What Happens When We Wait

What Happens When We Wait

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I remember waiting for my mom to finish her chemotherapy years ago. We’d count down the weeks until she’d be done. My dad planted a tree so we could wait for it to blossom, the same way we were waiting and praying for my mom to get better. We waited for her to finish radiation, then surgery, then at last, she finished with her treatments. Now it’s been seven years, and I hardly remember how hard those days were. 

I remember waiting to plant a church. We had meetings where we dreamed and envisioned and hoped and prayed. It took a long time to see that church go from a dream and a few conversations to a group of people who faithfully dedicate themselves to becoming passionate followers of Jesus. But now we’ve been a church family for over four years, and I hardly remember how hard those first days were. 

I remember when I told my friend for the first time about my experience with sexual assault. I had been waiting to be heard for so long. The waiting felt like my soul was dying, like I was walking around with third-degree burns, just waiting for someone to notice. I told my friend, and on a summer evening, she offered space for me to begin to heal. It felt like I’d waited for so long. That was three years ago, and I’m still slowly healing. 

Most days, I still feel like I’m waiting — waiting for lockdown to be over, waiting for this pandemic to end, waiting to hug my friends again, waiting for a vaccine, waiting to see if God answers the prayer for a marriage that I’ve been praying for for years now, waiting for clarity over decisions to make, waiting for one of my dreams to come true. 

I’ve never been good at waiting. When I was a kid at the amusement park, I’d opt out of the most popular rides because they had the longest line and I never wanted to wait. I never liked to wait for the best option if it took too long. I’d settle instead for an okay option because it came faster. 

But what if God’s best for us sometimes comes with a long line of waiting? What if while I was waiting — for my mom to get better, for our church to be planted, for my healing — the waiting was part of what made me strong? 

Isaiah 40:31 says, “They who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” (My emphasis) 

What if, when I’m waiting for Jesus, He is actually making me stronger? 

What if, in the waiting rooms, God is renewing my strength? Giving me abiding peace and deep trust in my Savior? 

What if — as I pray over and over and over and over again, day after day, month after month, year after year, decade after decade — the Spirit is empowering me to move into deeper trust, to mount up like an eagle, to run and not grow weary, to walk and not get tired?

Not on my own, but through Jesus. With Jesus. Because of Jesus. 

There are so many questions I don’t have the answers to. I don’t know whom I’ll marry or if I’ll marry at all. I don’t know when the pandemic will be over or what life will look like after it ends. 

But I do know that when we trust in Jesus, when we wait on Him, when we follow His lead to surrender everything — our dreams, our finances, our jobs, our relationships — He gives us His strength.

Just like an eagle, I’m empowered — to walk, to run, to soar. 

That’s what happens when we wait.  

The Audacity of Birds and Belief

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A few weeks ago, I found a robin’s nest in our backyard. We have a small circle of five trees that stand in the left corner like five friends. The nest had been meticulously put together, piece by piece, into a haven made to house the hope and fragility of new life. When we moved into our current home, all the trees were in their process of seasonal death. Leaves were burning bright and falling free. We knew it would take time to see what these trees would become in the spring. Three of the trees grew tight fisted buds that grew into bright white flowers. Two of them have remained bare and empty though the sun shines and birds sing. I’m not an arborist or horticulturist, but it doesn’t take much to see death in their branches. Despite that, a mama bird decided to build a home in one of them. Right into its barren arms, she strung together an ordinary brown bowl of twigs and yard scraps to make a home for life to birth and burst forth, to be nurtured and needy, to rest and rise. Her audacity to build life in the arms of a dead tree seemed like a protest to all the things we’ve lost this year. I found myself going out to the tree to peek at the mama bird and her nest daily — like it was medicine. The first time there were two eggs. Then the next day, there were three. And then, later that week, snow showed up in the forecast on my weather app, with red-highlighted freeze warnings. I watched our neighbors cover tulips, daffodils, new lilies, and grape hyacinths with blankets and big sheets. The snow started falling on a Tuesday, and by evening, everything was white. The next morning, all the green leaves were covered in snow, and the branches, too heavy to bear the weight of ice on their bark and leaves, leaned back to touch the earth and dirt where they had begun. I used our binoculars to check on the nest from our kitchen window. The mama sat there, in the snow, occasionally fluffing her feathers to shake the flakes loose. I hoped it would be enough. After two days of snow, ice, rain, and then sunshine afterwards like nothing had happened, I walked back with my son to check on the nest again. There were four eggs now, no mama bird in sight, and they were all cracked open, empty. I almost cracked with them. I thought about the audacity of that mama bird, building life in a dead tree, and my belief that the love of her brood patch could bring it all to pass no matter the severity of Mother Nature’s whims and moods. I was wrong about love, warmth, and desire being enough, but was I wrong to hope for something more? I continue to get texts and messages from friends with more bad news: anti-Asian violence continuing, family members being hospitalized, and friendships and groups being irrevocably fractured. I see evil and injustice walk hand-in-hand, laughing, like they are winning the day. It feels like the world is asking us to build and re-build life in the arms of a dead tree, while unexpected storms move in without a care for the fragility of our humanity. My heart has been frantic and sad for weeks. In my groaning prayers, I ask Jesus, again and again, “How long?” I find myself like I imagine the disciples were on the boat where Jesus slept, wanting to shake Him awake while the storms ridicule our collective risk of drowning. I’m past the point of having the right spiritual answers and doing the right spiritual thing as if hope can be mustered from somewhere good within me. I’m becoming okay with being audacious enough to ask questions and let my exasperation show. And while I want Him to calm the storm and give us all tangible peace, I think what I’m learning to want more is His nearness and the evidence of His humanity. I think about what His eyes might’ve looked like still waking from their sleep, His voice with a crackle, asking me — the one of little faith, His beloved, “Why don’t you believe?” Maybe the desperation of our hope deferred, our hearts weary and weak, our spirits sick with sadness, and thousands of collected thoughts of doubt in our pockets are the very things we need to understand that He’s never been afraid of. God has never turned from us or ceased to come near to our darkness and disbelief. It’s in these very places where He gently nudges us towards the embrace of His perfect love and a deeper belief. I look online and read that robins lay eggs more than once over the course of spring and summer and that sometimes they use the same nests again and again. I wonder what a robin mama remembers. Does she use her own beak to remove her broken, bright blue egg-dreams? How does she keep building and believing after all the grief? No matter what, Jesus is here, undefeated, giving life to the least possible, power to the weakest link, and presence to the ones whose hearts have cracked under the weight of storm and grief.

