In 2018, I moved to Thailand to co-author a Christian discipleship book with one of my dear friends and ministry partners. The book is specifically for women and came from the motto of this small, beautiful training center on the border of Thailand and Burma. It’s a place called Braverly, and their motto is simply, “Live brave. Dream bravely. Influence bravery.” For all my grammar geeks out there, yes, we know it’s grammatically incorrect. Just bear with us.

This book took years to uncover and write because we longed to create something we thought was meaningful. We wanted to step prayerfully into this project, led by the Holy Spirit, because without Him, we’re nothing. Without Him, we tend to speak shallow words rooted in shallow hope. So for the better part of two years, we sought the Lord and wrote using our personal stories and Scripture to understand what it looks like to live brave, dream bravely, and influence bravery because of who the Father is and who He says we are.

It’s been a labor of love.
It’s been a labor of blood, sweat, and tears.
Lots of tears.

Translating the Book

Our goal has always been to publish this book in the U.S., Thailand, and Burma, but to do that, we had to find a trustworthy and experienced translator to translate the book into Thai, Burmese, and the tribal language our team most encounters on the border: Karen. Late in 2021, we found this translator, and they have been an absolute joy to work with. But also in 2021, Burma (Myanmar) has become a place of violence, genocide, oppression, and war—experiences the people of Burma are unfortunately very used to.

In case you missed it, here’s a blog post I wrote in early 2021 about the things happening in Burma. Unfortunately, these things are still true, and conditions in Burma have only gotten worse as the military takes more power and land and lives.

My friends on the border of Thailand and Burma tell me of the explosions they hear from just beyond the border. They recount a story of a home in Thailand being destroyed by a Burmese missile gone array. But more than that, they tell me stories of families fleeing for their lives in the jungles of Burma. Here, men and women run from a military that should protect them, protect their homes, protect their freedoms. Instead, they live in fear, trying desperately to stay head of the bullets that could end their lives.

A Pause in Karen Translation

Electricity and Wi-Fi and cell phone service are shotty right now, and so it was no surprise when our translator sent us the message about our Karen translation. So we have paused this language translation for the foreseeable future, but it’s not the end of the story. This is not the end of the road.

Atrocities are happening all over the world—Burma, Afghanistan, North Korea, etc. And still people build the Kingdom of God. Still, people cling to hope, cling to the Father. The strongest armies cannot stop the Lord.

The situation in Burma is desperate and dire. Honestly, probably the furthest thing from this translator’s mind is our little book, and I get that. So, would you join me in praying for this individual and their family? Would you join me in praying for Burma, for the people scattered across the country living in fear of their own people. Let’s pray for the church in Burma, for the pastors and Christians who are being persecuted day after day. May this country find peace and redemption and justice in the Lord.

More Information

If you want to learn more about what’s happening in Burma, check out the following resources:
Free Burma Rangers Field Reports

Aljazeera News:
"Fleeing violence in Myanmar, thousands camp along Thai border river"
"Christmas eve killings reinforce views of ‘evil’ Myanmar military"

The post What’s Still Going on in Burma appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I used to be someone who cared deeply about everyone and everything. You know those bright-eyed college graduates with dreams of changing the world? That was me. And it’s not that I’ve given up on this dream, but it looks different now. It’s looks like loving one neighbor and then another and then another. Because I can’t change the world. It’s too big and too much.

Last week, I visited a family from Afghanistan. They fed me mantu at their kitchen table and told me about their lives. The husband has been in America for over ten years; his wife has been here for just two or three. The rest of their family is in Kabul—a shell of a city since America abruptly left and the Taliban took over. Every time I’m with them, I ask about their family. Are they safe? Are they ok? Do they have any money or food?

The honest answer to each of these questions is, “No."

No, they’re not safe.
No, they’re not ok.
No, they don’t have any money.
No, they don’t have any food.

This is just one family’s story, an echo of most people’s stories in Afghanistan.

Their family members work all day for little to no money because the country has no money. They eat crumbs and hope to survive another day. They hide in the shadows from the Taliban. They fear for their lives. This is just one family’s story, an echo of most people’s stories in Afghanistan.

Winter is coming, and money is scarce. Food is even more scarce, and this country is on the brink of collapse, of starvation. Do you know what happens when families get desperate, when starvation is knocking on their doors? Do you know what’s happening in Afghanistan? Have you heard stories of parents who are selling their young daughters—8, 9, 10-year-old girls—to men in their 50s and 60s and 70s? Did you know that their price is a few thousand dollars, and this will only provide for the family for a few months before they run out of money again? Have you heard the stories? Have you seen the pictures—seen the desperation and shame in the parent’s eyes?  

It’s hard to look desperate parents in the eye—the ones who feel they have no other option than to sell their baby girls and beg their new husbands not to beat them.

