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.

But The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill is brutal, and I’m not sure why I’ve gravitated back to it for a second time. I’m sure part of my reasoning is my love of a well-crafted and well-told story, and believe me, this is a well-told story. It’s captivating and intriguing and leaves the listener wanting more. But I think more than that, the story itself captivates me.

It hooks me. I can’t stop thinking about the American church and the empires we’ve built. I’m captivated by the role of platform—online and otherwise—for Christians in our modern world. Because to be sure, if anyone wants to be anyone with significant influence, they need a platform. They need a social media presence and a following online and in person. They need a large email list and thousands of subscribers. The more, the better.

Ditch the Masses?

And I’m not sure that all of this is bad—the large numbers. After all, didn’t the crowds follow Jesus? Did they mob Him, pressing in on every side of Him? Won’t the masses gravitate toward a story filled with truth and love and light? Don’t we all crave meaning and purpose in a way that our world just can’t satisfy?

So, I don’t think it’s always a bad thing if a church or a leader or a speaker or a writer or anyone who is following Jesus builds a large platform. But as I listen to this podcast repeatedly, I am reminded of a quote from Christine Caine that I heard in 2016. It went something like, “If the light on you is stronger than the light in you, then the light on you will destroy you.” 

If you know little about the Mars Hill story, you’re probably not alone. I only had a vague understanding before I started the podcast. A quick Google search will tell you more than you want to know, but in a nutshell, theirs is a story of a mega-church that crumbled to the ground as their leader focused on numbers and brand and platform through bullying tactics, intimidation, and a win-at-all-cost mentality. As a woman in the Kingdom of God, I must admit that I also find many of Mark’s views on men and women and marriage to be terrifying and damaging. I’m sure there are others who would disagree with me, but honestly, I have very little desire to be a part of the Kingdom he preached on week after week. I’m not sure it was an accurate representation, anyway.

A Problem Bigger than Mars Hill

I think there were more than a few things Mark got wrong about the Kingdom of God, but I’m not convinced he’s alone. I don’t think we can hold him up, crucify him, cut him down, tout him as the poster child of a pastor gone wrong. Because I think our modern Christianity loves celebrities. We love influencers and charismatic people who can build platforms and followings. We crave them, and I can tell you as someone on the other side—the side of trying to build a platform online—the pressure is real. I feel it every day. I’ve woken up at 4 in the morning thinking of all the things I should do to build mine and Kristy’s platform as we prepare to launch a book.

It's never ending, and it’s exhausting. And sometimes it just feels like a gigantic waste of time. To be fair, I don’t think it always is. After all, if we truly carry the words of life through Jesus, shouldn’t we be trying to reach the world? So, while these efforts aren’t a waste, the pressure and the worship given to those who can build something large and impressive is concerning.

Whose Kingdom are we Building Anyway

This morning as I was again listening to another episode of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, I asked myself the question, “Am I trying to build my empire or God’s Kingdom.” Not that I think I will have an empire someday. Yikes. Nah. Probably not.

It’s a heart question, a heart check. Because, "if the light on us is greater than the light in us, then the light on us will destroy us." So in all this working and striving and posting the most perfect picture and caption on social media, what is our motivation? A personal brand or the Kingdom of God? I don’t think these are just questions that leaders and writers and pastors and influencers should ask of themselves. I think this is a greater cultural question, because we are a culture that gets dopamine hits off of likes and comments.

So why are we doing all of this?
And someday, will we find we built empires and brands and personal kingdoms on sand?

Our words and our actions have power. I think we sometimes forget that. But as followers of Jesus, may we pause a little longer today and ask ourselves some honest questions about our motivations and desires and the little kingdoms we are building for ourselves.  

The post Platforms and Kingdoms and The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I digress.

Here’s what you need to know. I’m essentially faking it till I make it, and so many other people in this world are much more qualified for the role I’m in. They’re better suited for this city and this ministry.

But they’re not here.
I am.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

The Father has put me here—sitting in the homes of refugees, hearing people’s stories, leading things I never imagined. He’s asked me to help men and women apply for jobs and help them understand the barrage of emails they receive from their child’s school. He’s opened doors for me to visit them, teach them, learn from them, and experience life alongside them.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

Our worlds may look drastically different. Our schedule and time and community may not resemble each other’s in the slightest, and that’s ok. I think so often we get caught in the comparison game. At least, I know I do. I look at other’s stories and life and the world I catch only glimpses of on social media and I think to myself, “Yikes! I’m not __ enough next to them.”

Fill in the blank with whatever you want. We’ve all been there.

But here’s what this neighborhood teaches me day after day, moment by moment. We don’t always have to be qualified or the most qualified to be used by the Father right where we are. Most people in our world aren’t really looking for someone who is qualified. They’re looking for someone who is consistent. They need a person they can count on, a person they can call, a person they can laugh and cry with, a person who sticks to their word. Most people need someone who won’t back out or back down.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

This has been the constant refrain from the Father to me since I moved to Chicago. “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.” Honestly, sometimes I just don’t want to be consistent. I’d rather back out of commitments or blame my inconsistency on busyness. It’s so easy to do, because guess what? It’s true. I am busy. I’ve never been busier in my life than when I moved to Chicago.

