I bought this wall hanging mostly because it fit it into my suitcase. When you’re packing your life away into two rolling suitcases, space is a premium, and this took up little space. But I also got it because I needed the wildflowers, the wildness of their arrangement, and the reminder: courage, dear heart.

Courage was the theme of that season. In fact, I moved to Thailand to write a book about courage. Our book, A Place Called Braverly centers on living and dreaming bravely and influencing bravery in others. So courage is a journey I’m well familiar with. 

Our Journey to A Place Called Braverly

Kristy and I wrote this book through prayer and conversation with Jesus. We wrote and rewrote and edited some more. Once we had finished nearly the entire book but scrapped most of it. These ideas of courage and bravery didn’t come from concepts we thought of on our own. They came from a journey with the Father—rediscovering His heart and learning how His love completely anchors our courage. 

The book was also inspired by Braverly—a place I’ve talked about a million times on this blog and in my life. I feel nothing but deep love, gratitude, and admiration for this place and the women who make it a living and breathing thing. In its basic form, Braverly is a place that trains women in culinary and sewing skills in Mae Sot, Thailand. In the café, our women make incredible coffee, tea, bagels, salads, and more. They make customers feel at home and learn customer service skills every day. In the sewing center, our women design bags, headbands, and clutches that reflect their personalities and cultures. They stitch together their ideas and designs, creating beautiful products sold in Thailand and the US.

Deeper than that, Braverly’s mission is to empower women from oppressed people groups on the Myanmar/Thailand border, to move past their fears and walk in confidence and truth. Braverly exists to draw women closer to the heart of the Father. We believe Jesus modeled a kind of wholeness of heart everyone can and should experience. So we don’t just train our women to do a job or grow in their skills. We strive to show them the person of Jesus Christ and help them develop their own relationship with Him.

The Heartbeat of Braverly

Each day in the café, we see the challenge to “Live brave. Dream bravely. Influence bravery.” It’s the slogan painted across our wall. By this, we mean that fear won’t stop us. We won’t let fear keep us from trying to learn new things. Fear doesn't stop us from dreaming with the Lord and saying, “Wherever you want me to go and whatever you want me to do, I’ll do!” We won’t let fear win.

From all this and more, A Place Called Braverly was born. The heartbeat of Braverly is so much bigger than Mae Sot, Thailand. It’s something the world needs to hear, to be reminded of, to be challenged by. 

Live brave. 
Dream bravely. 
Influence bravery. 

As we wrote A Place Called Braverly, Kristy and I realized that none of this could happen outside of the Father. All of our brave living, dreaming, and inspiring was shallow outside of who the Father is and who He says we are. Until we root our courage in His love, we will search for bravery in all the wrong places. 

A Book for You

This is the journey of A Place Called Braverly. It’s a book filled with Scripture and personal, vulnerable stories from Kristy and me. Our goal is not only to inspire you but also to challenge you, to push you, to call you higher, to help you step deeper into courageous lives. 

This book was a labor of love in so many ways, and when we wrote it, we thought of you, dear reader. We thought of your heart that needs courage in ways we can’t even understand. 

So, courage, dear heart. Take courage and go on this journey with us. Rediscover your Father’s heart and collide with a God who loves you more than you can even imagine. 

It’s not too late to pre-order your copy of A Place Called Braverly. It’s available at Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, Bookshop, and wherever books are sold. You can also pre-order a copy here! 

The post What is A Place Called Braverly? appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In its best moments, I believe something rather sacred lives in these spaces. After all, Father God created out of nothing. He worked and built and fashioned humanity out of dust. Work isn’t our curse or burden to bear. I believe it’s a gift. Creating, making, contributing, building something wonderful is a gift.

But in its worst moments, all this working and striving and hustling can be broken and damaging. It’s exhausting and can leave you ragged and breathless in the cruelest of ways. We have a way of twisting what was made for our good. Work—I believe—is one of those things we bend and shift in so many ways.