We Are Here for Such a Time as This

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Before I met the Lord at the age of nineteen, I didn’t know I needed a Savior, but I knew all about God. I went to Mass every Sunday. I even prayed to Him through the tears of my difficult childhood. I would characterize my relationship with Him as very superficial. I didn’t know what I was missing.

If you would have asked me then if I was going to Heaven, I would have said yes. I was a pretty good kid. I didn’t get into a ton of trouble. I wasn’t a cause for worry or concern. I was a good person. That merited eternal life, right? I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

On the night I met the Lord, the veil over my eyes was lifted. I had a revelation. Even though I was good, my good wasn’t good enough. My good would never be good enough. Me on my best day would never warrant me eternity. My righteousness to Him was as filthy rags.

It shook me. I was a sinner, and I was in need of a Savior. There, in a Thursday night service at LSU among a room full of college students, I confessed Christ as my Lord and Savior. That day changed everything. It changed how I viewed God, myself, and the world.

This present era we find ourselves in definitely tops the list of uncharted territory. We are surrounded by an enormous amount of fear and uncertainty. We do not know what the future holds, but we assuredly know Who holds the future.

. . . but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
Romans 5:8 (ESV)

The header for Romans 5 in my Bible says “Peace with God Through Faith.” Don’t we need more peace and more faith today possibly more than ever? My church has been consistently reminding each other that church has never been about a building; the Church is us. It’s you and me, the very temples of God’s Holy Spirit.

My friend Aimee has been saying this can be our finest hour as Christians. It totally can be. We have a rare opportunity to make choices that will display how the love of God is shown.

This is such a beautiful time where the Church can be the Church beyond the walls of the church. There are countless open doors around us to be the hands and feet of Jesus. Who around you is suffering? Who around you is feeling far from Him? Who are around you doesn’t yet know Him?

We were made for deep and intimate connection. I pray that we would not be afraid to connect with those around us during this season. Reaching out can look like you and your kids baking for your neighbors, taking walks and asking your neighbors if they or someone they know needs prayer. It can be making grocery store trips for the elderly in your neighborhood and church. It can also look like having genuine conversations with neighbors you don’t know very well and asking them how they are doing and even if they have a relationship with God.

May we be people who find ourselves in the secret place with the Lord so He can love us and send us out with His love, His truth, and His purpose. May we be people who make the most of our time here on earth. May we be people who rise up in bold faith in the midst of a world gripped with fear.

We are here for such a time as this.

We, the body of Christ.

We, His ambassadors.

We, the salt and light.

We, the kings and priests.

So much of the world is frightened, hurting, and confused. So many in the world are lost, broken, and dying. What better time to sacrifice and lay down every desire and proclaim the truth of the gospel found in Romans 5:8 and love our neighbor? For the joy set before Him, Christ endured the cross. His joy was a redeemed relationship with His creation. God knew before He ever even formed Adam that sin would enter the world and separate us from Him. He knew, and He still created us in His own image. He still went to great lengths to pursue us at our worst, and He pursues us to this very day.

God loves the world that He made, and it is His heart that all would come to know Him. He made the greatest sacrifice, and now is the time we can show His love to others.

Tell me about a time when you sacrificed in order to share the gospel,
meet a need, or simply love someone with the love of God.

 

Look to the One Who Lifts Your Head

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My husband and I really enjoy gardening together. I know my love of flowers has been passed down through the generations in my family. My parents have amazing garden beds. My grandma, now in her mid-eighties, still has a beautiful garden, though not the size it once was. So, usually, they’re the ones teaching us about new plants, and we’re the ones who enjoy getting transplants from them to add to our flower beds.

But recently, we were the ones who were able to introduce them to a gorgeous new plant they didn’t know about. It has the most exquisite flowers, called hellebores. Their common name is “winter rose” or “Lenten rose” because the blooms appear very early in the year, around the time of Lent.

They are the earliest flower to bloom in our yard and last for several months, with the added bonus of evergreen foliage. This year, they were actually blooming in the snow! They have quickly become one of my favorites in the garden, even though picking favorites is so hard. If you haven’t seen them before, you have to look them up. Trust me, you will be awed!

There is only one thing about these sweet flowers though that makes them really quite different: They are gently nodding beauties. Their flower heads actually face downward, and their true, full beauty can’t be completely appreciated unless you lift them up.

We were in the garden the other day, and I gently lifted each smokey pink flower growing on a dark purple stem to enjoy them. I was thinking about how stunning these beauties were, though they almost seemed sad with their distinctive nodding blooms, and it reminded me of how many times I’ve felt just like those sad, bowed down heads.

I am sure many of us have felt that way or might be feeling like that now. Our heads hanging low by the burdens we carry, by the shame we feel, by all the challenges we battle. Worry consumes us, and it takes a toll. Struggles overcome us, and it takes a toll. Loneliness fills us, and it takes a toll. It all seems just too heavy to bear. We feel like the weight of the world is on our shoulders, and we are bent down under that weight.

But God.

In the darkness, He is a shield about us. In our weakness and brokenness, He is the lifter of our heads. At all times, God is our glory.

Just as I lifted those hanging flowers to admire them, what a beautiful image of our loving Father lifting our heads in the midst of struggles, darkness, and sadness in life and admiring us. Can you picture it now?

He takes your lowered head and gently raises your chin. With tears of frustration or shame or sorrow or brokenness, you meet His loving eyes. You just know, He sees you. He sees your heart. You know He is your protection, your shield, your strength. You know His love for you is beyond comprehension.

None of us have answers as to why we have such darkness in the world and in our own lives. We don’t understand why there are times when troubles seem endless. We don’t have explanations for all the storms, but we do know the One who understands and stands by us. He protects us and fights for us.

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.
Psalm 3:3 (ESV)

The One who holds our days — look to Him, call on Him, trust Him. The Lord will lift your head.

It’s Okay to Not Be Okay Today

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I planted my heels firmly into the ground and with both my hands and my voice shaking, read a prayer to close my grandfather’s funeral service.