I’ll be the first to admit that it’s easier to look away from these stories. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that it all feels too much sometimes. But when I look away, I forget that these are more than just stories. These are real people whose family members live in my neighborhood. I regularly sit with women who have lost sons and husbands to the Taliban. I regularly interact with families who do not know if their family members in their home country will live another day.

These are the burdens they are carrying, and I can’t look away. Because when I do—when we do—we forget their humanity. We strip them of their dignity and reduce them to headlines and statistics and mere shells of themselves.

It’s hard to look starvation in the eye.
It’s hard to look desperate parents in the eye—the ones who feel they have no other option than to sell their baby girls and beg their new husbands not to beat them.
It’s hard to look pain and suffering in the eye.
It’s so much easier to look away.

But this Christmas, I’m reminded of a God who didn’t look away. He’s the God who took on skin and bone and moved into the neighborhood. He heard the cries of His people and came as a humble baby, a humble servant, a humble teacher, a humble savior. “He has brought down princes from their thrones and exalted the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away with empty hands.” (Luke 1:52-53)

We have a God who refused to look away.

So when you watch the news or encounter stories that feel too heavy, remember Jesus. When you glimpse all the terrible things that are happening in this world to people—flesh and blood people—remember our God who became human. Remember that He didn’t look away. Remember that He suffered more than we ever will. Remember and have hope.

When you feel yourself looking away, remember Jesus and gather enough courage to look others in the eye.

If you want to know more about what is happening in Afghanistan, here are a few links to check out.

• Child Bride Crisis
• A Video Breaking Down the First 100 Days of the Taliban
• Afghanistan's Economic Situation

The post Christmas—A God Who Didn’t Look Away appeared first on Kate Berkey.

But what exactly happened, and what’s happening today?

As this middle school teacher danced, the military was busy taking over the government. For the second time in 60 years, a coup overthrew the government. 

The news reached me quickly in the U.S. as so many of my friends in Mae Sot, Thailand, have family in Myanmar. And across my neighborhood in Chicago, families braced themselves for the worst, fearing for their families’ lives in this beautiful and complicated country. 

I can’t fault the international community for missing what’s going on in Myanmar. This world holds a never-ending list of crises. Even in our own homes, our own challenges and worries and struggles preoccupy our minds. 

Listen. 
I get it. 

I’ll be honest, sometimes I feel compassion fatigue. I feel exhausted by the list of disasters happening in our world. I don’t know how to carry it all. And we can’t carry it all on our own. The Father never created us to, but in our relative safety and stability and privilege, may we never turn a blind eye to the suffering of people in our world, our country, our own neighborhood. 

So what’s happening in Myanmar? This is a complicated question that we only can answer with a history lesson. I’ll try to keep it as brief as possible, but brevity rarely gets to the heart of the issue.

A Brief History Lesson

The Myanmar government recognizes 135 ethnic groups. Try to wrap your mind around that number for a minute. 

135 distinct ethnic groups. 

Since Myanmar’s independence, these groups have fought for power, and the one with all the guns—the military most often takes control. Myanmar has experienced civil war, violence from the government, and genocide against minority people for 60 years. For a brief period, they tried to transition to democracy, open up themselves to the outside world, and grow their economy. But on February 1, 2021, just before parliament started its next session, the military dismantled years of hard work and staged a coup. Now the military has declared a state of emergency for the next year. Protests and counter protests have filled the streets of major cities across the country, but the military control everything. They have the police, the armed forces, the government, and they have the attention of the people—their fear, their thoughts, and some of their submission. 

Increasingly, they are becoming more and more violent toward their people. Night and day, they attack innocent civilians through airstrikes and bullets and physical beatings. The military grab and beat people simply riding on their motorbikes and bicycles. Citizens in Yangon—the largest city in Myanmar—live under curfews and marshal law. The beast that appeared to be subdued has reared its ugly head. 

War. 

Those are some facts. They’re things you could discover with the right Google searches. Let me share a few stories. 

The People. The Stories.

Let me tell you of my friend in Chicago whose father lives in Yangon. He is afraid to leave his house because of the military’s presence and violence toward citizens. He doesn’t have enough money for food, so my friend, trying to provide for her own family in Chicago, sends money so that he can eat more than one meal of rice. 

Let me tell you of my friend in Thailand who worries for her friends who protest in Myanmar. As they go out day after day, all she can do is pray for them, send money to them, and communicate with them through secret channels whenever the government keeps cell service connected. She genuinely worries for their lives and wishes she could do more for them. They won’t rest. They won’t give up. And she would never ask them to, because they are fighting for their futures. 

Let me tell you of my friend in Chicago whose aunties are being forced to open their shop even though gunfire and violence fill the streets. Four single older ladies sit in their shop in Yangon day after day, even though no customers come. The government has forced all shop owners to do this, otherwise they will ransack the businesses. So these aunties are forced to save their livelihoods and pray that it does not cost them their lives. 

