Look for Joy and There You’ll See a Glimpse of God

Look for Joy and There You’ll See a Glimpse of God

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A loud laugh escapes my mouth, and I’m surprised by its unfamiliarity. It lifts and relaxes my body and spirit in a way I didn’t realize I needed. My son’s joke is unexpected in its wittiness and timing, and his face radiates delight over making me laugh so hard. I pull him in close and plant one too many kisses on his cheek, thankful for his sweet love and humor. When the pandemic first began, our days were filled with anxiety and fear, grief and the constant tension of being in each other’s space. We longed for time alone while wanting to hold each other close and never let go. We all felt the precariousness of life, especially him.

And still, somehow, this baby of mine has become a big kid before my own eyes. He understands how to meet others in their sadness, tender to their ache. He knows that being silly can brighten a moment, even if it can’t change the mood for long. He is quick to give hugs, full of energy I often can’t handle, and he reminds me there is hope for good, for joy.

And I need to know that joy is not only possible but that it can abound even now. For months, depression has hung around like a smoky haze during wildfire season. It’s kept me lethargic and unmotivated, struggling to create and keep up with deadlines. Just when I think it’s subsided and I have energy like that of my son’s, the sparks fizzle into nothing, and I’m back to the sluggish pace I wish to escape.

I manage to get done what I need to. I cook dinner and play games with my family. I work and decorate the house for birthdays and the holiday season. I know how to function in survival mode even when I’m not well because I’ve done it so much in my life. I can live life on auto-pilot, and no one would know I’m struggling — not even me.

But laughter breaks me from the trance of survival. It makes me pause to be fully present in the moment with my son and to see that I live in the land of the living right now. It reminds me of how precious life is even while the world burns. Growth has not stopped. Death has not taken everything from us. And we are still living.

And living for me right now — and all the time — looks like paying attention and being curious. When unrelenting knots form in my neck the weekend of my wedding anniversary, I pay attention and recognize what a difficult year of healing it has been. I voice my pain and care for myself with kindness. When my son is grumpy and crumbles into tantrums, I offer hugs instead of lectures knowing he feels left out from his sister needing space. When the din of social media and the news becomes louder than my soul can handle, I step away and look for glimpses of the divine.

I look for what will give me life so I can keep going. I ask myself what I need and get help where I can. Sometimes it looks like a video call with my therapist after being triggered by current events. It can look like napping when sleep was elusive the night before. It can be attending church service even when I don’t think I can handle small talk right now. And sometimes it’s as simple as sending a funny meme to a friend because I know she’d find it hilarious. We laugh together over text and agree that internet comedy is one of the many things we’re grateful for these days.

Jeremiah 29:13 says, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

Even when injustices don’t get rectified, when the healing we fervently prayed for doesn’t happen, when evil prospers, if we seek Him, we will find Him. Laughter reminds me that God is here in the complicated mess. It gives me a glimpse of the divine. And this is what I see: He is God of justice, God of comfort, God of miracles, God of joy.

What is bringing you joy these days?

When You Need to Actually Let Jesus Take the Wheel

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Before we began our family road trip last summer, I thought about how I’d never been to the Grand Canyon. I thought about how exciting it would be to go places I’d never been, to see things I’d never seen. I even thought about how we’d deal with the heat and the elevation.

However, it did not occur to me that I should worry about coming home and how that would require us to descend from the elevation for which I’d prepared so thoroughly.

What I’m saying is that driving down the mountains in Colorado just about did me in.

Now, I should clarify: I was not the one doing the driving. My husband drove us, just as he had the entire week leading up to this moment. He drove us out of the Rocky Mountains, and we did, in fact, arrive at our destination safely. But I doubted him and the likelihood of our safe arrival every mile of the way.

I shouldn’t have. We were fine, probably never actually in danger. But it was just a lot of downhill and curves and more assertive driving than I prefer. And if we had a dollar for every heavy sigh or bug-eyed glare I tossed out as I held on to my door handle for dear life, well, we definitely could have paid for our vacation that way.

That drive terrified me, but I couldn’t help but notice that my kids had no such problem. They sat in the back seat, unconcerned and unaware of the drama going on up front. Busy with their tablets and toys, they barely looked up unless we forced them to (which we did frequently throughout the trip, demanding they ooh and aah at the mountains and trees and rivers).

I could see what was happening on the road and believed I had some kind of control over the driver. My kids, on the other hand, knew they had no control over what was happening — and didn’t care because 1) they trusted the driver and 2) they weren’t staring at the curves in front of us.

It took me several hours to notice this difference. (As you may have picked up on, I was pretty well consumed with fear for our lives and determination to force my husband into riding the brakes all the way down the mountain.) But once I did, I could not deny that the whole situation felt familiar.

As we flew down the mountain, in the capable hands of my husband who drives for a living, I doubted and feared and attempted to control the situation with my gasping and griping — just like I so often do when traveling through my life.

We might sing and sometimes joke about asking Jesus to take the wheel, but in reality, letting God control where I go, how fast I travel, and which route I take to get there can be scary. And when I refuse to trust Him and even try to control Him, I end up feeling more fearful and frustrated than if I’d just sat back and relaxed like my kids did during vacation.

Do you know this feeling I’m describing? When it feels like you’re hurtling toward certain death or at least disaster? When you thought you knew where you were going (you did the research, you made the plans, you fired up the GPS) but now nothing looks familiar in front of you and you’re not sure how to get home from here? Are you feeling lost or out of control or more than a little bit of motion sickness in this season?

Take it from me: Trying to control the Driver by telling Him what to do and then complaining either passively or aggressively when He doesn’t follow your instructions is not going to make you feel any better. You will not feel any safer or surer that things are going to work out. Searching desperately for alternate routes or pressing your foot on the metaphorical passenger side brake is not the way to find peace or a settled stomach.

When life takes an unexpected turn, when fellow passengers are more aggressive than necessary, when we find our vehicles traveling at what feels like breakneck speed, the solution for all our mixed-up, messy feelings is to act like my kids in the backseat of our minivan:

Take a look at the One driving and remember that He knows what’s best.