We aren't Machines

And I am one of the worst offenders. Recently in a meeting with our wedding officiant, our pastor asked my fiancé and me how things were coming along for the wedding.

“Are you getting stuff done? How’s it coming together?”

These are the questions we’re getting asked almost weekly because in approximately one month, we’ll stand in front of family and friends and the Father and commit to forever. But in this meeting, Luke spoke up before I could.

“Kate is a machine,” he said with wide eyes filled with both awe and a little concern. At the same time, I saw our pastor nod his head. Having worked with me full-time in the church office, he knows enough about me to know the truth.

I had to tell my pride to take a back seat. We weren’t always made to be machines. The Father didn’t design us to work and produce and spit out lives of meaning through our doing and creating. More and more, I believe He invites us to create alongside Him, relying on Him, depending on Him—all for the joy of reflecting His image through our work.

You and I have limits and margins and capacities, and while I’m a firm believer that the Father can and does increase our capacity in every season, I have to remind myself that I’ve experienced this in the healthiest ways when I’ve relied on Him, depended on Him.

Invited to the Breakfast on the Beach

There’s this beautiful story in John 21 that moves me to tears and to my knees. After Jesus had risen from the dead and appeared to the disciples, they seemed to be in a wandering state. Their life went from the chaos and joy and excitement of following Jesus to a quiet, question-filled existence. I bet that had to feel jarring to say the least.

One night as they stood on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, Peter said, “I’m going fishing.”

I love Peter. I get Him. He gives me hope. In a moment of questions and maybe feeling antsy and wondering what was next, Peter decided to do something, to work. So he and his friends fished all night but caught nothing. Nothing. All that work—casting and recasting the nets—for nothing.

As the sun began to rise, they saw a man and a small fire on the shore. They didn’t know who He was, but He told them to throw in their nets once again. When they did, they caught over 150 fish. And their hearts suddenly remembered. This had happened before with Jesus.

Peter immediately jumped out of the boat and swam to shore. I imagine He laughed and wept and clung to Jesus. And out of the corner of his eyes, I bet he saw it then—fish roasting on the fire.

Jesus made breakfast for them on the beach with the very thing they couldn’t catch all night. No amount of working or striving or hustling made a single fish swim into their nets. But with one word, Jesus filled their nets to their breaking point. And on the shore, in the place of rest with Him, Jesus already had what their bodies so longed for—food, fish roasting on the fire.

The Invitation Still Stands

Whew. Maybe I’m the only one who needs this reminder today, but I doubt it. In our hustle culture, it’s easy to twist working and striving. I am all for working hard and building something beautiful out of nothing. After all, this is what the Father did, and we were made in His image.

But these days, I need the reminder of this story—that no matter how many times they threw their nets into the sea, the disciples didn’t catch anything. No amount of work brought what they so desperately wanted until they listened to Jesus and let Him do what they could not.

Friends, the same is true for us. Yes, go fishing and cast your net again and again. Show up and do the work, the things God has called you to do. But don’t give into hustle culture. Resist the temptation to rely on yourself. We serve a God who longs to make us breakfast on the beach and serve us there.

Today, maybe He longs for you to experience more rest even in your working. The disciples still cast their net one more time. They still rowed hard to keep their boats from sinking, but it was all because of Jesus’ work.

May we do the same.

And may we look up and see the beauty of a God who has already made us breakfast and longs to serve us.

The post You’re Invited to Breakfast on the Beach with jesus appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Every day I encounter people from different cultures and languages and countries. I’ve actually grown accustomed to being the minority on my streets. The other day I saw two white American women walking on Devon Avenue, and I actually wondered if they got lost. 

I wonder how many of my neighbors have the same reaction when they see me. 

My team and I serve refugees and immigrants from all over the world—Afghanistan, India, Pakistan, Iraq, Congo, Somalia, Syria, Ethiopia, Burma, Malaysia, Bangladesh, and more. We try to meet felt needs like giving diapers and rice and oil or fans in the summer or blankets in the winter. My team teaches English and helps kids with homework. We step into homes and build relationships with people.