These aren’t the worst stories. None of my friends have lost loved ones to the war that wages in this beautiful country. But the fear and worries weigh on them day after day—bringing them to their knees in desperation. 

So what’s happening in Myanmar? History is repeating itself, and people are paying the price. As I sit in a coffee shop in Chicago, my brothers and sisters in Myanmar are dying at the hand of darkness and evil. 

Whew. That shakes me, and I hope it shakes you a bit too. 

So what now?

So, what now? How can you help Myanmar? 

• Pray. I cannot stress this enough—what’s happening in Myanmar is evil. It is a work of darkness. We’re not fighting a battle of flesh and blood but against evil rulers and authorities of the unseen world, against mighty powers in this dark world, and against evil spirits in the heavenly places. So pray. Pray against the darkness and for a move of the Spirit. Intercede for the believers and for revival. Pray for the miraculous. And pray for the Lord’s goodness and justice to penetrate even the hardest of hearts.
• Support trusted organizations. These are organizations I love dearly that  actively advocate for Myanmar’s people: 
  • Global Child Advocates
  • Free Burma Rangers
  • Outpour Family Foundation: My team in Mae Sot are currently in the middle of a land campaign that will hold a safe home for children from Burma. You can learn more about that here.  
• Contact your senator or representative. Global Child Advocates created the graphic below. Political campaigns work and are a practical method to support those in Myanmar.

The post What’s going on in Myanmar? appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Our world is engaged in a lot of tough conversations. We stumble through highly charged discussions on race and policing and protests and fight through mandates on masks and social distancing. We stand on our pedestal called social media and shout at the top of our lungs—“I’m right. You’re wrong!” 

Everyone is using whatever influence they have to sway others to listen to what we believe is true. Disunity and division and disfunction become the weeds that choke out the life of our friendships and relationships and joy. 

And here’s what I think. 

I think our world needs less of this. We need a little less of the guy on the internet shouting through a megaphone and the woman posting and re-posting and sharing in an attempt to convince someone she has no control over. We need a little less of our broken human selves right now.  

Broken Humanity

Friend, hear me. I love humans. We’re weird and quirky and broken and beautiful. I love humans, and I believe in humanity. We try to fight for what is right and give a voice to those with none. I believe that God made us in His Image, and as a follower of Jesus, this changes everything. This molds and shapes my thoughts about my neighbors, my friends, my family members. It’s the lens through which I try to see strangers in the grocery store and people I will never meet halfway around the world.

But on our own, we are broken. Our hearts are bent and bruised. We are selfish and divisive and jealous. On our own, we fall back on wisdom that’s flawed and damaging. We forget that the Father created us from dust. We forget who He is and who we are.

A Case Study in Limping

In Genesis 32, we see this wild and beautiful story. It’s the story of Jacob—a man known for his schemes and selfishness and pride. He was a fighter who got what he wanted. He didn’t know what it meant to lose, and he forgot that God is God, and he is not. 

The night before Jacob faced his past—mistakes and missteps, moments he acted on foolishness disguised as wisdom—Jacob encountered God. And this fighter wrestled the Father until He dislocated Jacob’s hip, yet Jacob wouldn’t let go of God. Even in his defeat, Jacob demanded that God bless him. 

And God did. 

As the story goes, the Father gave Jacob a new name. After this encounter, people knew Jacob as Israel, but that night, something else was different.

Israel walked with a limp. 

This limp was a reminder—not of Israel’s loss, his failure, his defeat in a wrestling match with God. Instead, it was a physical reminder of the grace of the Father. It was a reminder of who God is and who Israel is. It was a mark of sacred humility and love. 

Walking with a Limp

We need limping leaders, limping people. This limp isn’t from pride disguised as humility. It’s not from negative self-talk and self-degradation. It comes from genuine humility—from encountering the Father. It’s a reminder of the grace He gives over and over again. We don’t need more megaphones. We need people with the humility to say, “Our world needs both of our ideas. I want to create space for yours. Will you create space for mine?” 

Left to our own devices, we start wars and push away those closest to us when we can’t agree. We rely on our own wisdom, thoughts and opinions, and these also need to collide with the Father. They need to wrestle with God and encounter the grace that covers our brokenness.

Encountering the Divine

I am not God, and neither are you. We desperately need to come face to face the Father—even if that means wrestling with Him, asking Him questions, leaning into our doubts. And our thoughts and opinions and experiences need to encounter Him too, because no amount of human wisdom compares to the divine, sacred, loving wisdom of our Father. 

Friend, our world desperately needs limping leaders, limping people, limping Image Bearers who deeply, personally know the One who created them. 

These are days to fight for what is right—to seek justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with our God. And these days are ones to walk with a limp—to walk with humility and kindness and love and truth. May we take as much time to wrestle with and encounter the Father as we do to shout from our pedestals. 