The words about worry, fear, and loss were written a month into sheltering-in-place, and as strange as it might seem, I prayed over that prayer before I wrote it out. With so much up in the air, with losses growing and normal disappearing, I asked God to guide my hands as I typed, to speak through the pixels of a computer screen, and to bring comfort no matter what the world looked like when it was published a few weeks later.

I couldn’t have known that before the words were shared online, they would be read in a cemetery. With the wind blowing and tears falling and God watching, I held the prayer in my hands, printed on a folded piece of paper, and gave the words back to the One who always knew.⁣

My black dress is packed in a carry-on again.

Eleven months have passed and by the time you read this article, my grandmother will be Home finally and forever. Grief and gratitude are holding hands once again, mixed together in a way that simply can’t be separated.

When I reflect on the last year and a half, I’m struck by how much we’ve individually and collectively grieved. The details differ, but loss colors every single one of our stories.

A few months ago, I made a permission slip for a friend experiencing a big change. Before writing in her name, I posted it on Instagram. The “permission to be sad” note is one of my most shared posts — ever — which tells me there are so very many of us learning to hold hope and loss together these days.

And yet the more I write about this tension, the more replies I receive asking me to choose joy and move on or urging me not to lose my faith. By and large, we are a culture that is uncomfortable with grief — our own as well as the grief of another. I get it, grief is messy. But grief and hope are not mutually exclusive. One does not cancel the other out.

In fact, when I think of those who have walked through difficult times with hope instead of pretending all was okay, it bolsters my faith. Because how else can we say that, but Jesus? There’s something strikingly beautiful and outrageously compelling in someone who says “I’m not okay right now, but I will be, and God is nothing less than faithful.”

Please hear me: my heart is not to ignore or diminish happy moments or answered prayers. Yes, joy is our birthright, but let’s not miss it: Jesus knew resurrection was literally minutes away, and yet He still wept with His friends. He knew the page would turn, that loss would never have the last word, but He was present in the pain.

Perhaps when we’re so busy being “fine” as we try to hold it all together, we steal a little bit of glory from the Man of Sorrows who is literally holding us together.

Friend, please don’t tie a bow on brokenness and call it a day. Hurt is not something to hurry through and grief is not something you need to get over. You don’t need to sweep sorrow under the rug or rush to find beauty in the broken places. You can be sad without shame or a timetable.

It’s okay to not be okay right now. It’s okay to acknowledge what was or wasn’t or will never be, to say that yes, seasons come and seasons go and this will not last forever, but for now the storm is still raging.

Our comfort doesn’t come from the promise of calm waters but from the promised presence of the One who rides it out with us.

Jesus is no stranger to storms, and though He could, He doesn’t always walk on the waves. Sometimes He says, “Peace, be still” to the waters that rise and sometimes He says those very words to our overwhelmed hearts. Jesus never shows up with a tidy bow to rush us through to the other side, never dismisses our pain by saying, “Just choose joy,” never grows weary of how long we’ve struggled to stay afloat.

No, Jesus just gets in the boat.

One day, there’ll be no need for a black dress. One day, every grave will be a garden. One day, we’ll build altars in the ruins as we sing songs of praise to the God who redeems and restores all, the One who even now is making all things new. But for now, let’s just pass the tissues. Let’s learn to say, “I’m not okay right now, but I will be, and God is nothing less than faithful.”

You don’t have to hold it together. There is One who is holding You, who comes close and stays with and will carry you through. Our friend Jesus is familiar with waves.

You Are Not Falling Behind

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One stormy spring day, I found myself on the skinny dirt road that borders the “back 80” field of our farm. It was another rainy day, on top of a series of rainy days, and because of the puddles, my husband — and farmers all across the Midwest — couldn’t get into the fields to plant. The unrelenting storms brought blow after blow to so many of us in the agricultural industry, who are tasked with feeding the world.

Everything was falling way behind.

As I was driving alongside our wet and crop-less fields, something important hit me. I have so often felt the way that field looked: with no growth evident. Behind.

At key points in my life, I’ve felt so far behind — in my career as an author, as a mom, a farm wife, and even in my spirituality. My fear of falling behind has been a reason for my rushed existence. It’s why I felt like I had to be so insanely productive all the time, as if life were a constant game of catch-up to meet milestones.

Ironically, for me, the strongest pressure to hustle came when I started writing books about Jesus. I say this is ironic because nothing Jesus ever said communicated an ethic of hurrying and hustling.

This isn’t something we authors talk much about publicly, but there’s an expectation of growth in the publishing industry. Growth in sales, influence, and something called “platform,” which is an indication of how many people follow you on social media. If you have a decent-sized platform, it shows that you have an audience who already likes you. This is not a criticism of the publishing industry. Publishers have to pay to keep the lights on, and they need some assurance of sales.

At the time when my career took off, I was a “small-platform author.” Sometimes I thought I had snuck in the back door when no one was looking. (There’s a name for this: imposter syndrome. It’s usually accompanied by an author curling into a fetal position and rocking back and forth in the corner between writing sessions. Yes, I’m a ball of positivity while writing books.)

As a new author, hustle felt like the only option. Yet a question began to emerge: Do I really want a fast life that rubs me raw?

And it was. Life was rubbing me raw — physically, mentally, spiritually. I asked myself, In the rush to become a “somebody,” have I forgotten that I already am?

All systems pointed to one conclusion: I had to undo and unlearn all of the dangerous “go-big-or-go-home,” girl-boss messages that I’d believed my whole life.

And so I embraced a new and life-changing philosophy that I call Growing Slow.

And this is one of the surprising discoveries I made: We are actually not falling behind.

Because the truth is, there are no set milestones for where we are supposed to be at any given point in life. Not for when you get married — or even if you get married. Not for when you have kids  —or even if you have them. Not for when you earn a certain salary or master a certain set of tasks.

Sometimes, you look around at everyone else’s progress and feel like you’re a failure who can’t hit milestones.

Their dreams are coming true.
Their kids are making the honor roll.
Their marriages are fruitful and fun.
Their businesses are thriving.

Deep inside, you wonder if you’re disappointing God.

Friend, you are not a disappointment, I promise you. If you saw your progress the way God does, you’d never doubt for a moment that you’re making a difference.

We don’t need more memes or motivational speakers to sell us a way to move ahead. We need permission to be where we are.