The Beautiful, Awkward Work

It's a beautiful work, but it’s also incredibly awkward. No matter how many similarities we share as humans, we still speak totally different languages. We come from different backgrounds. We believe very different things, and although these differences are beautiful, they can make for some awkward moments.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited families in their homes only to endure 20 or 30 or 40 minutes of awkward and broken conversation. I ask a question. Someone gives a totally unrelated answer. I rephrase it. We sit in silence. Eventually, one of us gives up and sips quietly on our tea.

This work is beautiful, but it’s awkward.

Today, I sat with a friend from Afghanistan who has been in the States for seven years, but she still struggles to speak and understand English. Possibly my favorite moments are when she gives up on English completely and speaks to me in Uzbek. She nearly always raises her eyebrows as if to say, “It’s fun, right? Not knowing the language. Really fun.”

As I sat with my Afghani friend, I asked her a question, trying to understand more of her story. She gave me that look I’m coming to recognize and responded in Uzbek. Almost without thinking, I heard myself mumble, “Ok. That didn’t work.” I leaned forward and said, “Let’s try this again.”

Let’s Try Again

That didn’t work, but let’s try this again. I can’t tell you how many times each day I think that. 

Yikes, that explanation didn’t work. Let’s try again. 
That visit didn’t go well. Let’s try again. 
Lord knows we’re speaking different languages, but let’s try again. 
I still don’t understand you. Let’s try again. 
You still don’t understand me. Can we try again? 

Over the course of nearly two years in this neighborhood, this has become the unconscious beat of my heart. And I think it’s beautiful. What if our world had this posture? What if this is how we approached community and conversation?

Today, my friend and I stumbled through yet another awkward conversation together. We may not have fully understood the other, but we tried our best. We both leaned in. It didn’t work the first time. Honestly, it didn’t work the second or third, but we tried again and again and again. 

We must Lean in and try Again

I’ve found that some of my most profound relationships with people in the neighborhood come from those I struggle the most to understand. As we stumble and fumble through our words and their meanings, we lean into each other. We slow down. We pause. And we laugh, because trying to understand someone who speaks another language is hilarious. 

Friend, what could it look like for you to lean in, to say, “That didn’t work, so let’s try again”? Chances are, you may not interact with someone who speaks a different language, but you probably have people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you. We must lean in and try again. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. It’s difficult, but I believe it’s a holy and sacred work. 

So would you lean in with me? 
Would you try again? 

Who are some people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you? How can you lean in? 

The post Why You Should Try Again appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I’m amazing at being impatient. It runs in my family—and humanity—so I have to practice. I have to practice waiting and pausing and extending kindness in the frustration that tags along. 

In the last few years, baking bread has become one of my patience practices. I discovered my desperate need when I constantly undercooked things—cookies and cakes and brownies and sometimes chicken. My pre-baking days were a dangerous time to be my friend, or maybe it kept things exciting. Jury’s still out.

Enter flour, salt, yeast, and water.

Early on, I served my family and friends bricks disguised as bread—a tangible representation of my impatience. Most recipes say to let dough sit until doubled in size for about 1-2 hours. But who has time to let something sit for two hours? Often, I gave my dough 60 minutes and not a moment longer. 

Over time, I failed and learned and tried again. One day, the process became therapeutic—mixing and kneading and proofing and pausing. Bread became less about reaching the end and more about the process of creating something delicious. 

And, friend, delicious bread takes time—more time than my undercooked self knew. 

Somewhere around week four of this coronavirus quarantine, I attempted sourdough—the longest process ever. I figured this was the perfect time to try and fail and try again. And I decided I needed another patience practice, because the virus has paused so much.

Stuck in the waiting, my impatience is showing up more and more. Most days I wake up antsy and ready to move to Chicago, even though Illinois leaders shut down the state until the end of May. This desire to move isn’t bad, but in my impatience, I try to take control. I grab what never belonged to me and demand that my plan, my timing, my will be done. 