The post The Beauty of Walking with a Limp appeared first on Kate Berkey.

The other posts weren’t bad. Someday they may find their way to the internet, but for now they are incomplete—musings of a woman stumbling through an unfamiliar world. They’re half-baked ideas, but not nearly as interesting as Ben and Jerry’s half-baked ice cream. 

Because I feel brand new. I feel like a beginner, or maybe even a notch below that. I am a novice, a learner. Every day this world of mine grows and expands and sometimes completely blows up. 

I used to drive 20 minutes to the grocery store. 
Now I walk to it. 
I used to park in a private driveway. 
Now I pray for a parking spot on my crowded street. 
I used to avoid crowds and noise and traffic. 
Now I live in Chicago. 

I am learning every day. So as I sat to write, to inspire and challenge and encourage you, I fought hard against that cutting, painful word—fraud. 

Because I feel like anything but an expert or someone who deserves the space to speak. I am constantly becoming, becoming, becoming, and I’ve never been in this particular place before. In this season, I’ve started more sentences with, “Teach me about…” or “Tell me about…”

They’ve become some of my favorite invitations. 

Tell me about your favorite food from your home country. 
Teach me about the immigration and refugee systems. 
Tell me about your favorite memory from your home country.
Teach me about Bollywood. 
Tell me about your job at the airport.
Teach me about that Islamic holiday. 
Tell me about your family.
Teach me the CTA.

Before I moved to Chicago, I grew wary of those conversations—as if not already knowing was more offensive than asking others to teach me or explain something, as if it showed that I was uneducated or uninformed. 

But here’s what I’m learning—whether I am uneducated or uninformed, I am right where I am. I can’t change that. I can’t magically become informed or educated by wishing it were true. 

I have to ask the right questions. 
I have to listen. 
I have to ask for clarity where things feel confusing.
I have to humble myself day after day, because I will always be a learner. And pride should never take that away. 

My heart aches for our world. More than COVID, more than anything that can hurt our bodies, my heart aches for our hearts, our spirits, our souls, because I see an anger and pride rising faster than love and grace and mercy. I see it in our world, and I see it in followers of Jesus. 

Jesus told His disciples that the world would know we are His followers by our love for one another, and this love is patient and kind. It doesn’t envy. It’s not boastful for proud or rude. It doesn’t demand its own way. It’s not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. It doesn’t rejoice about injustice, but it rejoices when the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures all. This love is humble. It believes the best about others. It creates space for others. It’s quick to listen and slow to speak. 

This love says, “Teach me about…” 
“Tell me about…,” it invites.

Love lets go of pride. 

So today, more than anything else, I need you to know that I am still a learner—humble and flawed and broken. Sometimes I believe the Father gives me a word to say, specific ideas to write about, but more and more I find myself without words. In this season I have listened more than spoke. Someday I believe the Father will release the words, but right now I am learning. I’m asking questions and sticking around for the full answer. I’m sitting across from people I disagree with and learning why they think the way they do. And I’m desperately trying to wear humility close to my heart, because I have so much to learn. 

And so do you. 

I don’t mean that you don’t have valuable experiences, that you can’t contribute to the world. I mean that you and I will always be learners. Our world is only as big as the experiences and people we allow in it, and it takes effort and intentionality to invite those people and experiences to the table of our lives.

In this season, I am learning each day, and when I fall asleep tonight, I’ll realize how much more I’ll need to learn tomorrow. And I sort of love this, because I never want to believe the lie that says I’ve got it all figured out. I never want pride stand in the way of humility, of learning.

Because when we say, “Teach me about…” I believe we are speaking the language of love, and the world will know we follow Jesus by our love. 

The post Teach me about… appeared first on Kate Berkey.

My heart beats a little faster, and a fire swells in my bones when I hear this word. In these 10 letters, I feel like I can finally describe the voice that keeps me up at night. 

This has been a season of explosion—a burst of color and sights and smells. Day after day, I have stepped into a community unlike any I have ever been in before, and the stories of the people who live in these buildings, who walk these streets, who call this place home have humbled me to my core. 

Each family has welcomed me into their home with overwhelming generosity. They take my hands in theirs and pull me close for a hug, a kiss on the cheek—like we’re old friends. And then we sit together, and I listen. I hear their stories. I hear their hearts. 

A family who had to flee terrorists groups I’ve only heard about in the news. 
A husband and wife whose children are still overseas, waiting for the chance to reunite with their parents in America. 
People who had to leave the land their families had owned and called home for generations.

Each is a human being—man or woman, husband or wife, son or daughter, auntie or uncle. Often what determines the biggest difference between them and me is where we were born, and most families face deep challenges I can’t even begin to fix. 

Compassion. 

This word moves me to tears more and more
Because I don’t have all the answers. 
I can’t fix families problems or take away their struggles. 
I’m not God or the government, and let’s never confuse the two. 