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”
Isaiah 55:8-9 (NLT)

Trust that He loves you and wants what’s best for you.

And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them . . . And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love.
Romans 8:28, 38a (NLT)

Believe that He is in total control and will protect you no matter how the road curves.

“So be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid and do not panic before them. For the Lord your God will personally go ahead of you. He will neither fail you nor abandon you.”
Deuteronomy 31:6 (NLT)

And then rest in that knowledge.

I won’t go so far as to suggest you enjoy the ride — although you could! Just check out that view whizzing by the window! But take a deep breath and believe in the One behind the wheel. God is in control, and we can trust Him to take us where we need to go — safely and at just the right time. And when we do, our journey somehow becomes less terrifying and more exhilarating, and we can face what’s ahead with hopeful anticipation.

When the Lies Are Loud, Rehearse Truth’s Song

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This sentiment orbits around me. The childhood trauma of my parents’ divorce acts as its gravitational pull. In the breakup of their marriage, my mom was awarded primary custody of my brother and me, my dad was given significant visitation rights, and nine-year old me inherited this false messaging: 

You are disposable!

No one actually said those words to me. But in the upheaval, grieving, and wounding, I was left with this scarring. Like a skillful makeup artist, I learned to hide the bruising. Achievements and accolades were the perfect concealer, and having a boyfriend meant that at least I mattered to someone, even if he didn’t have the capacity to truly see me. 

But beneath the homecoming queen crown, the college graduate honors, and the multiple degrees, the fear of being insignificant clung to me. It melded into me. It stayed with me. Even now, we seem inseparable. It speaks to who I am as a wife, as a mom:

You are disposable! You don’t matter!

It wants to be my forever song, the score to my life’s unfolding. It wants to be the lead vocals, and whenever I experience rejection, fear turns up the volume and presses repeat. It gets the spotlight and summons all my attention. Hearing this reverberating bouncing around in the recesses of my being is exhausting. It’s a constant tug-of-war.

You are disposable! You don’t matter! You are insignificant!

Recently, the noise of my fear has been deafening. I have been losing sleep and agonizing over the pain of feeling invisible and invaluable. And yes, I know that God sees me and values me. I don’t struggle with that at all. My strife has been with humans devaluing me. I am deflated when people treat me like I don’t matter. I can tell myself that it shouldn’t matter what people think of me, that I should solely be concerned with how God sees me and knows me, but that doesn’t reconcile the countless times that in someone else’s decision-making process, I’ve been overlooked and felt like an afterthought or a pawn.

The anxiety pushed me to desperation, and I cried out to El Roi — the One who not only sees me but who sees everything. In moments like these, I feel like I shouldn’t need God to affirm me, that mature faith doesn’t need to be coddled. But desperation overrode my ego. In my exhaustion, I was like a toddler crawling into a nurturing lap to be embraced by grace-filled arms.

As I surrendered, my life’s major events unfolded in my mind like a movie recap. But in the re-viewing, I heard a different score of songs. I began to clearly see elements at work that I had not given much attention to before. I grabbed my journal and started writing. 

Who saw me when I thought I was invisible?

  • During my parents’ divorce, my grandma Pearline made sure I knew I was special to her.
  • When my mom remarried and it seemed as though her new husband wanted her without her children, my grandma Virginia brought attention to my loneliness and pain.
  • When I needed support along my academic journey, several people played key roles in escorting me from being a first-generation college student to becoming a college professor. It was a series of miracles.
  • When I was in situations where someone was taking advantage of me, my husband intervened and shut down the whole operation.

Names and events flowed like a waterfall. I journaled for pages. The list went on and on of how love manifested through people seeing me, hearing me, and valuing me. As I reflected and recorded in my journal, the volume on the old song (which does not bear repeating) began fading to the background. I had given too much attention to my story’s antagonists. I had allowed shadows to consume my life’s stage. I was ready for the protagonist to take its rightful place, front and center. I was now seeing all that had been invisible to me. I was ready to sing a new song:

I matter. I am seen. I am valued. I am heard.

When you feel vulnerable, invisible, or forgotten, remember that God not only sees you, but comes alongside you and cares for you. Matthew 6:26 reminds us,

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?  

When lies try to deplete you, ask El Roi, the One who sees you, to remind you of your visibility, your value, and your significance. Bring yourself back to truth. You matter. You are seen. You are valued. You are heard. Rehearse truth’s song. Turn up the volume and allow it to refresh you.

Advent Gives Space for the Hard Places

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“Isn’t there someone who speaks Haitian Kreyol on this airplane who can just explain it to her?” Several rows behind us, an irritated traveler was demanding I find some way to silence my newly adopted five-year-old daughter, Claudine, who was screaming at the top of her lungs. My face burned, and my eyes filled with tears as I desperately tried to calm her. Nothing was working. I urgently whispered to her in Kreyol, explaining that the mandatory seatbelt across her lap was there for her protection.

It was futile. She had never worn a seatbelt, never been on an airplane. All she knew was that strangers had strapped her down in her seat. It was the final terror in one of the most traumatic days of her life. In the previous twelve hours, she had lost everything and everyone she had ever known. Nothing in her new world smelled the same, looked the same, or tasted the same. When two pale strangers, who kept calling themselves her parents, strapped her into her seatbelt for the flight from Miami to Nashville, it was too much.

On and on she wailed at the top of her lungs, fighting to break free. Out of ideas, out of courage, and out of strength, I held her baby sister, Roseline, against my chest and tried to stave off my own meltdown.

Then suddenly, from her seat between her dad and the window, my daughter reached for me, her eyes wide with fear. And when she did, she called me “Mama” for the first time.

“Maman! M’bezwen ou!” she screamed. Mama! I need you!

I choked back a sob as my husband switched seats with her. I gently strapped her in beside me and pulled her close. “Shh . . . shhh . . . ” I whispered. “C’est bon. C’est bon. M’wen la. M’wen la…”

It is okay. It is okay. I am here. I am here.