And so in the middle of all this impatience, I pulled out a bowl and mixed flour and water together and put the dough in the corner to sit. The next day, I repeated the process. 

And the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 

A bit of starter, some flour, a few ounces of water.

At first, the sourdough starter smelled like the very worst boy’s dorm—fermentation at its finest. Over time, though, it changed, and today, the starter smells sweet and yeasty and delicious. 

After almost two weeks of feeding and cultivating my starter, I worked up the courage to bake a loaf. In case you wondered, from start to finish, sourdough loaves take about 48 hours plus two weeks to develop the starter. 

My most ambitious patience practice yet. 

This loaf required setting timer after timer, mixing and folding and putting the dough in the corner to rise time and time again. The process didn’t take much effort, but it took more time and attention than I’d ever given a single loaf of bread before. 

And I think this is beautiful

By Sunday afternoon, I served my family a crunchy, chewy loaf of sourdough bread that exploded with flavor and called me back for one more slice, one more excuse to eat another bite. 

Here’s the thing about bread—it’s a process, and in that process, flavor builds. Shortcuts can ruin it or result in a slice of something that tastes more like air than bread. As dough sits and proofs, richness grows, but this can’t happen this unless we are patient, unless I am patient. 

And to me, that is the truth of this season. Waiting and waiting and waiting again. 

In the waiting, richness builds, and flavor grows. 
The process develops beauty and depth that I couldn’t produce on my own. 

And the waiting will not be forever. Soon, life will embrace a new normal. We will go back to work and restaurants and movie theaters. We’ll complain about being busy and disconnected. 

But for now, I will practice patience and gratitude for the richness of the waiting. 

The post On Patience Practices and Baking Bread appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This strange season is a welcomed sabbath for some. For others, it’s one of the most stressful seasons they’ve ever faced. For me, it’s confusing—like the weirdest game of red light, green light. 

Go. Stop.
Stop. Go. 

I’m certainly not the only one experiencing the whiplash. 

Here’s the thing. I see where I need to go. I can almost reach it. It’s two-and-a-half hours away, but it’s a city on lockdown, a state that’s shut down. People are inside their homes, afraid of a virus they can’t see but could knock them to their knees. This city is where the Father called me in 2016. Year after year I tried to get there, and every year, the door closed.

Now the door is open, but I'm just out of reach.

I think all of us have a similar story, right? There's a place we're trying to get to, and for some of us, it's a place we've longed for and waited on for years. But we're paused—our plans on hold.

A few days ago, I asked the Father for a word or phrase—anything I could hold to and hear echo in my mind these days. Almost immediately, I heard Him say, "Worship before victory." 

Woof. It’s a word that hits me in the face, that knocks the breath from my lungs a bit. 

Remember the story of Jericho? It's a story of insurmountable odds and a plan that expected the supernatural. The Father had prepared a land for Israel—a place He promised to them. He called them to live there, build their homes in this place. But before they could enter the promise, they had to get past a giant, impenetrable fortress of a city—Jericho. 

The Lord told Joshua and his men to walk in silence around the city for seven days. Leading their march were priests who blew ram's horns and carried the ark of the covenant—a tangible representation of the Lord's presence. 

Do you see it? Swords and horses and muscles didn't protect Israel as they walked into the unknown. Worship was their guard. The Lord’s presence was their shield.

Praise paved their way. 
Worship came before victory. 

And even in this completely unconventional way, victory came. 

Every day in Indiana, I wake up in a place I didn’t expect to be. Plans are on hold. Uncertainty hangs in the air. And I know I’m not the only one. In fact, I know that my situation pales compared to the other fortresses in many of my friends' lives. This virus has disrupted our entire world. It has shaken our ideas about tomorrow. 

And if you're like me, you may be asking the Father, "You want me to march around this thing, led by your presence and worship. You don’t want me to fight? You don’t want me to even push on the wall? And you’re saying that a shout will turn the walls to dust?"