Did you know you are allowed to go your own pace? You are allowed to shut down the computer at five o’clock. You are allowed to take the time you need to figure things out. There’s no such thing as an overnight success, and your life will not be ruined if you grow slow.

Look around you: there is growth in your fields, inching heavenward, not with brute force but by the will of the Divine Farmer who makes all things beautiful in their time (Ecclesiastes 3:11). A corn plant never compares itself to the one beside it. It never fights the clock or doubts the harvest will come. In that back 80, Scott eventually planted millions of corn seeds. In time, each plant did all of the miraculous things a corn plant does until it reaches full maturity.

“ . . . at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9).

God promises that the harvest is coming — not just for everyone else but for you too. In His way. In His timing.

Friend, you are not falling behind.

Growing Slow: Lessons on Un-Hurrying Your Heart from An Accidental Farm Girl charts a path out of the pressures of bigger, harder, faster, and into a restful yet active — and far more satisfying — way of living. Order today and get $47 worth of freebies, including six Bible study videos, the first session of the Bible study workbook, and the Growing Slow Guided Journal and Growth Tracker.

And to celebrate, we are giving away FIVE copies of Jennifer’s book, Growing Slow!*

To enter, tell us in the comments a way you’ve experienced the beauty of slowing down, and we’ll choose five lucky winners!

Then tune in tomorrow, May 12th, at 11:00 am CST on Facebook for a conversation with Jennifer and Becky Keife as they discuss this beautiful new book and Bible study.

*Giveaway open to US addresses only and ends 11:59 pm CST on May 14, 2021. 

Let’s Face It Head On

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“I’m sick of always feeling like my kids don’t cut it. We need to create a ‘Let’s Face It Book’ app where we forget all the special moments and celebrations and only post the hard truths of parenting that are happening behind the scenes. We need to ‘Face It’ head on,” one of my besties declared.

Our friend group chuckled at this ingenious idea because, unfortunately, misery loves company. Brainstorm funny marketing strategies, drop a few bombshells, allow for anonymous posting, and it would be an instant hit. Yet behind our combined nervous laughter, we all felt the painful sucker punch as our precious sister friend shared deep heartache behind her son’s recent choices. For months, she held those decisions in secret as Satan attempted to crush her with false judgement and shame. He was having a heyday assuring her she was the only one in the struggle. He’s the master at that.

Let’s face it: factually, we know that often social media only shows what the person posts — the highlight reels, the carefully curated moments. Here at (in)courage, with our mission to remind each other that in our un-fine moments and ordinary days we can become women of courage, we still constantly struggle to solidify that truth in our minds and hearts. Couple that with friends or influencers who attempt to draw us into their authentic self by showing us a filtered “messy moment,” and often it’s still an edited reality that doesn’t help chip away at the relentless rhetoric the enemy slings.

(Here’s where we pretend you’re sitting around the table with my discipleship group and I’m going to shoot straight. I’m a hand talker, so imagine that too.)

I’m sick and tired of falling into his cyclical trap, aren’t you? There’s no glossing this over. I’m frustrated at myself when I give Satan a tiny corner of my consciousness and he bulldozes in like he has some say in my life. He absolutely does not, my friends. I’ve heard it called “stinking thinking.” How dare we give the enemy an inch when we have the indwelling, life-giving, enemy-crushing, abundant freedom that comes the moment we name Jesus as Lord. Yes, the Savior of the world, who kicks Satan to the curb when we shout the name of Jesus, desires to gift us with that same power. Yes, the same Spirit, the same power, that raised Jesus from the dead is alive in us (Romans 8:11). Why aren’t we shouting this truth from the rooftops?

I know, I know. It’s much easier to read (or type) this than actually put it into practice.

As I’ve camped in 1 Peter, a tiny phrase stopped me in my tracks. 1 Peter 1:13a says, “Therefore, with your minds ready for action . . . ” Diving into the original Greek root here tells us that the phrase is a continuous active verb. This is not a one-and-done obligation but a commitment to stay alert while consistently preparing our minds for a challenging journey or warfare. Are we rooted in the truth of Scripture? Are we battle ready?

Since many of us are still experiencing a painful season of isolation and loneliness, it’s more critical now than ever to grab at least one other person to help us fight for truth and ready our minds in the coming days.

Some have gone nearly a year without any significant gatherings, so our perception of everyone’s journey through the pandemic season has been shaped by social media, not Scripture. It appears we’ve all thrived with long nature walks by quiet streams, picnics on our family room floors, and seamless home renovations.

Yet mix in the reality that we can’t see online — crying children eaten by mosquitos, selfish big brother hitting siblings because he demands the picnic blanket closest to the TV, and finally, the exhausted partners losing all patience because this isn’t the Fixer Upper episode we assumed when we started — and we chuckle at these hidden truths.

But for many of us, like my “Let’s Face It Book” friend, the reality is much more challenging. When she shared her news, our hearts broke with her. We couldn’t tie things up in a neat little bow with trite retorts and quick-witted wisdom. So, we listened. We lamented. And we brought light to the dark by naming the truth of God’s Word.

In those tense times that will never make social media, we need accountability partners that will link arms with us and point us to the cross; faithful friends who will remind us of Spurgeon’s words, “There are many sorts of broken hearts, and Christ is good at healing them all”; and mentors further along in their spiritual journey to guide us and humbly provide tough love if needed.

Do you have someone like that in your life to provide encouragement, accountability, and a listening ear? To remind you that you’re not alone? To push back when you might be in error? Can you be that person for someone else?

Prioritize that and join me as I’ve committed my 2021 to deepening relationships, establishing necessary accountability in my marriage, parenting, and spiritual walk, and pursuing continued connection through biblical community.

This is a time commitment, but it’s so worth the investment. Let’s ready our minds for action and let’s face it together.

The Push and Pull of Mothering

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I have four kids! It’s an exclamation point because my youngest is still so new. Sometimes it just catches me off guard that these four little people are mine, that I get to raise these four siblings.

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

Siblings.

They’re so cute and funny and smart, and also sassy and screamy and really good at throwing a fit. We love being together, and we’re also so sick of each other after a thousand months of being home non-stop, working and distance learning and only recently beginning to see family and friends. I love them and want to squish their faces and also want one whole day alone by myself.

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

And the baby we await and celebrate at Christmas was also a king — holy and human. We wait to remember His birth each year, and we wait for His return all the time. We both seek, and we are found.