She leaned into me, and gradually, her sobs quieted. A few minutes later exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted off to sleep.

Wearily, I lay my head back against the headrest and tried to absorb the truth that after years in the adoption process, we were finally bringing our daughters home. It was two weeks before Christmas, but the celebration of the season still felt far away. Instead, I felt Advent, the season of waiting and longing that comes before Christmas, deep in my soul.

For so long, I had prayed, wept, and begged for God to bring our adoption to completion. And still the months and years stretched on through holidays and birthdays, milestones and setbacks. Through occasional updates and photos, I painfully watched my girls grow up from thousands of miles away. Those years of waiting had been so long, so painful, that it was difficult to imagine joy on the other side. Now, my girls were on their way home.

The flight reached cruising altitude and the flight attendants dimmed the lights. A few of the other passengers looked over at my sleeping daughters in my arms and offered kind smiles before closing their eyes to rest too. I was as tired as I had ever been in my life, but I stayed awake, simply watching the two small miracles wrapped in my arms.

I didn’t know it then, but as I left one season of waiting behind on Haiti’s shores, I was entering another one in the hills of Tennessee. The lessons I learned during those years were bittersweet. I learned to wait for my daughters’ trust and for their wounded hearts to heal. I waited for the storm of grief and loss to still. I waited for them to accept me as their mother.

When our airplane touched down in Tennessee, there was plenty of fresh wailing. My babies screamed in fear when the toilet flushed automatically in the airport bathroom. They fought with tears and rage when we wrapped them in coats to introduce them to winter for the first time. They howled when we strapped them into more seatbelts for the ride home.

But when we finally pulled into our driveway, the world was quiet, peaceful, still.

When I led Claudine into her new home for the first time, Christmas tree lights wrapped the room in a soft glow. I sat down on the sofa, the baby sleeping against my chest, and watched Claudine timidly check out her new surroundings. She walked over to a doll carriage, left next to the fireplace by her new older sister, and carefully lifted a doll from the seat.

“Belle,” she whispered in awe.

“Beautiful.”

And I felt Advent, the season of waiting, down deep in my soul. Christmas is about celebration, but Advent is about giving space for the hard places in which we still wait for deliverance.

Christmas shouts for joy. Advent weeps and waits, in hope, that though the night is dark, the Prince of Peace is on His way.

 

Advent: The Story of Christmas traces God’s ribbon of redemption – from Eden to Jerusalem – through thirty-one biblical stories. Sherri Gragg’s unique storytelling, infused with cultural accuracy and color, has been described as “Bible stories for adults.” Her narrative style offers a fresh perspective on the lives of God’s people, both ancient and modern. Advent: The Story of Christmas will enrich personal devotional time and can guide group discussion during the seasons of Advent and Christmas.

We love Advent, and we want to help you welcome this season by giving away FIVE copies of Sherri’s book! Leave a comment with some Advent traditions you celebrate or that you’d like to start celebrating.

Giveaway ends 12/13/21 at 11:59pm central and is open to US addresses only.

The Perfect Gift You Can Give Is the One Everyone Needs Most

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One of my most memorable childhood Christmases was when my sister, brother, and I were in grade school, and Santa brought us a cassette tape recorder, a thirteen-inch black and white TV, and a ping pong table (obviously a thousand years ago). I don’t know if we were unusually good that year, but I’ve never forgotten the surprise and extravagance of it all.

Gifts with special meaning attached are our favorites, aren’t they? Every handmade gift from my children — and the one crafty gift from my husband — is a cherished treasure. Through the years, family and friends have delighted me time and again with gifts that tell me they know me and love me.

If you’re like me, giving the perfect gift is even more wonderful than receiving one. Is there any better feeling than when you come up with an idea that you know will bless the person’s socks off? I could barely contain my excitement when I thought of a surprise for my husband’s fortieth birthday (a book created with pages from family and friends). His reaction when he opened it was as priceless as the gift itself. Mission accomplished.

Thoughtful gift-giving is a tangible expression of love. When you’re able to come up with the perfect gift, it’s a beautiful reflection of the relationship between the giver and receiver. I think this is why most of us would rather not give money or gift cards. While we might appreciate receiving them, something about giving money or gift cards doesn’t quite feel right. They certainly don’t convey the intimacy and affections we hold for one another.

In the midst of holiday shopping and thinking of gifts to give this season, I’ve been thinking about the kind of gifts that hold deep meaning — the kind that leave an impression and make the receiver feel loved. In a recent conversation with a few close friends, one of them shared something she’d heard from her daughter’s college pastor: “The people we’re closest to need us to be close to Jesus.” Blink, blink.

The people I’m closest to need me to be closest to Jesus.

Sit in that a moment. Let it seep in to your heart’s deepest places.

As we’re scurrying around trying to find the perfect gift for everyone on our list, perhaps the most important gift we can give to someone is Jesus. Growing more deeply in our relationship with Him, we are changed and become more like Him, and as image bearers of God, we can give a glimpse of true love, unending grace, and deep joy to anyone and everyone around us.

One of the most well-known Bible verses — maybe the first one you memorized or heard — reveals that God Himself is the ultimate gift-giver:

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son,
that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16 (NIV)

The gift that cost God everything gave us the good news found in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. In Him, we can know forgiveness, redemption, and a new life with Him now and forever. He is a gift not bound by supply chain issues and shipping delays; He is the most extravagant gift — one that gives peace and satisfies our deepest longing.

It’s fun and even meaningful to exchange presents at Christmas, but nothing we buy can surpass the gift God gave us in His Son. By being close to Jesus and living a life that reflects Him, we can give the perfect gift that everyone needs — a wonderful Savior, the Prince of Peace, a God who loves with no bounds.

Episode 20: Being Confident in God’s Power

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Welcome to the final episode of this seasons (in)courage podcast! We have some VERY exciting changes coming next month to the podcast, so subscribe today and stay tuned.