Yes.

Friends, I’m not advocating apathy or doing nothing when we should do something. Joshua and his army still marched around the city for seven days. But victory came in a way no one would have expected. 

It came through worship.
It came through trust.
It came through faithfulness.
It came through that one loud shout on the last day—a final mark of faith. 

These days our world shakes and trembles. Fear drives our conversations. We stare up at the walls surrounding our own Jericho and feel overwhelmed and stuck. In these days, we have to hold to the promises the Father has given us throughout Scripture. He’s doing something new. Victory is coming, but the path to it isn't what I would have picked. 

Yet
Even still
Worship. 

So friend, this is my word to you from the Lord—
Worship before victory
Let it be your guard
Before you and behind you
Worship all around you
He is our good Father
Who gives us our daily bread
His Word does not return empty
So may our whole heart and mind and soul and strength—our entire being—be an act of worship.
Victory is coming.

The post Worship before victory 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.

This girl, the one who could fit in a crib meant for children, was 13 years old. 

I still remember hearing her age. The air left my lungs. My head spun. My eyes watered. My knees buckled. And I remember the way I couldn’t look her in the eye, because just a week earlier, I had been 13. When I’d first walked into the room, I thought I was so different from the little girl in the crib, but now I knew the truth.

We weren’t so different after all.

We were practically the same age. Our hair was the same color, and our eyes looked so very similar. We both burst with joy when we heard a voice we recognized, felt a touch we knew to be loving and kind. Both made in the image of our sweet Father, He called us Beloved. He knew our needs, and He cared so deeply for them.

In that moment, I had a choice: 

Stare at the wall behind the girl, fidget like the awkward teenager I was, and edge toward the door
or
I could look her in the eye. I could take her hands in my own, stroke her head, and wipe the hair from her face. I could honor her by engaging her, by seeing her. Simply put, I could love her by not looking away.

When I close my eyes today, I can still see this beautiful, 13-year-old girl laying in an isolated room in a Romanian orphanage. Her face is a little blurry—the cruel result of time gone by and new memories that demand space in my mind. But this experience and those emotions are still there, the lingering effects of an encounter with hard realities.

I never want to forget this experience, her face, her eyes. I never want to forget that my first reaction was to look away. And I never want to forget that realization—she and I were not as different as I thought. Because if I had more in common with this girl in a Romanian orphanage, I have to wonder how much I share with the person just down the road.

Confronting our Vulnerabilities

I believe this simple truth—that we have more in common with one another than we realize—is one of the reasons Jesus told us to love our neighbor as ourself. It’s why He told us to create space for everyone around our tables and in our homes. Could it be this is why He said those fateful, beautiful, grace-dripping words, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone”? 

Our world is full of hurting people, stories that rip our hearts apart. Humans are exceptionally good at marginalizing one another, separating ourselves from one another. It’s called pride and selfishness and a seemingly innate need to be more than we are. 

But, friend, if we look our neighbor in the eye, we just might see—like my little 13-year-old self saw—that we’re not all that different. 

We all lay awake some nights paralyzed by fears or worries or anxieties. 
We all have beautiful, complex hopes for the future. 
We all wish for love and joy and happiness for our families. 
We all have dysfunction and struggles and secrets. 

When we look into the face of someone who is hurting or marginalized or oppressed, we are confronted with vulnerability. We’re confronted with our own hurts and pain. We’re confronted with our privilege. And it’s deeply uncomfortable.

In that moment, we have a choice:

Look away or see the human staring back at us. 

Ushering in the Sacred

It’s true, we can’t fully engage with every single person or story or injustice in this world. The news is a seemingly never ending parade of the day’s latest challenges. But we do have the capacity and the calling to love our neighbors—to step into vulnerability, to embrace them in their vulnerable state, and be embraced in our own vulnerability. 