But consistency is greater than busyness, and if the busyness of life and ministry keep me from being consistent with others, the balance is off.

Sometime last Spring, a family I visited weekly moved far away—just far enough to stretch my 7-minute commute into 30-45 minutes one way. My boss gave me an out. He told me I could visit a new family. After all, the needs are so great in this neighborhood. He could connect me with someone else.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

But that still small voice came again, “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.”

Through gritted teeth, I battled the traffic week after week to see this family. I struggled through the parking nightmare at the end of each night, and I didn’t always have the best attitude. I’m human. Some days are hard.

Today, though, this family and I experience a richness in relationship that is unlike any I share with others in this neighborhood. The Father has opened doors and given me opportunities I don’t deserve to love on this family in His name. And that one thing that seemed so difficult in the moment has become the thing that built this beautiful relationship—consistency.

Friend, our worlds might look very different on the outside, but at the heart of it all, we aren’t so different. The Father has put people in your life. Some are easy to love and convenient. They are ones you look forward to celebrating and spending time with. Others are the opposite in nearly every way, but they are still in your life. I think more times than not, the Father looks around this world for people who will choose consistency, the ones who will stick with others even when it requires sacrifice and selflessness.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

The post That One Thing that Will make All the Difference 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.

I don’t think I imagined my life quite this way, and I love that. 

Five years ago, I started my final semester of college. I wrote about marbles in a jar, their finite number mirroring the days which had become so very normal to me. During my senior year, my brain swam in questions about the future. 

Where would I live?
What would I do?
What would happen to my college friendships? 

2015 Kate didn’t know what was coming, but I don’t think she wanted to. I believe she would have stood frozen in fear if she knew what the Father had in store. This Kate mustered just enough courage to move to Pennsylvania for a summer internship. She dreamed about the future with abstract ideas and rosy ideals. She talked about traveling and writing and discipleship. But let’s be clear about something—2015 Kate never imagined being called a missionary, fundraising her salary, and living in a constant state of transition.

2020 Kate would stress out 2015 Kate, and I sort of love this. It reminds me of Philippians 1:6.

I’m fully convinced that the One who began this glorious work in you will faithfully continue the process of maturing you and will put his finishing touches to it until the unveiling of our Lord Jesus Christ!

Sacred and Holy Roots

We’re never quite done, are we? We are always becoming, becoming, becoming. In the last six months, the Father has held me in Jeremiah 17:7-8.

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.

This picture of deepening roots—roots reaching to the earth’s core—grabs my heart. It captivates my soul and draws me closer to the heart of the Father. Deeper and deeper these roots stretch—past rocks and shallow soil—to undisturbed dirt. They grow and ground towering trees to the very soil once breathed into existence by the creator Himself. 

Storms of uncertainty come. Droughts and doubts threaten to tear limbs from the trunk. Seasons blast the bark with sunlight and rain and snow and everything in between. And still these trees stand. They weather every element.

Becoming, Becoming, Becoming

Growing and grounding is a process—a lifelong thing, a constant battle between faith and fear, between hope and doubt, between uncertainty and confidence. But in this process, we hold a promise. 

Those who trust, who make the Father their hope and confidence will find stability and certainty not in their external circumstances but in who the Father is. Even in their chaotic world, marked by heat and drought and storms of all kinds, the Father holds them. He sustains and keeps them grounded. 

Their roots and trust stretch. They groan with growing pains, but in becoming, they experience the Father doing a sacred and holy work in them. 

This journey with the Father, this deepening and growing, is painful. It leads us into seasons of uncertainty. More and more I’m convinced the Father builds our capacity, grows our faith and then asks us to say yes to the things that used to make our knees knock. 

Living with Anticipation

Often, we pause and reflect at the start of the year. We look back at what we left behind. We see how far we’ve come in our mind, emotions, body, and spirit. This kind of reflection reminds us of the faithfulness and goodness and love of the Father. Even on the days when He seemed far away, He was closer than we could have imagined. 

But this year, I’m caught up in something different. It’s a looking back and forward—a prayer for the next five years. Who knows what it will bring. I’m done trying to pretend I understand what the Father is doing in my life. I’ve found it builds boxes around who He is. Instead, I find myself with a spirit of anticipation, ready to say yes and step in the place I never could have imagined He would lead me. 

Friend, as we become and grow and stretch, may our roots reach deep into who the Father is. May we trust his sustaining life. And when He asks us to say yes to the thing which scares us more than anything else, may we follow Him with confidence, trusting the ground that holds us.

The post Sacred and Holy Roots appeared first on Kate Berkey.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend and I met for ice cream. Never mind that it was 20 degrees outside or that we hid under layers of sweaters and coats. We braved the icy temps for the best ice cream in town and sweet friendship and connection. 