In this final episode of season three, (in)courage and DaySpring team members Anna and Joy talk through week six of the Courageous Kindness Bible study. They share about their experiences leaning into God’s power, how their confidence in Him can be tested, and how they relate to the stories of Rahab and of David and Goliath.

You’ll also hear an excerpt of the Bible study read by author Becky Keife and a selection from the companion Bible study videos! These video discussions feature (in)courage writers Lucretia Berry and Grace P. Cho alongside Becky, and they offer us a seat beside them in the living room as they go through Courageous Kindness together.

Listen to these weekly episodes and also join the discussion in our Monday online study right here! Yep, we’ve been going through Courageous Kindness both on the podcast AND as an online community, and you’re invited to both. We hope you’ll read back through the posts and join in!

Listen to today’s episode above or wherever you stream podcasts! Get your copy of the Courageous Kindness Bible study from DaySpring.com, and be sure and subscribe to the (in)courage podcast so you don’t miss a single episode when we resume in January!

We Bear the Fruit of the Spirit by Abiding in the Spirit

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As a mom there are certain moments in your life where you feel like you are actually doing a good job. A few weeks ago I received a Facebook message from a fellow mom about my daughter. Her son and my daughter are in the same third grade classroom. Recently, her son was moved to my daughter’s table, and she’d noticed a change in her son. “My son has come home happy every day, and he has been telling me how joyful your daughter is all the time. Please tell her that her joy is contagious.”

I was literally in tears reading the message because life has been hard since the pandemic started in 2020. As a healthcare worker, a mom, and a pastor’s wife, I’ve had a hard time finding joy, and I’ve often wondered how my fatigue and stress have impacted my children.

Could they sense the change in me and in the world around them?

I could fake the joy at work and church but not at home. But the sweet message I received began to erase some of my mom guilt, and I was overcome with hope that my kids still had joy that was overflowing from them.

When my daughter came home that day, I read the message to her, and she was so happy. She responded, “Mom, I didn’t even know I was doing that. I wasn’t even trying!” I looked deep into her eyes and told her, “That is exactly how it works!”

I would be lying if I told you that I lived my life out this way. To be honest, for a long time I strived to live the life a good Christian should. I would try so hard to be patient and kind, but I would always fail. By the time I left my house in the morning and hit traffic, I was back at square one. My striving often left me feeling inadequate and exhausted.

It took me a long time to understand this truth: I can’t do it on my own. I know that sounds rather discouraging, but it was very freeing. I wasn’t failing at being a good Christian. I was just operating in my own strength and skills, when I was actually supposed to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit to help me be more like Christ.

Galatians 5:22-23 says, “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.” These are not traits that we can own or create in and of ourselves through behavior; it is work that the Holy Spirit does as He sanctifies us. When we try to do it on our own, it seems like a daunting moral checklist, but when we abide in the Spirit, the Spirit’s power produces it in us, making us look like Jesus.

I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.
John 15:5 (ESV)

My daughter wasn’t trying to be joyful; she was simply being herself. And the joy she had overflowed to those around her. Her joy was no longer hers alone. It was also for the little boy who sat by her, who then took it home to his mom, who shared it with me.

Romans 7:4 reminds us that one of the purposes of every Christian is to bear fruit for God. Just as a tree that bears fruit helps attract and nourish those around it, the fruit of the Spirit in us does the same.

Friend, if you have been trying in your own power to display the fruit of the Spirit and you are tired, I want to invite you to tap into the power of the Holy Spirit within you. It is less about actions and more about abiding. It is less about our own strength and more about His transformational power. As we dwell in Christ, our anxiety will give way to peace. Instead of anger, we will respond in love. And instead of greed and selfishness, we will choose goodness and kindness.

The Holy Spirit is the gift whom Jesus promised would be our Helper, and He is available to all who belong to Christ. I pray you receive His power today and that others would taste the sweetness of the fruit you bear as you abide in Him.

Nothing Is Ever Wasted When We Choose Each Other

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The first friend I met at my church in Nashville was Lynzy. She really does spell her name that way. We chatted briefly and I made my way out of the building, pretending that I might never come back, even though I knew I certainly would. Like my two-year-old niece and I winking across the table during dinner prayer, I was half in and half out. I missed my church in Texas, but I needed a home in Tennessee. I was eager for steady community, and I knew making friends would be vital.

Lynzy and I decided we should get dinner the following week. We sat down and talked for hours. But just as I started to let my guard down and sigh in relief that I’d made a friend, she looked at me and said she was about to graduate from nursing school. And she was moving. In about six weeks.

Crazy. Fleeting.

At this point, we had a choice. Give up or press in. I was new to town, and it might have been simpler to make friends with the people I would actually be around in the coming months — especially since I was still reeling from my recent move away from friends in Texas.

But we decided to make the most of it. We went to church and took communion side by side. We ate more meals together and shared stories. She told me she believed in my writing and I told her she was going to be an amazing nurse. And before we could blink, we were sitting in her empty apartment, eating the food that still lingered in the pantry, sipping hot chocolate and watching Harry Potter, surrounded by boxes. She then packed everything up and left.

And through that, this is who I learned God to be: He’s a God who is kind and sees things through and aches for us to know that every ounce of investing in one another is never wasted.

Is it fleeting? Yes.

Should we give up? No.

Do we press in? Absolutely.

So many friendships are fleeting and we use that as an excuse to avoid them. We only want to invest in something that we know we’ll get a good return on. But the reality is that we never know how much time we have with any one person, so the best we can do is wildly love the ones we have while we have them.

It’s been years since I saw Lynzy in person. We still catch up every once in a while, and when we do get on the phone, there is a depth that simply wouldn’t have existed had we not been friends very much so on purpose. We waste a lot of time being choosy when what we need to do is to choose each other.

Hebrews 10:24-25 urges us to pursue community when it says, “And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another — and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

So go. Make friends with someone who’s about to move. Introduce yourself to a stranger at church. Call your neighbor over and ask if they want to do dinner soon. Invest with purpose rather than the same tired conversations for years, not allowing a relationship to go deeper. You were made to be in community, so jump in with both feet.