Compassion wrecks me because of the Jesus I follow
Because of the life I saw Him live
Because of the example He gave me
gave you
gave us. 

The Compassion Model

There are these verses missionaries like to quote in Matthew 9:35-38, and for good reason. They are a prayer—a desperate plea for the Lord to send others to join the kingdom building work happening all over the world. But as someone who grew up in the church, I’ve allowed these verses to become cliché and shallow—missing the heart of the Father entirely. 

“Jesus traveled through all the towns and villages of that area, teaching in the synagogues and announcing the Good News about the Kingdom. And he healed every kind of disease and illness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were confused and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. He said to his disciples, ‘The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields.’”

As is often the case with Jesus, so much happens in such a short amount of time. He’s not the God of one or the other. He’s the God of both/and. He teaches and speaks truth—addressing our very real spiritual needs. And He heals their bodies—addressing our very real physical needs. Every word He spoke, everything He did was motivated by this beautiful word. 

Compassion.

At the core of compassion is this idea “to suffer with.” It’s a yearning, a deep desire to right what has been wronged, to alleviate pain and suffering, to come alongside those who are broken and hurting. 

Everything we do has to start from this place—from compassion and love and mercy—and it has to be rooted in humility. It's messy and unafraid of getting dirty. It leads us to places that are uncomfortable, and we go there not because we have all the answers. We sit with the broken and the brokenhearted because we carry the heart of the Father. And our Father is compassionate. 

When Jesus saw the crowds, He wasn't overwhelmed or annoyed. He didn't avoid hard truths, even at the risk of offending others. He had compassion on them. He showed mercy. He showered them with love. He saw the ache in their heart, the search in their soul, and He showed them the Kingdom that would satisfy the deepest longings of their hearts. 

And He asks us to do the same. 

Stumbling Through Compassion

These days I find myself in more situations to live and breathe in compassion than I ever could have imagined. The stories of our people humble me, and I feel an immense sense of honor simply by sitting with them. 

And at the end of the day, more times than not, my heart feels heavy. 

It’s burdened. 
It’s bursting—unable to live the same way tomorrow, unable to stay still and do nothing.
And this—even the tension of not knowing what to do, how to help—feels sacred. Because it’s compassion. 

And it looks an awful lot like Jesus. 

So friend, may compassion move us to action—to suffering with others. May we feel the burden of others. May we do what we can to alleviate it. And above all, may we be light and hope and love because of compassion Jesus modeled for us. 

The post On Suffering With appeared first on Kate Berkey.

And then
Command-A
Delete
Start over

Outside my bay windows, a storm is charging through Chicago. The wind tears through the trees and litters our cars with leaves and little branches. Sheets of rain pound against the sidewalks and a river flows from the alley. 

And then just as quickly as it started, it stops. 

The street returns to normal—quiet, peaceful—as if nothing happened. 

I haven’t known how to put all of my thoughts into words, so instead I’ve stared out the window, listening to the distant echoes of thunder. Here—safe in my home—I check the weather on my app. 

Severe thunderstorm warning. 

But it’s ok. I’m inside. I’m safe, and the storm will pass. 

I haven’t known what to say because everything in our world feels challenging and because I don’t want to say the wrong thing. So I stare out the window, watching the storm pass by—knowing that it will end, and I will probably be unaffected. 

This. 

This is what I am fighting these days—the temptation to say nothing because everything feels complicated. It’s the temptation to watch the storm pass from the safety of my apartment while I watch a few people dart from their cars to their home down the street. It’s the temptation to choose to be unaffected. 

Our world spins in chaos and fear. 
COVID-19
Police Brutality
Racism
Violence
Famine 
Genocide
Poverty
War
Sexual Assault 
Abuse
Slavery

The weight of it all feels like a brick building sitting on my chest, and the temptation creeps back in. 

Sit still. Stay silent. Stay where you are. This storm will pass, and if you stay inside, you won’t get wet. Wait it out. 

There’s this beautiful passage in Isaiah 58. It shows me another way.

It’s the mark of true worship. It’s the difference between giving into the temptation to stay still, stay silent, stay unaffected and charging into battle. And it wrecks me every time.

