story as my own, a testimony to God’s supernatural power. Here was a peek at heaven walking around my home in the form of my husband!

But now, our miracle had been stolen. I didn’t understand. Why, God? Why steal Bren’s healing? I felt betrayed. Bren did all the “right” things: He studied the Word everyday, he was the loudest singer at church, and we were even helping to plant a church at that time. Sure, we knew that our lives weren’t going to be trouble-free just because we loved Jesus, but this?

I muscled up; I needed to be strong for him and our two daughters. It was easier to harden my heart than to wrestle with the why.

Four years later, Bren is still sick, but he never uses it as an excuse to duck out of life. Indeed, his joy in the Lord is miraculous in and of itself. But Bren isn’t the only casualty.

As my heart calloused over, my joy dimmed to the tiniest spark. I became impatient. I laughed less. My creativity was evaporating. In trying to protect myself from the hard conversation with God, the scar tissue started spreading to parts I didn’t foresee.

The other day, my therapist said, “It sounds like you haven’t mourned.” Her comment stopped me in my tracks.

Mourning isn’t reserved solely for the loss of loved ones. We can mourn the loss of dreams, hopes, and expectations. But mourning presents more of a mystery here in the Western world.

When my mother-in-law’s grandmother died, in keeping with Persian tradition, she and her mother wore white for forty straight days. Ancient Jewish tradition prescribed a period of thirty days, during which one shaved their head and put away all finery. Professional mourners, wailing women, would come to your side to mark the occasion. Elders would sit in sackcloth and ashes. The cultural understanding was that mourning takes our time, energy, and spirit. There was no need to lie or pretend you were okay when you weren’t.

King Solomon, who wrote “a time to mourn and a time to dance,” also recognized that mourning was encouraged by God. The beginning of this famous passage struck me:

There is an appointed time for everything . . .
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NASB)

Like birth and death, every event under the sun is ordained by God. We’re on His schedule. When I dodged my own mourning time, I stepped out of lockstep with Him. God, in His kindness, knew I needed time to process this loss. Who was I to deny what God wanted to give? I dread going to the dark places, so I took comfort knowing I wouldn’t get stuck there because there was an appointed end to it. For those who find comfort in mourning, what an encouragement to move on to the next stage, no matter how intimidating, because God has written the schedule of our lives.

Perhaps the greatest reason to enter a time of mourning is that Jesus waits for us there! Isaiah describes a Messiah who would “comfort all who mourn.” Seven hundred years later, that Messiah declared:

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Matthew 5:4 (NASB)

Go to Jesus in your mourning, and you will be comforted. That has been my very experience this year. While He hasn’t answered my whys, He has, at least momentarily, settled my heart with His peace.

But how could mourning be a blessing?, I wondered. Well, Isaiah offers a clue:

“I will lead him and restore comfort to him and to his mourners,
Creating the praise of the lips,
Peace, peace to him who is far and to him that is near.”
Isaiah 57:18-19 (NASB)

In being comforted by God, our wails of mourning are transformed into songs of praise. Our mourning becomes our testimony. This is a truth I know from helping many women walk through postpartum depression, a dark valley I’ve traversed twice. He will redeem our time in the darkness.

Sometimes we need the encouragement to mourn. I know I did. And so, if this message resonates with your soul, hear me friend: Run to Jesus and shed your tears in His presence. It’s not self-indulgent. You won’t stay in the dark pit forever. I’m here, in sackcloth and ashes, and while I dreaded it, I’m okay. The Lord waits for me, and in our time together, I can see that someday, He will turn my mourning into dancing. My joy, once a dim candle, is slowly building, and I have hope again.