God Can Do More Than You Expected

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It’s our last Bible Study Monday for Courageous Kindness! It’s been so wonderful to go through our newest Bible study right here with you. Today’s our last day of this online study, but you can always revisit any posts. We provided the reading assignment, a discussion video featuring three (in)courage writers, a quote of the week, reflection questions, and a prayer. As long as you have your copy of Courageous Kindness and bring an open heart, we’ve got you covered!

We’ll finish up this series with Week 6, which shines a spotlight on God’s ability to do more than you could expect.

Reading Assignment

This week, read Week 6: More Than You Expected, starting on page 195 in Courageous Kindness. Grab your copy and start reading!

Discussion Video

Three (in)courage writers invited us into their conversations about Courageous Kindness! Join study author Becky Keife alongside Grace P. Cho and Lucretia Berry each week as they discuss the readings. Listen in on their conversation about Week 6 (and find all the weekly videos here):

Quote of the Week

Keep this quote in mind as you read Week 6:

Courageous kindness doesn’t happen by our own strength but by God’s strength in us.

– Becky Keife in Courageous Kindness. Feel free to download this quote to share with a friend!

Reflection Questions

In the comments below, answer and discuss the following reflection questions:

  1. Have you ever doubted you could make a difference?
  2. By God’s power, one act of courageous kindness is like a single stone with many ripples. How did you see this play out in the story of Rahab?

Let’s Pray Together

Yahweh — my Father, my Savior, Holy Spirit — thank You for choosing to put Your power and purpose to work in my life. I recognize that You have called me to live with a posture of courageous kindness so that Your kindness can increase. I trust You with my small stones. Take the little I have and multiply it. I believe You can and will do immeasurably more than anything I could ask or imagine. I am Yours. Amen.

Friends, thank you for joining us for this online study. There’s still one more new episode of the (in)courage podcast, so tune in on Thursday to hear from (in)courage team members, Anna and Joy, and writers, Becky, Lucretia, and Grace, as they finish up the study right alongside you. Listen wherever you stream podcasts (and find all the episodes here!)

Answer the reflection questions in the comments so we can discuss Week 6 together, and stay tuned for our next Bible Study series, releasing in March 2022!

No Matter How Lost You Are, You’re Always Welcome Home

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It was hotter than I imagined. 

When my sister and I booked a time to go through a corn maze with her kids, I assumed it would feel like autumn. Instead, it was an unseasonably warm day, and I was dressed in a hat and heavy sweater. I could feel sweat trickling down my back as I yanked the wagon through the maze.

“How much farther?” I muttered. We’d been walking for at least thirty minutes, and there was no end in sight. 

I ripped my hat off my head and wrapped my sweater around my waist, trying to feel a little cooler. Then it hit me: We needed a shortcut.

“Follow me,” I said. Instead of staying on the ridiculously winding path, I decided to plow the wagon through the corn stalks. (I truly am so sorry to the farmers.) I was convinced this would be faster. We could cut through to the other side. Easy peasy. 

Except the corn stalks were taller than I had expected, and suddenly I had no idea which way we were supposed to go. We were lost in the center of a corn field.

“We’re never getting out of here,” my sister said.

My leadership skills clearly needed some refining. I’d led us to disaster. I continued to drag the wagon through the corn, my niece and nephew trying to dodge the corn stalks that flew towards their faces. 

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find my way out. My “shortcut” just made us more lost. I was convinced my way was better, but in reality, I had no idea where I was going. I just wanted to go home.

Suddenly the face of an older man appeared through the corn stalks. “Are you okay?” he asked us. 

I smiled sheepishly. “I thought going through the corn would be faster. But now we can’t find our way out.” 

His face was kind. “You were so close to the end. Come with me.” 

We followed him for a few minutes and then saw the most glorious sight — the exit sign. I just about cried with relief and have vowed to never go through a corn maze again.

The problem is, I don’t just get lost in corn mazes. I tend to wander off path often, thinking I can find a better way. God’s way often feels a little too slow, requires a bit too much patience, and I don’t tend to understand exactly where He’s taking me. So I hack my way through, convinced I’ll figure it out on my own. 

But I just end up lost.

The prodigal son did this too. He wanted to make his own way. He splurged his father’s money, slept around, and couldn’t have cared less about the honor of his family. 

Until one day he realized he was terribly far from home and utterly lost. He finally decided to make his way back, shoulders slouched in shame. Unbeknownst to him, all along, there was a light on his father’s front porch, a fire on the hearth, and a cozy robe draped on a chair. His father was waiting each day to see if his son would come home. When the father saw the boy finally returning, he went to him — sprinting! — and welcomed him back to where he always belonged. The father shouted, “He was lost, but now he is found!”

Like the prodigal son, we can convince ourselves that we’ll only be accepted back if we can somehow earn it, but the Father runs with utter abandon toward us when we start walking back home.

God knows I will fail a thousand times. Each friend Jesus made seemed to fail Him one way or another. Jesus knew His friend Peter would betray him — and still He built His church on Peter who seemed more like shifting sand than a rock. God knows I will fail. He knows how capable I am — not necessarily of good — but of evil, of lies, of cheating, of lust, of distance, of envy, of wanting glory for myself. And yet even in my failure, God does not chastise, reprimand, or scold me. Instead, He welcomes me with open arms and says, “I’m so glad you are home.”

This unconditional love is with us every day — but most days it feels too good to be true. We can convince ourselves we need to earn it, prove that we’re somehow worth it. A love without strings attached can seem almost eerie, and our failures haunt us. 

But we are never too lost or too far off the path that we won’t be welcomed home. There is a celebration waiting for us, festivities beyond our wildest imaginations. Our Father always knows where we are and is always trembling with excitement to welcome us back home. 

No matter how far we wander, when we come back — caked in heartache and covered in mud — we’ll see Him sprinting toward us, His arms wide open, waiting. He won’t ask us where we’ve been or what we’ve done. Instead we’ll see the porch light on, and hear God whisper, “Welcome home.”