“Tell my people Israel of their sins!
     Yet they act so pious!
They come to the Temple every day
    and seem delighted to learn all about me.
They act like a righteous nation
    that would never abandon the laws of its God.
They ask me to take action on their behalf,
    pretending they want to be near me.
‘We have fasted before you!’ they say.
    ‘Why aren’t you impressed?
We have been very hard on ourselves,
    and you don’t even notice it!’
“I will tell you why!” I respond.
    “It’s because you are fasting to please yourselves.
Even while you fast,
    you keep oppressing your workers. 
What good is fasting
    when you keep on fighting and quarreling?
This kind of fasting
    will never get you anywhere with me.
You humble yourselves
    by going through the motions of penance,
bowing your heads
    like reeds bending in the wind.
You dress in burlap
    and cover yourselves with ashes.
Is this what you call fasting?
    Do you really think this will please the Lord?
“No, this is the kind of fasting I want:
Free those who are wrongly imprisoned;
    lighten the burden of those who work for you.
Let the oppressed go free,
    and remove the chains that bind people.
Share your food with the hungry,
    and give shelter to the homeless.
Give clothes to those who need them,
    and do not hide from relatives who need your help.
“Then your salvation will come like the dawn,
    and your wounds will quickly heal.
Your godliness will lead you forward,
    and the glory of the Lord will protect you from behind.
Then when you call, the Lord will answer.
    ‘Yes, I am here,’ he will quickly reply.
Isaiah 58:1-9

I don’t have quick fixes for the pain our world grapples with, nor does our world want quick fixes. We long for change—for someone to say, “Here is a better way.” As a follower of Jesus, what wrecks me most from Isaiah 58 is that word—worship. 

This fight for justice is an act of worship. Freeing the oppressed, giving shelter to the homeless, sharing food with the hungry, removing the chains that bind people, giving clothes to those who need them, loving even the most challenging people around us—these are acts of worship. This is the kind of fasting—worship—the Father desires. 

And the temptation to sit this one out, to let someone else go to battle again—to watch the storm from the comfort of our homes while the world groans—is a sin. To give into this temptation is to miss the mark. 

Fighting for justice, for the oppressed, for the homeless and the hungry isn’t always simple. The answers aren’t always clear. Sometimes we’re so scared to say or do the wrong thing that we do nothing at all. 

And we watch the storm from our safe place while our neighbor tries to outrun lightening. 

These days I’m using a phrase I learned a long time ago. It’s been a battle cry in many seasons, and it’s true of this one too. 

Start where you are. 

Start right where you are, and just take one step. Widen your circle. Learn from others. Give others the benefit of the doubt. Give to others.

Get a little wet and a little dirty. Join your neighbor in the storm or invite them inside. 

Our broken and bruised world is so angry and so scared, and the Father looks at us with holy anger and love and mercy in His eyes. “This is the worship I desire,” He says. “Set each other free. Give to each other. The world will know you are my followers because of your love.” 

So friend, will you join me in starting right where you are? Start here and take a step, because our world could use more of the Father’s love at work in our broken and bruised selves. 

The post A Different Kind of Worship appeared first on Kate Berkey.

It was just supposed to be a work trip to the north side of Chicago, but since that day in 2015, a piece of my heart seemed to be forever stuck on the corner of Devon and Western Avenue. 

I think it happened somewhere between walking the streets that made me feel like I was in India or Nairobi or anywhere else but America. Or maybe it happened as I heard story after story of the refugee families who lived in the neighborhood. Quite possibly, though, it was that one phrase that completely captured my heart and made me dream a little differently with the Father. 

“God has brought the world to us.” 

Seven miles from the posh of Michigan Avenue and the tourists in Millennium Park lies an incredibly diverse community with well over 100 languages represented in just a few square miles. Nearly half of the residents here were born outside of the United States—many of them are refugees from countries devastated by violence against minorities or marginalized people, places Americans don’t have easy access too.

Afghanistan
Pakistan
Iraq
Somalia
Sudan
Burma
Just to name a few

God has brought the world to us—even in the heartland of America.

Bob Andrews, director of an organization in the community called the Devon Oasis Center, said that phrase time and again, trying desperately to help us see the opportunities in his neighborhood. 

Devon Oasis evolved from Bob and Lynne’s missional life, from the way they engaged their neighborhood, from the way they loved on and were Jesus to refugees. They didn’t set out to start a ministry. They were simply called to love their neighbors.

Today at the Center, they host English classes for adults, homework center for kids, and more, in one space. But communicating the love and life of Jesus is so much more than structured programs. It requires relationship—time together, grace and love shown time and again in friendship. So their team prioritizes going and being. They knock on people’s doors and stay for awhile. They build friendships—that all-important community. They give and they take. They serve and are served. They teach and are taught. 

And as that trust builds and relationships blossom, they encounter opportunities to love people more fully by sharing Jesus with them. It’s not a forced conversation. They’re not looking for quick converts. They’re simply desperate for people to experience the life, freedom, and love that Jesus offers us—His people made in His image. 

This—all of this—is what captured my heart four years ago. It’s what made me tell my friend in 2016, “I think the Lord is calling me to move to Chicago and work with Devon Oasis, but I don’t know why or when or what that would even look like.”

And now, four years later, it seems like the Father has said one word, and it is beautifully clear—Go. 