When we do that, I believe we usher a little bit of the sacred into our hurting and splintered world. We bring a little bit of Jesus, a little bit of the holy and extraordinary. It doesn’t require traveling to a third world country or donating your life’s savings. Sometimes it simply means talking to the cashier at the grocery store, delivering cookies to your next door neighbor, making conversation with the person who comes alone to church. More times than not, it means looking someone in the eye and listening to her story. Isn’t that what Jesus did over and over again? 

So, may we resist the temptation to look away. May we have the courage to look our neighbor in the eye, and may we bring a little more of the sacred into our ordinary. 

The post Why We Need to have the Courage to Look our Neighbor in the Eye appeared first on Kate Berkey.

It feels like the kind of moment we experience after vacation. We have pictures and stories of moments we love. All too eager, we sit down with friends or family and begin to relive these memories, and about two seconds in, we see that look—glazed eyes, disengagement, indifference. 

Listen, your friends and family, don’t really care about that smoothie bowl on day two…or maybe it was day three…no two, and they certainly don’t want to see a picture. C’mon. Let’s just face the facts. 

So, I’m a little afraid to tell this story, because it means so very much to me. Everything about it—the little girl, her family, the building she’s in. Everything. And I’m a little nervous because it’s hard to see glazed eyes and looks of indifference when you’re telling a story that means so very much to you. So give me space. Hear this story. Look at this picture, because I believe it should mean something to you too. 

When you see this picture, you see an absolutely adorable toddler. You’re not wrong. She is beautiful and mischievous and intelligent. She’s learning five languages as a four year old, so conversations with her can get a little tricky. She regularly jumps between Thai, Burmese, Karen, Chinese, and English and leaves me wondering what just happened. 

When I look at this picture, I see a story so much bigger than this girl. I see a story that wrecks me in the most beautiful of ways and inspires me to choose a life of bravery. 

I see her momma—a warrior, a woman of resilience and kindness, a woman who makes me laugh. I see the difficult parts of her story—living in the jungle for months at a time to escape the oppressive rule of Burma's military junta. I see the years she lived in Mae La refugee camp on the border of Thailand and Burma. I see the days she dared to dream about a future that was full of hope and life and light. I see the ways she models a kind of bravery for her children that I only aspire to. 

This girl’s momma strives and tries and sometimes fails, but she continues to strive and try and sometimes fail. Because of this, her daughters will know that fear doesn’t have to control them. They will know that they can try new things, even if they fail or make mistakes. They will know that they can dream for their future, and the Father will honor the desires He puts in their hearts. Her daughters will know a future that is full of hope, light, life, and community, because they have watched their mom pursue this first. 

I see a dare—live brave, dream bravely, influence bravery. Our world is full of catchy phrases, slogans sold on signs at Hobby Lobby, but when I read these words, I see something much deeper than a shallow tune. I see a real-life challenge given to a group of women on the Thailand/Burma border. So many of them come from histories of oppression, and fear becomes the currency through which others try to control them.

But in Jesus, we see another way—a way of courage, of love, of freedom. These women were created to live brave in the day-in-day-out routines and in the big risks. They were designed to dream bravely—to use their gifts and talents to impact their friends, families, communities, and world. And they influence and encourage bravery in those around them as they pursue this kind of life—a life of courage and confidence and wholeheartedness. Because of the way her community embraces this brave dare, this girl will know what it looks like to walk with courage. 

In this picture, I see a future—a little girl who is being taught even now to choose courage over fear, to walk in confidence and truth, to see Jesus in those around her, to honor her story and the stories she’s surrounded by. I see a girl who is a culture shaker, a world changer, a kingdom builder. I see a girl who gets to learn something so beautiful—how to bake cupcakes—because her mother first had a dream to learn how to bake. In this girl, I see a beautiful picture of investing in the generations—in the mommas and papas, sons and daughters, aunties and uncles. There is something so deeply beautiful about the way a whole family can change and transform and pursue the life the Father designed for them when everyone is invited to be part of this change. 

When you look at this picture, you probably just see a cute little girl and flour on a counter. But pause for a moment, and look again.