We Are Free to Learn at Our Own Pace

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I learned how to ride a bike without training wheels in the second or third grade. On Saturday mornings, my dad would take me a few blocks away from the busy street in Tokyo where we lived to practice. He would hold on to the back of my bike, running alongside me as I gained speed. I had a beautiful, cherry red, Japanese bike. It had a sturdy basket on the front, a bell whose ring could clear a sidewalk, one of those kickstands that lifted the entire back end of the bike, and a silver metal rack behind the seat. As long as I believed my dad was still holding on to that silver metal rack, I did just fine. Sometimes he would let go without me knowing, and I would continue riding confidently until I realized I couldn’t hear his feet drumming the pavement behind me any longer. I would turn around, see him in the distance, start wobbling, and then fall. We would do this again and again.

I’d apologize for falling down (again) each time, and though he never showed any signs of impatience or frustration, I still remember the feeling that I was taking too long, that I should be riding already. I wanted to catch on quickly and glide away without so many scrapes and wobbles.

I could write a long list of all of the “should be” weights that I’ve carried since those days.

A couple of years ago, I went to a cross country meet that my oldest was participating in. The humidity was thick, and it was the warmest part of the day. I was tired before the crowded event even began, and I had a pit in my stomach as I rushed my two younger kids through the grass. Crowds and places where we have to move fast are full of triggers for our youngest. By the middle of the event, I was dripping with sweat, carrying our visibly upset four-year-old, handing another sticky, melting snack to our seven-year-old, and trying to figure out where to catch a glimpse of our ten-year-old who was running. In my mind, I reprimanded myself for not being better prepared for the setting and for being as anxious as I was. There were hundreds of other parents around me doing the same thing, and I thought I should be better at this kind of thing by now.

I am a grown woman, raising children of my own now, and yet I still find myself forgetting that I don’t have to live by a rule book of should-be’s. Jesus hasn’t set me free so I can work to check off an ever-growing list of should-be’s in my own strength. God doesn’t tell me to hurry up and get myself together. He doesn’t ask me why it’s taking me so long nor does He pull out a chart to show me how far behind schedule I am.

When I was eight and couldn’t quickly overcome my fear of riding alone, my dad ran beside me holding my bike up as I rode. He steadied me. He found a quiet street in the middle of a busy, bustling city to keep me safe. He cleaned up my scraped knees when I fell. He made time to let me enjoy the feeling of wind in my hair and made space for me to try again and again after I fell. If my dad worried that I might never get the hang of it, I never knew. To this day, riding a bike still feels like something magical to me.

It’s counterintuitive to the culture of scarcity we live in, but we are free to move at the pace God has given us.

We’re free to say no when our capacity is full and our bodies are tired. We’re free to learn slowly, to say we don’t know, to take up the space we need to grow deep and wide in the tasks, gifts, and lessons we’ve been given. We’re free to be quiet and observe. We’re free to speak up when we are ready. We are free to feel what we feel and be where we’re at. We’re free to offer the little we have and watch to see how our little transforms into enough in God’s able hands. We’re free to let the silence linger a little longer. We’re free to mother others as women who have limits and worth, women with bodies and minds to pay attention to and care for. We’re free to live without the restrictive timelines that tell us we’re too late to bloom, too slow to ever be what we should be, too limited to experience God at work in and through our lives.

We are free to be loved and then to learn and live, however slowly, from the foundation of that perfect love.

In Between the Now and the Not Yet Is Gratefulness

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So much of life is spent in the middle space. It seems as though we consistently find ourselves waiting for something. As students, we wait for graduation. As graduates, we wait for our careers to advance. As adults, we wait for potential promotions at work or relationships to blossom into marriages. If we get married, we wait to become parents. And so on and so forth. Each of our lives is different and we all go through different circumstances, but waiting comes to us all.

Like most people, I have dreams and goals and a vision for what I hope my future will hold. Most of those dreams haven’t been fulfilled yet. Many of those goals aren’t even close to happening. I don’t know how long the wait will be, and I don’t even know if those dreams will ever come to pass.

But over the years, as I’ve gone from one season to another, I’ve learned that how you wait during a season can have an immense impact on how you enter into the next season.

I recently met with a local chapter of Christian Women In Media. We sat around and dreamed together, discussed our next steps to accomplishing our goals, and shared what the hindrances were to those goals. I was encouraged and challenged by each woman’s story. They shared how they waited and trusted God in their wait and how they cultivated hearts of gratitude through it all.

I was inspired to learn how to wait well and make the most of the season I’m in. And I’ve come to believe that gratefulness is key to waiting well.

When I think of gratefulness, Philippians 4:4-8 comes to mind:

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things.

These verses in Philippians are some of the best on thankfulness. The Apostle Paul experienced all manner of trials, sufferings, and hardships, but he also experienced all manner of successes, joy, and accomplishments. He knew not only how to survive in seasons of waiting but also how to thrive in those seasons. He learned how to give thanks to the Father and rejoice in every season — on the mountaintop and in the valley, with abundance and with lack.

I’m not horrible at rejoicing at all times, but I could definitely do better. I find myself focusing so much on the now that I let discouragement and doubt set in. I forget how good and how faithful God is. And He is always good and always faithful. For that, I can choose to be thankful — in prayer, as I go to work, as I take care of my home, as I walk around my neighborhood, as I live through difficult times.

And this means that I must turn my thoughts, as Paul says, to think on what is true, right, pure, and lovely.

I tend to focus on the here and now and overanalyze all of the possible outcomes of a situation. I can get so caught up and begin meditating on whatever is not true or right or pure or lovely. But when I focus on God’s Word and His promises, those truths become seeds that will bear fruit in the season to come.

Cultivating gratitude is another way to think on what is true because it turns my mind from what’s in front of me to God — to His provision, His grace, and His presence. And as I do, my heart begins to turn from anxiety to peace as I see more clearly what God is doing in my waiting.