So, friend, I am doing just that! In March 2020, your girl plans to move to Chicago. I am being sent as a missionary by my home church, Nappanee Missionary Church, and will carry the official title of Missionary in Residence. Honestly, this is just a fancy way of saying that I will live and do support-raised ministry among the people I get to serve. They will be my neighbors, and I will be theirs. My days will look like joining Bob and his team in what they are already doing—teaching English, helping with homework, etc—as well as meeting one-on-one with women and discipling those who are seeking Jesus.

And I am so excited! 

This isn’t taking the place of Thailand. In fact, I will continue to work alongside Braverly and make annual trips to Mae Sot. This is simply in addition to the work the Father has called me to. In so many ways, it feels like He’s brought me to a mini Mae Sot of sorts. Right now many of the refugees flooding Chicago are from Burma, and in Mae Sot, many of the people I had the opportunity to love on were from Burma. When we finish the book, we hope to translate it into Burmese which will make it an incredible tool in Mae Sot and Chicago. This place, this community, this city only two hours away from my hometown is filled with opportunities to bridge the gap between ministry happening in Thailand and America.

Somedays I felt like Thailand was a detour from what the Father was calling me to, but in so many ways, it seems like it was just another step in the journey—just like Chicago is another step. Because we never quite arrive, do we? As followers of Jesus, we’re constantly asking the Father to lead us. Sometimes He takes us halfway across the world. Other times, right outside our front door. And it’s always so good. 

So how can you help me on this journey? 

• Give: Chicago isn't cheap, and I will need to raise nearly 3x what I raised for Thailand! This number feels so daunting to me, but I am trusting Jesus to provide in ways that only He can. Would you consider being part of the answer to this prayer? To give, click here and write "Kate Berkey" next to Missionary Support. 
• Pray: More and more, I am humbled by my own limitations and so grateful for those who are covering me in prayer. In the midst of another transition and lots of new, I need prayer warriors on my team!
• Follow the journey: I would love to stay connected to you on Instagram and Facebook.

Thanks for being part of my journey, whether it’s simply by reading my blog or joining my support or prayer teams. You are amazing, and I couldn’t do this without you!

The post A Life Update: Just a 2 Hour Drive but a Whole World Away appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In the kitchen, Kristy and I put the finishing touches on dinner—sometimes take out, other times something homemade. We’ve learned it doesn’t really matter what we eat. Food will always unite us.

This home—normally a quiet space—fills with noise and chaos in the best of ways. We wipe up food that spills onto the floor and laugh about water that falls from cups. It’s messy and beautiful and wonderful—the life-on-life kind of night our hearts ache for. 

And as we gather and talk and share life, our home fills with the sound of so many languages. Our friend Mylatte speaks Burmese. Nom wan speaks Thai. Paw wah adds Karen—one of the languages of the Karen people—to the mix. Rebecca and Eliana weave English, Thai, Karen, and Chinese into a single sentence. And the few Americans in the room speak English. 

Four. 

That’s four languages (plus a spattering of Chinese now and then) echoing through the room. Each of us picks up bits of the conversations we can understand. We simplify our words to help others join—using broken English or Thai or Karen or Burmese when needed. And when we need to communicate something to the entire group, time seems to slow down. 

First say it in English
Then Burmese 
Then Karen
Then Thai
Does everyone understand? 

What a beautifully complicated, chaotic gift. 

This is an average night at Braverly small group—a night for all of our Braverly women and any family or friends who want to come with them—to gather in our home. Our conversations range from completely silly to meaningful encouragement to thought-provoking questions. Every conversation, every question, every word needs translated into each language, and I think this is absolutely beautiful. 

When I came back to the States, people asked what the hardest part of life in Mae Sot was. For me, the answer was simple—the language. Thankfully, many people in Mae Sot understand enough English, and although my Thai is sad, I can get by. But after awhile, the shallow, small conversations become tiring.

Your girl doesn’t do small talk well. In fact, I hate it. But when the common language is so small, it’s all you can do. 

So I learned to do small talk like a champ while still craving the real deal—the kind of conversation that bonds and unites the hearts and souls of a group. 

But in this craving, in this longing for a common language, I found that it had always existed. It just didn’t look like words. It didn’t look like English or Thai or Burmese. It wasn’t like the tribal language of Karen or Poe Karen. 

It was the look of longing when we talked about family or showed pictures of our parents and siblings. It was the smile when we talked about our dreams for the future or held tangible pieces of our hopes close to our chest—like the way Hser Ku Paw held her new camera. It was the way we ducked and ran to avoid the pouring rain. It was the laughter that echoed in the room when we tried (and failed) to say something correctly in another language. It was the dance party that started when a song played over the speakers. 

Because despite our different languages, we were held together, united, and more similar than I could have ever imagined. 

That group of women in my living room on Thursday holds hopes and dreams for their futures. They long for a life for themselves and their families that is good and beautiful. They crave to be seen and known and loved by others. Kindness and empathy are desires of their hearts—being seen for more than just the hard parts of their stories. 