I know the push and pull of mothering, of wanting to mother, of craving for silence even amidst the blessing. There is nothing easy about any of it, and everything seems contradictory — a both/and kind of living.

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

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

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

Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for all that you are and all that you do.

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

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

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

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

Giveaway is open to US addresses only and ends May 12, 2021 at 11:59pm CST.

No More Comparing and Despairing

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In my youth, friends were as ephemeral as mayflies. They’d last for a little while until my friends discovered someone cooler, and then I’d be alone again. Lunchtimes became my enforced quiet time because the only thing worse than being on my own was being on my own whilst watching my classmates laugh and enjoy each other’s company. I’d walk to the back of the school where no one could see me and watch the wind swirl through the palm trees as the cars zoomed by and tears stung my eyes. 

Recently, I introduced an old friend to a relatively new friend. The latter one’s friendship was one that made me proud — I couldn’t believe we were actually friends! But within minutes of the two of them getting to know each other, I felt like I was eleven again. All the insecurities of my youth flooded me. Suddenly, all I could focus on was how much funnier, brighter, smarter, and more thoughtful she was. I felt self-conscious, paralyzed by the fear of being left alone again. 

I kept thinking to myself, Straighten up, Sequeira! Stop comparing yourself! Stop thinking about yourself! But I couldn’t tighten the reins and stop those wild stallion thoughts. Over the next few days, the constant loop of comparison left me exhausted. I became so intimidated by my friend that I stopped speaking altogether.

I’m outmatched. I see the writing on the wall. I should bow out gracefully. 

The same muscle I use to compare myself in friendships is the one I use on a near daily basis, comparing myself to other chefs, mothers, TV personalities, believers, and wives. And more often than not, I find myself deeply wanting and retreat into myself. 

I don’t think I’m alone. Over the past few years, I’ve seen multiple Instagram graphics advising me that “comparison is the thief of joy” or to stop playing the “compare and despair” game. The only way out of the cycle, they suggest, is to simply stop comparing ourselves to others altogether.  

I don’t know about you, but that advice hasn’t worked for me. It strikes me as a little flip, as if stopping this behaviour is just that easy. Perhaps comparing ourselves isn’t the problem. Perhaps it’s more about whom we compare ourselves to and for what reason.

For example, I wouldn’t be half the cook and judge I am today if I didn’t watch, evaluate, and compare myself to my colleagues very intently. They inspire my hands, palate, and mind. When I worked in the newsroom, I compared my news stories to those of fellow journalists. I learned how to ascertain the veracity of a story, how to write with more accuracy and brevity. Heck, we learned how to walk, talk, eat, drink, love, fight, share, and build by comparing ourselves to our mother and father figures, to our siblings, and to people on TV. 

My theory is that comparison is inherent to human nature. But as with everything else in this world, comparison can be used for good or for evil. 

Ever since the Fall in the Garden of Eden, every human has felt a distinct less-than-ness. Human history is built on our effort to fill in that gap with achievement, wealth, love, religion, power, and acceptance from others. But perhaps what we’re really striving for is perfection. 

Jesus told us, “Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48 NASB).

We were made in the image of God, that is, in the image of perfection. The standard for perfection was set by God, via the Law, and we were made to meet that standard. But we don’t, and the only one who ever did was Jesus.

When we compare ourselves to each other, we use earthly things to fill a divinely-hewn hole; they can never fully satisfy the emptiness. And so, if I’m going to compare myself to anyone, let it be with Perfection Himself — Jesus! When I turn my eyes to Him, when I compare my actions and reactions to His, a miraculous thing happens. Look at 2 Corinthians 3:18, with me: 

But we all, with unveiled faces, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the LORD, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory . . .

Fixing our eyes on Christ transforms us into His likeness — hallelujah! The more we compare ourselves to Christ, the more we long to be like Him. We rip our old muscles in order to build new, stronger ones. Our imperfections glare in the light of His perfection and shrink in the warmth of His embrace. 

After that incident with my two friends, I decided that whenever I’m tempted to compare myself, I will stop and take a breath. Instead of retreating inward, I will look up and see that my worth — as a friend, as a chef, as a mom or a wife — comes from the One who loves me. Instead of coveting the way God made someone else, I will name the ways God made me and praise Him for it.

And instead of placing too much emphasis on what people think of me, I will rest in knowing that He, whose opinion is paramount, already thinks I’m the bees’ knees and rejoices over me with singing! Instead of trying to quash my instincts to compare myself to others, I will compare myself to Perfection Himself. In doing so, I pray that His sweet correction will right the wrong perspectives of my heart and reassure me that even in my brokenness, He will use what could have been used for evil and transform it for good. 

The Mystery and Miracle of His Might

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In the middle of the night, when all is dark and all is calm, and I am tired and trying to hold open my heavy eyes, I behold my newborn son and gaze down upon his small silhouette, his little life. In the darkness, I feed him. I change him. I burp him. I cradle him. I lull him. When I am done and simply stay there to hold him, I feel his hand on mine. Holding my finger, he grasps to keep me in his grip. And though he is but two months old, his hold on my hand is unbelievably strong, and it is both a mystery and a miracle to feel the cling of his clutch wrapped around the thin of my finger.

One year ago, when the pandemic put a pause on the world, I found myself announcing that it did not put a pause on God’s plan for my family, for life swelled and swirled within me. It was a gift, even in the middle of so much grief. And I could not have known then that when I chose to name the child within, he would really live up to the meaning of his name — that even at two months old, he would show himself to be small but strong.

Aaro is his name. Of all the different variations of meaning his name holds, “mountain of strength” is the one we chose because we want for him to see himself just as a mountain — to see and know he is not a small or hidden or helpless thing.

On a day like today when I am thinking about the mystery and miracle of might showing through the smallness of my son, I cannot help but hear hope for the here and now: Those of us who feel small and insignificant and unseen are, in fact, seen and loved greatly by the One who created the greatest galaxies.

He sees us for who and how we are and shines through us with a strength we could never imagine ourselves.

Even as I write this, I feel small and spineless myself. Small, because I cannot stop the never-ending news of all of the recent disease and death. Small, because there is so much more work to do — work to do in the world and work to do within my own hurting and helpless heart.

But the gospel truth is that there is more to the story than just the way we feel and the way things seem.

