“This” seems to change in every season. Sometimes “this” is some kind of problem. It’s a situation that’s out of my control. It’s a sticky relational battle. Sometimes “this” is a goal or a vision for the way I think things should be. Sometimes “this” is a change I want to see in myself or in others or in my community. “This” is constantly changing, and rarely, if ever, can I work my way out of “this.”

Right now, I have to remind myself of this daily. It’s not because I believe inaction or apathy is the solution. I don’t believe change organically happens. I don’t believe all of our problems will simply solve themselves if we just let them. No, it’s quite the opposite. I believe we need to engage with whatever “this” is in our lives, but we need to remember that it’s not all on our shoulders. 

We don’t make the trees grow. 

A few weeks ago, I did what I so often do, turning back in the pages of my journal—reading notes from my journey with the Father. Journaling isn’t for everyone, but for me, it has a way of marking moments and seasons. It’s a mix of my own thoughts and the voice of the Father, and it reminds that holy, sacred ground encounters outlast the moment they happen in. 

May 13, 2019. The words were simple, a kind of poem. That being said, I don’t claim to be a poet by any means, but every once in awhile, inspiration strikes, and I pick up a pen like I’m Mary Oliver or Maya Angelou.

In my planning and strategizing
     Don’t let me pass you by
     walk past you on the side of the road
     don’t let me miss the holy, divine sacred moments

Pause in the presence of Jesus
Dear heart, don’t hustle
It’s not you who makes the trees grow

I barely remember writing these words, but it’s a reminder most of us need often—you don’t make the trees grow. Your hustling and striving for the sake of working really hard or proving yourself do nothing to add to this world around us. It does nothing to make time move faster or the plan make more sense. It does nothing to make the world spin, the sun rise. Dear heart, don’t hustle. It’s not you who makes the trees grow. 

In this season of crazy transition and change, I remind my heart of this every single day, because these kinds of seasons don’t always feel the best. In this particular one, I feel that temptation to buy into the belief that I need to prove who I am, prove my worth, prove my skill, prove that I have a place around the table, prove that I’m doing something valuable when everyday feels so very different than the normal I’ve been used to. It’s a battle I’m so very familiar with—a battle I’ve known my whole life and will probably continue to know intimately. And these days, the Father has repeated this simple verse from Isaiah:

Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength.
Isaiah 30:15

That word, quietness, doesn’t really mean to be silent. It’s something much deeper. It’s a kind of quietness in our heart, our soul. It’s a rest. It’s putting down the sword. It’s putting down work. It’s putting down the need to hustle and strive and prove. 

My culture—this midwest, farm life—values hard work. It’s deeply engrained in us. We’re a self-built kind of people. We love efficiency and effectiveness. Just look at Northern Indiana. Our main industries are RV factories, farming, and other manufacturing. We love hard work, and this isn’t a sin by any means. But I think sometimes we believe we can solve anything, become anything, do anything if we just work harder, run faster, be better—the very damaging kind of hustling.

And someday, if you’re like me, you just might wake up and find yourself completely and totally exhausted—tired of proving who you are, proving you’re strong enough, proving you're a hard worker, proving that all this hustling is for something good, when in reality, you’re trying to do job that was never yours to take.

Dear heart, don’t hustle. 
In quietness and confidence is your strength. 
It’s not you who makes the trees grow.

Sometimes I think we need this reminder—no matter how hard we work, at the end of the day, we don’t make the trees grow. We can’t. That’s not our job. We’ve taken a responsibility upon ourselves that was never ours to carry. 

Only in returning to the Father—relying on His breath in and out of our lungs. Only in resting in Him—letting His work, His very character be enough for us. Only in being with the Father will we find the kind of life we long for. In quietness—rest, peace, stillness of heart and mind and soul—and confidence is our strength. 

Friend, let go of the hustle, the never-ending working. Let go of proving yourself to a Father with whom you have nothing to prove. In the rest and stillness of being with Him, in confidence is your strength.

Dear heart, don’t hustle.
It’s not you who makes the trees grow. 

The post It’s not You Who Makes the Trees Grow 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.