They like to try new things, and as scary as it is, they like to try challenging things. They like to prove themselves to others and to their own insecurities and doubts. They don’t like to get caught in the rain or stand in the blazing Thailand sun. Babies who bounce up and down to silly music make both of us laugh and dance along with them. Sometimes they say the wrong word in English, and most of the time, they laugh at me when I pronounce a Thai word incorrectly. 

We are held together by so much more than a language. We are united by our humanness, by the hopes and dreams and desires of our hearts. We find common ground in our delights and our sorrows, our stories. We are so very different—from different backgrounds and histories. And yet, we are one—the Church in its holy sacredness. We may not all believe the same things or hold the same values, but that’s ok. 

That’s ok. 

That’s ok.

I feel like I should say this again for America—a country who seems to lord their differences over others and can’t seem to pause long enough to find common ground. 

We may not believe the same things, think the same way, or hold the same values, and that’s ok. 

I don’t speak the same language as my beautiful Karen or Thai or Burmese friends. We come from distinct histories and experiences. We don’t think the same way about some things, but there exists a sisterhood forged by acts of love and kindness and empathy—values our world desperately needs. 

Church, we speak different languages. We come from different experiences and stories and histories, and this is beautiful. May we make space for one another and allow bonds of family to be forged out of this simple act of love.

The post I Think We Speak Different Languages, and That’s Beautiful appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Three years ago Braverly opened its doors for the first time. On this Fall day, life was business as usual for 99.9% of the world. Kids went to school. Government bodies met and argued about something. Somewhere a recent college grad moaned about the struggles of adulting. 

Life.as.usual. 

But a small group of people in a quirky Thailand border town felt a little anxious and excited and completely full of anticipation. Their hearts beat a little faster, and their steps held a little bit more purpose. On that day, a dream was stepping into reality and breathing its first few breaths on its own. 

Braverly was born. 

Braverly

A quick look at street view on Google Maps shows that simple, beautiful concrete building. From the street, you can see Braverly’s logo—that big, cursive B and the words “bikes. bagels. bags.” But once inside, you see that other word that pulses through the veins of this café and sewing center—brave.

Braverly came from the dream from an American who imagined a place that trained and empowered marginalized and oppressed women—moms, sisters, and aunties trying to build a better life for their family. From there, the idea of a café and sewing center slowly began to form. Not only would these spaces give women valuable business, life, and hands-on skills, they would provide opportunities to impact Mae Sot and possibly even the world. 

Etched on the back wall is the slogan and driving force—three simple lines that inspire everything.

Live brave.
Dream bravery.
Influence bravery.

Every day the women in the Braverly family are challenged to live with courage over fear. They are stretched to dream scary, big, difficult dreams for themselves, their families, and the world. And because of their courageous decisions, they encourage bravery in others.

For three years, this has been the mission, and it has begun to make a mark on Mae Sot. Yet, there is a longing for more. This dare toward courage, this challenge to choose bravery is for the world. It’s a message we all need to hear and be wrecked by and choose every day. So while the café became known in Mae Sot, the dream grew. 

What if Questions Inspire Bold Dreams

What if these beautiful handmade products—bags, wallets, clutches, and more—were sold across the world? What if these story-carrying products created by incredibly courageous women in Thailand found their way to the arms of women in the U.S., Spain, Kenya, and Mexico? What if a simple purse was a reminder for women all over the world to choose courage over fear every day, to dream intimidating dreams, and to encourage others to choose bravery? 

What if? 

It’s the question that seems to start every big and beautiful and terrifying adventure, doesn’t it? What if humans could fly through the sky and reach places we never imagined? What if we could connect the entire world through cables and satellites? What if we took a risk, a step out? What if we tried and failed? What if we tried and succeeded, and the world became a better place because of our courage?

What if?

For Braverly, the questions have always been simple—what if one woman found freedom, wholeness of heart, empowerment, and life in the Father? What if that one person became two became three became a whole family, community, a whole nation? 

Why it all Matters to You

Last week, the dream stepped a little closer to reality when Braverly’s online store launched. Yes, people of America, you can now buy beautiful products made by incredibly brave women in Mae Sot, Thailand. You can show off a unique headband crafted from beautiful Thai fabric. You can carry a one-of-a-kind clutch or bag created by someone you have more in common with than you know. 

The dream of Braverly was never just about Mae Sot, about the people who invest so much of their time and skills, heart and soul into this place. It was always about the world—about you and me. It was about all of us, because if we pause long enough, we just might see that we have more similarities than we ever could imagine. 

You get the opportunity to be part of the Braverly story. You get to choose courage over fear, bravery over insecurity. What if we became a people marked by courage? 

What if we were a people marked by Braverly?

Join the movement, and check out these handmade, story-carrying product here. 

The post Why a Café in Mae Sot, Thailand Matters to You appeared first on Kate Berkey.