Even while we come up feeling little from all of the living and loving and losing, our lives are still marked with the miraculous stories of God displaying His might through the small — of young David defeating giant Goliath, of Gideon’s three hundred victorious in battle against the thousands, of Jesus seeing the short man named Zacchaeus, of lost little coins and their significant worth, of the widow’s mite being more than enough, of a baby in Bethlehem born to bear witness to the greatness of God.

God’s might is the mystery and the miracle working in and through our smallness.

And it is never to shame us. Rather, it is to show us that He is powerfully compassionate, kind, and good.

So, here is a truth to behold, a truth to cling to as you strain for something to show for your smallness, something to cover and camouflage those things that make you feel any measure of less-than: Hold every feeling of insignificance, insecurity, and inadequacy in faith, knowing that the holy One who once came close to save you is also the One who looks deep within and esteems you.

Believe it in your bones, in your brain, and in your blood, however small or unseen you may feel.

Our God sees you, and He shines with might in and through you.

Where in your heart, body, mind, or soul have you been feeling small? What might help you believe that God sees you and holds you in high esteem?

File This Under “Things I Don’t Deserve”

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When we first moved into our house six years ago, I was 800 months pregnant with the last of four children. We had decided to do a complete renovation before we moved in (because we’re crazy), so add in the stress of sawdust and drywall and tile done wrong. It had already been a rough year of deciding to move across state lines to schools that could accommodate our special needs child. We were committed city folk who said we would never move to the suburbs, so we apparently love eating our words. Isn’t it funny how God continually shakes our identity so that we can only find it in Him?

But while grieving the loss of all these things and the changes they would bring, there was something I felt silly about mourning: the peony bush on the side of our old house that we’d be leaving behind. 

It should be noted that I had inherited them; it’s not like I planted them myself. But they brought me so much joy. They felt like an undeserved surprise, and I just didn’t want to leave them. If you know anything about peonies, they are gorgeous. They smell insanely delicious, and they are incredibly hard to grow from seed or bulb. They take years and years to bloom. They are finicky to transplant, and you can risk losing the whole thing. So I left them for the next person and told myself, Don’t complain. You have a great life. It’s just flowers!

We moved in late summer, quickly got settled, and had our precious baby — what a blur! Through summer, autumn, and winter, I became more and more comfortable in our new home and the neighborhood. As spring approached and we finally got to be outside again, I noticed some bushes against the back of the house and wondered what they would be (or were they overgrown weeds?). I hadn’t really noticed them sprouting up at all, what with my blurry eyes from a baby who never really slept great and spit up and down the back of my shirt and from the endless monotony that comes with telling three other children to “please wear pants.” 

But then, all of the sudden, there was a miraculous sighting. I gasped seeing six, huge peony bushes blooming! You better believe I watered those plants with my happy tears that minute. It was something God didn’t have to do — the binding up of the littlest wounds. Please file all these little extras under “Things I Don’t Deserve”: more inherited peony bushes which I never would have had the skill or patience to plant yet and the fact that they’ve been at every house we’ve moved to. It makes me believe God is after our joy more than we think, even after so many tired seasons, even after so much grief, even after so much waiting. 

Peonies give me a visual opportunity to remember God’s mercy and goodness when I’d like to believe I don’t deserve them. The gospel makes it clear that I’ve done nothing to inherit His riches, but here I am. And that day, I saw it in the abundance of peonies blooming behind our house.

For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.
Ephesians 2:8-9 (ESV)

I wish I wasn’t so human, but I alternate between entitlement and awe. And this is why I think God keeps specifically giving me tangible ways to understand His undeserved goodness: little bread crumbs along the way to help me find my way back home when I go off track and believe He’s forgotten me. 

A late spring frost is set to come through our way, so I cover up my peonies to protect them. As I do, I remember that I am owed nothing. I deserve nothing but have gained an incredible abundance in His kinship — so much so, I’ve been put in the will and have an inheritance in Christ! I spread out the sheets, feeling like I have to relinquish my blessings, but I remember it wasn’t me who put them here in the first place. I think it’s in the moments of receiving and giving up that we find Jesus the most — perhaps because He gave us the most by giving up the most. I cover the flowers as I cover myself in truth: His grace is sufficient to meet us in our waiting, relinquishing, and worries, and His abundance will never end.

No Holding Back, No Turning Back

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We all screamed with joy as we watched a plane fly above us. I remember that day so vividly. The sun was bright, almost blinding my eyes, that I had to cup my hand over my forehead. With the other hand, I pointed at the tiny dot high in the sky and told my cousins, “I am going to get to ride that soon!” Actually, I said it in Malayalam, the language of Kerala, India where I was born. My parents had just told us that we would be moving to the USA, and we would have to fly on an airplane to get there. I didn’t know much about America, but I had seen airplanes on television and I was so excited to ride one.

As a seven-year-old, I had no idea what my dream would cost. I would have to give up all my friends at St. Anne’s School, daily playtime with my cousins who lived next door, eating jackfruit and mangoes off the tree, seeing my new pet calf grow up, and much more.

It’s fun to dream and share our plans with others, but sometimes we forget that every new chapter in life, as amazing as it is, comes with a price tag. There are things we must give up in order to experience the fullness of what is ahead for us. And this is true when we decide to follow Jesus. In Luke 9:23, Jesus urges us to count the cost. He makes no compromise when it comes to discipleship: die to yourself, crucify your selfish desires, take up your cross, and follow me daily.

Being a disciple means giving up your life for life. No holding back. No turning back.

Jesus wants every part of our lives to be saturated by His love and to bring Him glory, but that requires sacrifice. Romans 12 teaches us that worship is presenting ourselves as living sacrifices. Paul tells us that this means we no longer follow the patterns of this world but live with a renewed mind that yearns for the perfect will of God. Dying to self isn’t behavior modification or following rules. It is living a life of surrender and obedience out of a deep desire and delight for Jesus. It is daily choosing to lay down our own agendas to follow the Good Shepherd. It is offering every part of our lives to the One who gave it all for us. 

When was the last time your following Jesus cost you something or you took a bold step of faith or gave up something for the sake of Christ?

It’s easy to go to church once a week, but it’s hard to read the Word daily or commit to tithing when the future seems uncertain. It’s easy to listen to a sermon on our commute, but it’s hard not to cuss out the crazy guy on the road or gossip about our neighbor. It’s easy to post a verse on social media, but it’s hard to live out its truth in the midst of pain and struggle.