Seasons of waiting are not always easy, but they can be braved with gratitude. This kind of waiting pleases God, strengthens our spirits, and develops us for the season that lies ahead.

Are you in between the now and the not yet? What are some things you can be grateful for as you wait?

When You’re Tempted to Take Too Much Credit for Your Difficult Change

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When my infant twin sons were only weeks old, I decided I would teach them to sleep through a little bit of noise. With two babies at once, I didn’t want to have to tiptoe through the house all the time. So after they drifted off to sleep in their swings one afternoon, I promptly rolled out the vacuum cleaner and began sweeping the living room. As I rolled the vacuum back and forth underneath their rocking swings, those baby boys barely stirred. The following week, I did it again. And I continued to do it each week while patting myself on the back.

You’re nailing this part of parenting! I proudly thought to myself. Not only was I certain my babies slept through a good deal of noise because I’d taught them to, but I felt I’d succeeded in showing them who was “boss” within our family.

When our daughter came along three and a half years later, I once again employed the idea that this new infant would need to get used to a little noise. After all, she had two rowdy brothers who made no small amount of it! So on an early summer evening after she went to sleep, I fired up the vacuum cleaner.

The results? Not the same. Not the same AT ALL.

It took 1.32 seconds for my daughter’s eyes to pop open and grow as big as turkey platters. Then she started screaming like she was on fire. I quickly scooped her from the crib, acutely aware of how the roaring vacuum must’ve seemed like a mean trick from her vantage point.

As I spent those next minutes and hours patting her back to a rhythm of shh, shh, shhhh, all I could think was one thing: You, my dear, had nothing to do with your sons sleeping through the noise. That was a singular work of God’s grace, a gift that made infant twins a little bit easier. 

I rolled my eyes at myself at least a dozen times before finally calming the baby down, over two hours later.

Oh, the price I paid for my pride!

Time would continue to show me in a thousand different ways that I am not to take too much credit for the good — or the bad — that happens in my life. And when it comes to difficult change, I will not take too much credit for it either. 

But I sure try to do this, especially when the change brings a lot of unwanted circumstances. Whether I’m in the 3 p.m. carpool line or wide awake at 3 a.m., I can spend untold hours asking these questions:

Why didn’t I anticipate this?
Shouldn’t I have taken steps to prevent it?
What does it say about me that I didn’t see this coming?

Yes, it’s certainly true that actions have consequences and we need to care for what’s in our lane. But just because this change is here doesn’t mean it’s our fault. Perhaps it’s here because we live in a broken world. What’s more, perhaps it’s here because there’s something that needs breaking or something that’s already broken that needs to be fixed.

In the words of author Jennifer Dukes Lee, “Brokenness isn’t intended to break us. It’s intended to heal us by leading us back to the cross.”

Maybe whatever change happens in my life and yours is to heal something that’s broken. Maybe it’s here to remind us of our need for God and His power working in us and in our lives.

I am not God, and neither are you. So say it with me now: I am not in charge of this change. God is, and you and I will see how He makes a way through it for us. That isn’t some trite cliché. Scripture is full of references of God making a way through impossible circumstances for His beloveds. (Just ask the Israelites, Ruth, Esther, and Mary and Joseph to name but a few.) Like them, we can trust God’s faithful follow-through. And as we wait, we can refuse to look inward for some kind of supernatural gift or strength and instead look upward for it. We can see our brokenness for what it is — the path we take to the cross, where we’re reminded of how Jesus’ unchanging love changes everything for us.

Consider my latest book, When Change Finds You: 31 Assurances to Settle Your Heart When Life Stirs You Up as a helpful tool as you walk through your own common and unique life changes!

Will We Be Peacekeepers or Peacemakers?

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One of my closest friends and I were texting about whether she should confront someone about a hurtful thing they’d said behind her back. She’s a firecracker, so I was surprised when I started to sense she was doubting herself. Was she being too sensitive? Making a big fuss over nothing? Being a troublemaker?

I texted back, tapping hard at my phone screen, We’re called by God to be peaceMAKERS. Not peaceKEEPERS. Keeping our mouths shut and going with the flow is not peace. But you’re not like that. You see something that’s wrong, and you say something about it. I admire that about you so much.

I text a good game, but if being honest with myself, I fall into the peacekeeper category far too often. But Jesus taught in Matthew 5:9, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

The Greek word translated as peacemakers is eirenopois, which is borne of two root words: eirene, which means peace, and poieo, which means to do, make, bring forth, cause, work, deal and perform.

It’s almost oxymoronic, right? Peace is won through an awful lot of un-peaceful activity — by engaging rather than walking by, by saying something rather than staying silent. 

To model one’s life after Jesus is to mimic a man who did not stand down from conflict in the name of peacekeeping. Indeed, He stirred up conflict wherever He went! I imagine Jesus realized that in order to ignite conversations about what genuine peace with God looked like, He would have to rattle a few cages and disrupt the status quo in order to shine a light on its shaky (and sometimes rotting) foundation.

In my relationships, at work, or with something happening out in the world, I have oft eschewed conflict altogether, for fear of looking like a hot-headed troublemaker. It feels easier to bite my tongue, keep walking, or keep scrolling. I don’t have the bandwidth for this, I say to myself. I don’t want to ruin this relationship over this. It would cost too much. It’s too uncomfortable.

Other times, if I’m honest, it feels like it would hurt too much. I think of the passage in Ezekiel 36:26 that talks about the heart of stone, and while I’ve always thought of it as a heart deadened into callousness, I now wonder if it could also be a heart that’s so scared to be hurt again it encircles itself in stone.

Either way, in Christ, we are a new creation, reborn with hearts of flesh. We are to live lives modeled after Jesus, a man of sorrow. His heart was constantly wounded by what He saw us doing to each other, to God. Nevertheless, He persisted in making peace — as should we.

