Can I be honest? When we first met, I didn’t like you. I thought you were intimidating at best, and on my worst days, I thought you might destroy me. You and change teamed up and threatened the very stability of my Enneagram nine-ness. Your very existence disrupted my peace and tried to trip me. So it’s no wonder that we didn’t get along at first.

I used to avoid you the way exes do when they see the other in public. 

*Quickly looks at the floor, pivots, knocks over aisle display in store.*

I liked my life, my world, the cozy existence built up over years of living and breathing. But then you came in—charging through the space I had organized and crafted with care. You were like one of those characters from a bad medicine commercial—tearing the world apart, destroying someone’s health bit by bit.

Just imagine when a girl is trying to walk her stubborn dog who tugs back on the leash. That was me when you tried to lead me into a season of change. 

And then—against my will—I followed you. I let you drag me into transition, and something beautiful happened. 

I realized you couldn’t destroy me. 

Yes, you disrupted my normal. You shook up what I counted on and expected. Tearing me from my comfort zone, you stood me in a place completely unfamiliar. You took me from home—from every thought and feeling that word embodies—and dropped me in a place I hardly recognized. And though my knees wobbled and sweat forever lived on my palms, I realized all was well. 

I realized you were only the guide into something new. You held my hand and walked me step by step into change. It felt as if you would be a constant companion, but you weren’t. You dropped me off, helped me acclimate to this new world, and then you left.

Because transition and change don’t last forever. The roads that were once unfamiliar and intimidating, chaotic and foreign eventually become home. They become running routes and the commute to work. These roads lead to the grocery store and to the best cup of coffee in town. They become the highways to places I never knew existed but can’t live without now. 

These roads which were once unknown became the familiar, well-worn paths to this beautiful life. 

So I’ve learned not to be afraid or at least less afraid. I’ve learned to take your hand and let you guide me, because it’s easier than being dragged.

That place you lead me into still fills me with anxiety some days; the unknown can be rather intimidating. But on my good days, I remember that town you took me to on the border of Thailand and Burma. I see the unfamiliar roads, the bike ride to work. I remember trying to find my four-mile running loop. My mind can still picture the back highways and the roads to the most beautiful waterfalls. I remember that without you, there would be no memories—only the question of “what if?” 

And I refuse to let this question have my story. 

Instead of asking “What if…” I get to hold faces and names and moments in my mind. Houses and streets and that small training center near the border live close to my heart, shutting out of the fear of the unknown. 

So when you tell me to take your hand and let you guide me into a new season filled with transition and change, I try to remember Mae Sot. I try to remember my little house and my incredible team. I remember the women—those who live past their fears every day. 

These days you talk of a new city and a new job. And you tell me it will be good. 

When I get overwhelmed, I close my eyes and imagine those roads—the ones around that town in Thailand. I see the houses and businesses, the potholes and the hills that feel like mountains. I remember that they felt intimidating and scary and full of unknowns not so long ago.

Now they are my homecoming, the place my heart aches for.

And I remember that change and transition don’t last forever. That these roads—wherever they are and wherever they lead—can become the familiar, well-worn paths in this beautiful life. 

The post An Open Letter to my [Former] nemesis: Transition 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.

I’ve grown used to the sound of fans, air con units, dogs barking halfway across town, birds chirping loudly by 5 AM. I’ve grown used to the sound of the water pump outside of my window, my neighbor’s incessant coughing and high pitched sneezes. I’ve grown used to the sounds of semis and motorbikes and trucks advertising local businesses through loud speakers.

Here—in the middle of nowhere Indiana—there is only the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional bird chirping from its nest, and this quiet is a kind of unsettling that doesn’t quite make sense to me.

Call it culture shock. Call it transition. Call it being in a place that feels familiar and strange all at once. Call it moving from Mae Sot, Thailand back to Nappanee, Indiana—two completely and totally different places in this world. 

The words, “something is missing” feels like the very breath in and out of my lungs these days. It feels like the beating of my heart, the ever-present feeling in my bones. 

Something is missing. 

There are no dogs, no crazy birds, no water pump or neighbors with loud sneezes. No street dogs chase me on my run and no monks walk the streets in the morning. My bike sits in the basement—tires flat, rim dusty—as I get in my car to drive. English is all around me—spoken and written and shouted.

Something is missing, and it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like Mae Sot, Thailand. 

But that is the beauty and the struggle of transition—some things are missing, but other things are just about to unfold. It’s a dance that I find myself stumbling and fumbling my way through most of the time. These days, the Father keeps reminding me of those verses in Jeremiah 17.

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence. They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:7-8

It’s been a theme in my world for the last six months, a battle cry, a message of preparation—as if the Father was whispering, “Love, let me take your roots deeper and deeper, because you will need this depth more than you know.”

On the days when something deeply, truly feels missing, I try to hold tightly to joy, because there’s a sacred kind of work happening. The roots of trust and confidence and faith dig deeper and deeper on those days. They keep me steady. They keep me grounded in the most beautiful ways.

I used to be scared of transition. I used to fight change, because there was nothing more unsettling to my spirit than that feeling that something is missing. 

But I’m learning—slowly—to celebrate the beauty of these seasons. Without them, things stay the same—we stay the same.

Without these seasons, I never would have gone to college or spent a summer working at HOPE International. I never would have gone to Thailand or been a part of Braverly.

Without these kinds of seasons, we stay stagnant, still, safe—completely comfortable and totally unfulfilled. Without these kind of seasons—when something feels missing, when change and transition are our ever-present companions—our roots stay shallow, and we remain unsteady. 

So may we celebrate change and transition. May we find joy even when something feels missing. May we anticipate these seasons, because they bring the opportunity for growth, for roots that grow deeper—not in a place or a job or a ministry or a person. They grow deeper in the Father. 

The post Finding Joy Even When Something Feels Missing appeared first on Kate Berkey.