This girl’s mom has known the worst of the worst, but she has also known resilience, grit, perseverance. She is a woman of joy, a woman who teaches her daughters how to live with courage. This girl's father gave up his citizenship to move into the refugee camp, because he saw a need there. Through his life, his daughters have learned the most beautiful, sacrificial kind of love, empathy, and compassion. Her community comes from so many different backgrounds, but each of them is on a journey to live brave, dream bravely, and influence bravery in those around them. Because of their courage, she is learning and watching and trying and sometimes falling short. 

This beautiful girl—baking cupcakes in Thailand—is the present and the future. She is a representation of the people around us who are watching the way we live. May we be people who choose to live brave and dream bravely in our own lives so that we can encourage this kind of bravery in those around us.

The ripples of this decision have the power to change our families, our friends, our communities, our world. 

The post The Ripples I see in a Single Photograph and Why it Should Matter to You Too appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I can’t stop looking at this picture. 

It’s more than just a great memory or moment. It does more than just make me smile or fill me with joy. It reminds me to take risks, to do things that scare me. It reminds me to be brave.

It reminds me that our courage is contagious.

A few days ago, my family came back from a vacation to Disney World. We ate way too much food, walked way too many steps, and let the kids skip one too many naps, and it was completely worth it. Who wouldn’t love those kind of days—staying out late, watching fireworks, riding ride after ride after ride. 

My oldest niece is five years old and was finally tall enough for a few more rides. I’m not claiming that Disney World has real roller coasters. I completely understand that they cater to families and kids, but for my niece, some of these rides were intense. They were unknown and unfamiliar in every way. She asked us over and over again if they were scary, if they were just pretend, if they were outside or inside. Without fail, every time we went on a new ride, I could feel her excitement and fear as we stood in line. It was never one or the other. It was always a mix—sometimes a little more fear than excitement, but in those moments, I realized something beautiful.

My family’s courage was contagious. 

So we smiled big. We held her hand. We cheered her on. We didn’t hide the fact that we would go fast and down some big hills, but we tried to help her believe that when the cars came to a stop at the end, she would still be smiling. 

That’s why I love this picture. 

It was our fourth time on this particular ride, and by that point, Finley loved the ups and downs and twists and turns. We laughed and screamed together, and when I yelled, “Finley, put your arms up,” she threw them in the air without hesitation. 

As silly as it might seem to those who love the kind of rides at Cedar Point or Six Flags, this was an act of deep, deep courage for my kiddo. With every new ride, she took a risk, she took a step. She chose to trust us, trust that we knew her and knew what she could handle. She trusted our own courage and caught a little bit of it herself, because courage is contagious. And when she caught even a hint of apprehension in us, we could see it on her face, because fear can be just as contagious. 

And I can’t get these truths out of my head, because I see them in the world around me every day. I see them in our women at Braverly—the way they encourage each other to try new things. I see them in the way my parents lead their business together, each one catching a little bit of courage from the other. 

And sometimes I see the opposite. I see how fear-based conversations in our country cause division at best. I see how our fear of the unknown cause us discredit things that seem different or risky. I see how our fear sends ripples we cannot control.

Our courage is contagious and so is our fear.

Tweet

Day after day, we influence others. We inspire, or we hold back. We spark courage or fear. Our actions, our thoughts, our emotions matter, and they matter more than we realize. We can catch courage from other–courage to show up and be seen, courage to listen to those with whom we differ, courage to open our hearts and minds to ideas and perspectives, courage to create space for those with whom we disagree. Courage rather than fear, because I believe the Father is in our courage. And our culture desperately needs more of the Father's heart.

When we cultivate courage in our own lives, we just might find ourselves standing next to someone who needs a little bit of courage themselves. And when we choose courage over fear, we're not just making this decision for ourselves. We're making it for our family, our community, our culture, our country.

Friend, remember that your courage is contagious. 

The post Your Courage is Contagious appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Thanks pal. 