So how do we know when to turn the other cheek and when to raise our voice? When I look at Jesus, it appears that what motivated Him was not merely bringing peace between human beings. Jesus was motivated by the need to reconcile human beings with God, to repair the breach that had opened up in the Garden of Eden. His goal was to bring us to into shalom — a whole, complete peace with our Creator. In every circumstance, Jesus zoomed out from the earthly matter at hand to the God’s-eye view of humanity.

Perhaps that should guide us in our peacemaking. Perhaps we should ask ourselves, What is the larger issue here? How can we bring Jesus, the Prince of Peace, into the chaos and strife?

For me, that means using my voice to speak up but to also pray for those on the other side, those who might curse me for saying what I believe to be right. Praying for those who might come in opposition has brought me great comfort when I feel like there’s nothing more I can say. I pray that their eyes would be opened or that mine would be opened if I am seeing the issue wrongly. When Scripture bids us to bless those who curse or persecute us, it’s asking us to bring God into their proximity. And perhaps the most powerful way we can do that is to pray for them.

When trepidation deadbolts my lips, when fear of being ostracized grips my heart, I turn my eyes to the cross. Here was the ultimate act of peacemaking: Bridging the divide between heaven and earth was so important to Jesus that it cost Him everything. He was mocked, called a heretic, hunted down, betrayed, tortured, and eventually killed. He paid for our peace with His life, dignity, and for a little while, even His direct connection to the Father. If He was willing to pay that kind of price, surely I can stomach a little discomfort.

I look at how Jesus poured into everyone He encountered — fully, honestly, sinlessly — and yet nearly every one of them turned their backs on Him toward the end of His life. And then I look at my life, where I won’t risk even one relationship in the name of truth. I think of conversations about things I knew were spiritually dangerous (tarot cards, psychics, and mediums) where I knew I should speak up, but I just looked at my phone, hoping the conversation would change. I think of the time when someone talked to my child disrespectfully, and I wasn’t fierce enough in my retort to her. I remember when someone I knew posted something I found personally offensive but refrained from talking to her about it lest she’d think I was one of “those” weirdos. Oh man. My heart of flesh needs a hefty dose of courage.

I don’t have many answers for you, my friends. All I know is that we have to get better at peacemaking, at getting dirty and bruised in the name of peacemaking. But I don’t think we can get better without practicing, and the only way to practice is to do the dang thing, step into the fray, speak with grace seasoned with salt, and fly the banner of the Prince of Peace. He calls us His own, and He’s gone ahead of us. We can bear the pain and discomfort of hard conversations if it brings our neighbors even an inch closer to Him.

Episode 19: What Jesus Teaches Us About Long Haul Friendships

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Welcome back to the (in)courage podcast! In true (in)courage style, we’ve got some stories to tell and some real life to talk through.

Today, (in)courage and DaySpring team members Anna and Joy talk their way through Week 5 of the Courageous Kindness Bible study. They share about their experiences with long-haul friendships and their connection to the story of Mary and Martha from Luke 10.

You’ll also hear an excerpt of the Bible study read by author Becky Keife and a selection from the companion Bible study videos! These video discussions feature (in)courage writers Lucretia Berry and Grace P. Cho alongside Becky, and they offer us a seat beside them in the living room as they go through Courageous Kindness together.

Listen to the weekly episodes and also join the discussion in our Monday online study right here! Yep, we’re going through Courageous Kindness both on the podcast AND as an online community, and you’re invited to both. We hope you’ll join us!

Listen to today’s episode below or wherever you stream podcasts! Be sure to subscribe to the (in)courage podcast so you don’t miss a single episode! Get your copy of the Courageous Kindness Bible study from DaySpring.com and use code PODCAST25 to save 25% and get free shipping on your copies of Courageous Kindness.

God Can Do Extraordinary Things with Our Ordinary Yeses

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Christmas is a really important season for many businesses both large and small. Sales from this time of the year can make or break the entire year. Then, on top of that, good ol’ social media adds to the pressure because it’s the way many businesses advertise, promote, and sell their products. Our inboxes and feeds are filled with it — especially in this season. So I’m not surprised it all sets my comparison into overdrive when it comes to my work as an artist.

I know I shouldn’t be comparing myself to others. I know better, and I really don’t want to. But if only it were that easy! Unfortunately, I still do because I’m human.

I see other amazing artists, talented creatives, and so many incredible business owners doing well — or at least what I perceive as them doing well — and at times, I can’t help but feel less than. Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually really happy for them. I want them to do well, and I love being able to cheer them on with excitement from the sidelines. But that doesn’t stop my mind from comparing, from thinking they’re somehow doing everything better than me — better art, better ads, better marketing, better social media, better business.

I see them as having and doing more, and I can feel inadequate and somewhat capable. I worry I’m not doing enough or not working hard enough or not producing enough fruit. I feel like I’m lacking in some way — and well, I feel just real ordinary. Too ordinary.

Then, God, in His amazing ways, reminds me about ordinary. He reminds me of the most beautiful example of what ordinary can do. Mary, an ordinary girl, was asked to do the most extraordinary thing — to become the very mother of God. With a heart for Him and with one faith-filled yes, this ordinary girl changed the entire world.

We may feel ordinary. We may see our days and our lives as too mundane. We may feel that God cannot produce fruit through the little we feel like we have to offer. But God doesn’t see us that way. He doesn’t see us as lacking. He already sees us extraordinary. He sees us as a gift. He made us just as we are and uses everything we have to offer for His glory. He chose us to do His great work in both big and small ways, and it’s all important to Him.

God can take our faith-filled yes and multiply it in unimaginable ways.

I know deep down inside that I’m not defined by numbers and sales. I know I’m not defined by social media likes and followers. I have a purpose, and God has equipped me for it. So I continue to give my all to the One who chose me to do the work I do. I give my yes to Him — my heart-filled, faithful yes — again and again.

This Christmas season, may we follow the example of the ordinary girl who wanted what God wanted for her — a heart for Him. May we remember He will use our passion, our faithfulness, and our yeses to do extraordinary things and produce the most beautiful of fruit. And may we continue to say yes again and again!

I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.
John 15:5, 7-8 (NIV)