In His grace, He calls us to Himself and wants us to live surrendered in full obedience to Him. Often, we are like the rich young ruler from Matthew 19:16-30, who did all the “right” things but wasn’t willing to give up all things for Jesus. The passage says that he went away disappointed.

Friends, we can have all the things and even do all the “right” things in our own eyes, but if we can’t fully surrender ourselves in obedience to Jesus, we won’t experience the full, abundant life God has for us. When Jesus called His first disciples to follow Him, they left everything to do so. Are we willing to respond likewise? 

As we rode on the plane to America, I looked down and saw the big coconut trees that outlined the coast of Kovalam and all the lights that twinkled and danced on the streets of Bombay. All of it seemed so small from up there. The things we have to give up and sacrifice may seem huge at the moment, but when we see it through the lens of God’s love, we will understand that nothing compares to Him. All the beauty, fleeting pleasures, and glamorous moments of this world pale in comparison to living a life walking with Jesus.

Weakness Is Spelled
S-T-R-E-N-G-T-H

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Don’t do it, Kathi. Do. Not. Do. It, I hiss to myself in my brain.

But I can’t (or don’t know how to) help myself.

I look around the room of this new situation, whether it’s attending a church for the first time, meeting with a work team, or even just entering a Starbucks. I try to take in all the smiling faces, the welcoming greetings, and the openness I am being met with. Everyone is being awesome.

And still, I cannot help myself.

I finish looking at each person in the space and come to the same conclusion almost every single time: I am the biggest girl in the room.

Sorry, the guys don’t count. Guys get to be big. They get a pass. Girls? Not so much.

I’ve often wondered what it would be like for people to not know one of my biggest weaknesses even before we meet. (Don’t we meet most people on Instagram or Zoom before in person these days? And let me tell you, camera angles can only do so much.) I go into every situation knowing other people already have information about me that I would rather keep to myself, thank you very much.

People, who love me most reassure me, “No one is thinking that! You’re awesome!” And as much as they aren’t thinking it (because they don’t see that part of me first anymore), I have evidence that others do see it:

“Beached whale.”
“Fat slob.”
“Sumo wrestler.”

And those are just things that have been said aloud.

I don’t understand why this is an area I have wrestled with all my life. Yes, I know there is heredity. I come from a long line of “sturdy” folk. But why couldn’t my weakness be for kale? (“Just can’t get enough of the stuff! Yum!”) Or hiking too much? Why does my weakness need to be the first thing people see when I walk through the door?

But no, my weakness is of the variety where I shop in “specialty stores” and whenever someone on my friends list signs up to be a distributor of a new weight-loss product, I am put on their “potential client” list. (In other words, one of their “fat friends.”)

I’m the person who was told by another friend when I was having success losing weight, “Don’t lose more than the rest of us!” I get it. It isn’t fun being the biggest girl in the room. We’d much rather someone else play that role.

If you too are one of the  ________est women in a room, (fill in the blank), I get it. And friend, I have some good news for you.

One thing I’ve discovered is that while people see my weakness first, weakness isn’t always a bad thing for others to notice. I can’t tell you the number of times someone has said some variation of the following to me, without getting to know me:

“I could tell you wouldn’t judge me.”
“I’m having a hard time, and I thought you would understand.”
“I knew you would get it.”

These are people who don’t know a thing about me. Do I love my husband? Do I put my grocery cart away at the end of a visit to Target? How do I treat my dog? They don’t know, because they don’t know me.

But I’ve been given unearned access into hard places simply because of my BMI.

People are looking to others to find safety in sharing their own pain. My weakness, to some people, is the shortcut to safe.

God can and will do powerful things through those of us who give our weakness over to Him. 2 Corinthians 12:9‑10 (NLT) says:

 Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

I am not glorifying weakness, but God’s glory shines brightest in weakness.

Do I want to stay stuck? The amount of time, money, and heartbreak I’ve spent on counseling and programs would suggest not. But just because I don’t want to stay in my weakness doesn’t mean God cannot — and will not — use it for His glory.

I Have Seen the Lord

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My friend Jill died in my dream last night. It happens fairly periodically actually. See, in real life, it’s been 520 days since she went to be with Jesus.

Some days, it feels like she left years ago because there are so many big and little things that she’s missed. She died before the pandemic, and I often wonder what her commentary would be about a world that hoards toilet paper and hand sanitizer.

But other days? I feel like it just happened — like I just got the text that she died as the sun was setting over the Atlantic.

Last night’s dream was so clear I could tell you every detail, but the storyline was this: We were together and things were fine and then she left again. We stood there — in a cemetery, no less — and we talked for a while and then, we both knew she had to go. I held on to her for the time I could, but then, she died. We had a memorial service for her again, and I went back to the world without her.

You don’t lose someone and then move on with the healing in a linear way. Rather, it resurfaces over and over, and you have to face it time and time again. The grief has a tendency to show up when she would have — a birthday or holiday or when a Facebook memory pops up in my newsfeed. Other times, it’s more nuanced. I feel her absence when I need advice about ministry or when I can’t find a bra that actually fits. She always knew things I just didn’t.

I opened my eyes this morning and as a new wave of sadness rolled over me, I rolled out of bed and tried to shake the recent death I’d witnessed while I slept. And then, I remembered Mary in the garden, looking for Jesus.

She stands there in John 20:11 in the early morning hours. There’s still dew on the ground, and the air smells like dirt. She was in the early days of loss, so I imagine she’s sleep-deprived and puffy-eyed, no appetite and restlessly moving around like a ghost.

When Jesus approaches her, she doesn’t seem to understand it’s Him. His presence is so unexpected that she does not consider He’d be the person she’d bump into. But when He said her name, she looked up and reached out to embrace Him.

Her instinct was to pull Him close, perhaps to keep Him there — not unlike me in my dream last night, clinging to Jill, feeling her ribs pressed against mine.

That human ache to hold on is what I can’t get out of my head.

Jesus tells Mary that she needs to go tell the others that He is alive. So she slowly pulls away, probably speechless. She stumbles back and turns and runs as fast as her shaking legs will take her, making her way back to the others with bags under their eyes and grief in their hearts. And then, she says these words in verse 18: “I have seen the Lord.”