In the span of three months, the life I built, my dreams and goals and hopes for the future seemed to disappear–like dust flying through the air. Those days, everything seemed to collapse at breakneck speeds while the days passed painfully slowly, as if each minute was a reminder that life was going to move on whether I wanted it to or not.

In this season—one of pain and crumbling—the Father whispered to my soul, “Release.”

Release. Let go. Pry open your clenched fists and let your life simply sit there—your hopes, your dreams, your love, your longings. It was, quite possibly, one of the most vulnerable yet most freeing words the Father has ever said to me. It was the word that led me to where I am today—a writer in Thailand.

Release.

It’s a word of surrender, of submission. For the record, I loathe that word—submission. So much baggage is tied to it, and in today’s American culture, it feels like a fighting word.

I’ve been running from it for far too long, because submission to the Father, means release. It means letting go. It means acknowledging that I don’t have control over anything. I only have the illusion of control.

The word release has found its way to my soul once more, and I think I’m feeling a little bit of PTSD at the thought of it. To be clear, it’s not coming in a season of intense pain and grief. It’s coming in a season of transition, of trying to figure things out. These days, release still means opening my clenched fists. Inside the palms of my hands, I’m trying to hold my dreams and plans for the days ahead. I’m trying to hold things loosely so that when my very next step becomes clear, I’ll find the courage to take it. It feels deeply vulnerable but also so very necessary. 

These days, I find myself pulled back to the life of Joshua, and I find comfort in the words spoken to him by the Father.

“Be strong and courageous. Don’t be afraid or discouraged. The Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” 

I love that. Who doesn’t?

But this isn’t the part of the story the Father keeps reminding me of. These days, I’m camped out in the story of Jericho, and it’s throwing me off balance a bit. This story is crazy; it doesn’t make sense. It’s illogical. It seems unwise and utterly ridiculous.

I can just imagine Joshua saying, “Hey fam, tomorrow we will line up behind some priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant, and while they blow rams horns, we will march around Jericho once a day for six days. Don’t talk at all. Don’t make a noise. I don’t want to hear laughter or the faintest whisper. We will do this in silence. On the seventh day, we will walk around Jericho seven times, and when I give you the signal, we’ll shout really loud. That’ll show ‘em!”

Seriously? The Father wants His people to march around a towering city in complete silence for seven days, and a loud shout on the seventh day will make the walls crumble? Now I get why He told Joshua to be strong and courageous before they even saw the walls of Jericho.

Even still Joshua rallied Israel. He gave the orders and led the way. They marched day after day in silence, the only noise coming from the sound of their feet against the earth and the rams horns at the front of the pack. Day after day, those in Jericho probably looked out their windows at the caravan below. I’m sure it was a little eery at first and then probably just annoying. 

But then on the seventh day, they walked around that city seven times, and after the final lap, they let out a kind of roar that shook the walls of the city. That day, the Father made those walls crumble to the ground because of the trust and obedience of His people. 

Release even when things don’t make sense. 
Release even when the way forward isn’t clear. 
Release even when we have more questions than answers.
Release even when we’re waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Release and trust even when the Father tells us to do something that seems illogical and maybe even unwise. Release and trust when the Father asks us to walk in a space that feels dark and uncertain. Release it all. Pry open our clenched fists and let all we love sit vulnerably in the palms of our hands. Our Father can be trusted.

These days, I find myself looking for Jericho moments, Jericho commands, because those are big, bold, impossible dreams. They’re the kind only the Father can make happen, and aren’t those the kind we should chase anyway? I don’t want to settle for the kind I can make happen on my own, the ones that make sense in my mind. I want to pursue the ones that send ripples into the world around me because of the what the Father does. 

When people heard about Jericho, they said in hushed voices, “Only God could have done that.” 

This is what I want to be able to say. Only God could have done that. So I will release. We will release. 

Release and trust that the Father will do what only He can do.

The post Finding Jericho Moments When we Open our Clenched Fists appeared first on Kate Berkey.