I wish with everything in me that I could tell you that I really saw Jill, that she was really there and we were really together. But the truth is, I didn’t, and we weren’t. My mind saw her and held her, but when I woke up with the cool breeze coming in along with early morning light, I was alone.

So I go back to John 20, and I read this story over and over again, remembering these things: One day, I’ll see Jill again. I don’t know what it’ll be like or if we’ll even care about each other in light of the glory of God. But I like to believe that we will stand there and truly embrace, feeling the ribs of our resurrected bodies press together with lungs that are breathing and hearts that are beating. And perhaps her first words to me will be, “I have seen the Lord.”

Let Go of What Costs You Your Peace

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I was thirty years old, pregnant, with a great job, a wonderful husband, a nice home, and a promising future in my career.

And I was miserable. I had no peace.

I know. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, at least not on the surface. But someone reading these words right now knows that life can look pretty on the outside but be a tangled ball of Christmas lights on the inside.

I was a news reporter at the time, and my life was spent moving from one news assignment to another: tornadoes, homicides, political rallies, plane crashes. I was fueled by caffeine and adrenaline. If I slowed down enough to get honest with myself — which rarely happened — I knew that my push for success was costing me my peace. But as my belly grew bigger, I began to finally ponder what would happen if I kept running at the pace that I was running.

If I wasn’t going to slow down for myself, I at least needed to slow down for this tiny human growing inside of me.

Then she was born. I was undone immediately. I knew there was no going back to the life that I once idolized. My husband and I decided we would move back to the farm, and I think we even shocked ourselves when we spoke the words out loud.

We definitely shocked our friends.

They couldn’t believe we would leave behind dream careers and the adventurous lives we were living. They told us things like,

“You’re wasting your potential.”
“You’re throwing away your career.”

There were times I asked myself if they were right. But then I started asking myself a different question: “What if they’re wrong?” Because they weren’t the ones who were paying the price for our accelerated pace of life. We were.

Our way of life was costing us our peace, and we had to make a change.

The Bible tells us to “let the peace of Christ rule” in our hearts (Colossians 3:15), but I know that the opposite is often true. We can get so busy chasing a certain kind of life that we accidentally allow chaos to rule in our hearts.

It’s Sunday today — a day set aside for rest. Take a moment on this set-aside day of rest to get honest with yourself. Explore where your heart is at peace, and where your heart is in chaos.

If you don’t have peace about the job, the boyfriend, the career transition, the bad habit, the stress in your life, the _______________ [you fill in the blank], push pause right now. Ask yourself: “What would it look like to make a change?”

I know you might be thinking that you can’t afford to push pause at the moment. Who’s got time for that? But what if you can’t afford to not to.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the things that are costing you your peace.

Let go of the things that cause undue stress.
Let go of the things that keep you awake at night.
Let go of the habits that help you cope and numb.
Let go of the scrolling that just makes you more on edge.

And then, grab hold of the things that bring you joy. Grab hold of the habits that make you healthier. Grab hold of the relationships that make you more of who God made you to be. Grab hold of your faith, your family, your hope, your peace.

I know that it can be hard to make a switch, even in the little things. Give yourself a little bit of grace and a little bit of time (but not too much time). The loss of peace doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t always come back with the snap of your fingers. Honestly, it took years for me to trade chaos for peace. But it happened, one decision at a time, one step at a time.

I believe the same is possible for you. Step by step, decision by decision, trade your heart of chaos for a heart ruled by the peace of Christ.

Does the World Seem Dark? Here’s the Hope You Need Today

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The rough wooden boardwalk is cool beneath my feet as I make my way to the sand. The sky is still the thick, deep blue of night, and gray shadows sway in the salty wind. I sleepily take my husband’s hand. I’m not a morning person, but we’re on vacation and I’m determined to see the sun climb like a rising warrior above the waves at least once.

As we get closer to the shore, we can see more people who have decided to forsake pillows for flip-flops along with us. They sit on huge pieces of stranded driftwood, stroll along the edge of the water with cameras in hand, or sip from coffee cups with dazed looks on their faces. I notice one woman lifting her eyes to the still-night sky, and I am curious. What does she see?

When I follow her example, I am greeted by diamonds thrown out on velvet. One star in particular winks brilliantly back at me. I find out later it’s actually the planet Venus, otherwise known as the Morning Star. Here is its mystery and beauty: Venus is known for rising in the darkest part of the night, just before dawn. Jesus said, “I am the . . . bright Morning Star” (Revelation 22:16). This means, among other things, He is not afraid of the deepest dark.

He is not frightened by the secret places in our hearts. The ones that haven’t seen daylight for years. The kind with the locks on the doors. The sort we don’t say out loud or even fully admit to ourselves. He is not running scared from the tragedies in our lives. He is not backing away from the brokenness and the bitterness and the shattered dreams. He is not intimidated by the monsters under our beds or inside our minds. He is not avoiding the struggles or the addictions. He is not waving His hands in surrender to the enemies of our souls. He is not saying, “This is too much for me.”

Jesus is not afraid to step right into the night, not afraid to even dwell in the middle of it, because He is light. And in Him, there is not darkness at all.

This means darkness can surround Him, and He cannot be defeated or diminished by it. He came as a baby into a midnight world and announced His arrival with a shining star. He conquered death in a dark tomb and rolled the stone away, making a way into the brightness for all of us. In the thickest gloom, the Morning Star rose.

In our story of humanity, it feels like we are in a Morning Star moment right now, the darkest part of the night, just before dawn. We have come through a time of fear and isolation, division and destruction, mourning and waiting, hoping, praying. So we need to know that when Jesus said, “I am the bright Morning Star,” it means He is here with us in times like this one. He is the hope we can cling to, the light that has come and is coming, the One who will usher in a new day.

“His mercies never end. They are new every morning” (Lamentations 3:22–23). As I watch the sun slip into the morning sky and fill it with gold and flame, I bear witness that these words are true. Venus, the Morning Star that foreshadowed all this light and blazing glory, seems to be more than just a planet; it suddenly also seems to be a promise — a daily reminder from the heart of our Creator that even the deepest night will lead to dawn. The dark cannot win; the light will never be overcome.

If you’d like more encouragement like this, you’ll find it in Holley Gerth’s new ebook, Fear, I’m Over You: A 21-Day Challenge to Live with Less Worry and More Courage.