For the last year, I worked alongside this woman in Mae Sot, Thailand. We laughed and cried, prayed and carried each other’s burdens. We attempted to teach English and fumbled through more than one cross-cultural interaction.

Our tried-and-true friendship stands on this history and shared experience. And now, we’re both in this strange land called transition. 

For me, it’s moving to a city I’ve been to dozens of times but have never called home. For her, it means living in the States and following the Lord to a place that holds more questions than answers. 

So that night, we told stories and shared reminders. In some ways, our conversation was a giant pep talk to the other person. 

Hang in there. 
The Father is always good. 
He’s got this. 
He’s asked us to step, so don’t give up now. 

Here’s the thing—I avoid shallow encouragement and cringe at clichés or Scripture slapped on a problem. Because worries won’t disappear with a quick answer. For me, empty responses to people’s real pain and questions and anxieties is worse than saying nothing. 

But on this chilly December evening with my dear friend and sister, these responses were the farthest thing from shallow. They were truths, and in our whirlwind, we needed them.

Bearing it Together

These days, our worries keep us up at night or wake us up too early. Our dreams are moments of trying to figure out the details—me staring at spreadsheets, her searching for a place to live. As we shared our stories that cold December night, we didn’t ignore the hard parts, the anxiety we both carry, and the giant trust fall in each day. 

But with each acknowledgement of the difficult and uncertain, we spoke truth. We reminded the other of who the Father is because no matter how challenging this season is, our God hasn’t changed. As circumstances change, He remains consistent, unfazed, constant. 

These days, faith feels like clinging to truth in the chaos and uncertainty, carrying the Father’s promises. 

During our conversation, my friend and I didn’t solve our problems. We didn’t find answers or raise the financial support we both need. Our search continues for more than one thing—a place to live, a roommate, a team, a dozen other little details. But when we said goodbye, we carried something more sacred and lasting than meeting these temporary physical needs. 

We held our dusted-off confidence in the Father. Reminding one another of His promises, we helped the other hold tight to faith. And we made the other stronger with that simple idea—don’t give up. 

Don’t give up. 
Don’t give up. 

Reminding One Another of Truth

Faith and friendship doesn’t ignore the difficult It doesn’t gloss over the very real worries and anxieties we face. It walks one another through the challenge. It bears the burden. It gets out of the house on a wintry night to remind the other she doesn’t walk alone. 

I believe with my whole heart that the Father designed the Church to be people who walk one another through what feels impossible. The Father designed us to remind each other of truth, to repeat that phrase in our words and actions—don’t give up. 

It’s so easy to lose sight of truth amidst the whirlwind in our daily lives. I’m sure I’m not the only one to focus on the surrounding swirl instead of the steady consistency of the Father. Friend, we need each other. We need to remind one another of truth. 

So do me a favor. Today, set aside your long list of to-dos. Let the whirlwind swirl around you and find someone who needs reminded of truth. With confidence, speak it into her life and let her speak truth into yours. It’s in these simple life-on-life moments that we carry the courage and faith and endurance to not give up. 

The post Reminding One another of truth in the whirlwind appeared first on Kate Berkey.

It’s the word that comes to mind for my 2019. 

To be clear, this abundance isn’t the stuff of the prosperity gospel. It’s not an overflowing bank account or the newest and the nicest. It doesn’t mean brand names or the finer things in life. 

It’s abundance in friendships and family.
Abundance in my relationship with Jesus. 
Abundance in growth and confidence. 
Abundance in nearly every part of my life. 
It’s abundance from the overflow of who the Father is and the way He loves His kids. 

A Generous Portion

In October, I was preparing to return to the States after a month in Thailad, and to be honest, I wasn’t happy about it. Most mornings I felt tears near the surface as I tried to fight the pain of leaving a place and people I loved. But I remember the morning everything flipped. That day, instead of waking up with tears, I woke up with a song—Generous Portion by Cageless Birds. It’s a song that’s depth takes my breath away. It’s the kind I have to listen to on repeat to soak up its meaning. The chorus repeats: 

Nothing can stand against us
We've overcome the darkness
We will not surrender
For less than Jesus paid for
He's giving back what's stolen
We can hardly carry the generous portion

This is abundance. 

On that morning in Thailand, I remember the tears coming for a different reason. They didn’t come from fear or grief or uncertainty. Instead, they were tears from feeling overwhelmed by the abundance of the Father, by the generous portion that I couldn’t even hold. 

Abundance in Advent

This Advent season, abundance is taking on a new meaning. This past year hasn’t overflowed with the typical ideas of “abundance,” but it has been truly, extravagantly abundant. It’s the kind found in that word, “Emmanuel.” God with us. 

The birth of Jesus isn’t filled with our typical ideas of abundance either.

Ostracized by their community, Mary and Joseph faced skepticism and gossip and their own tough questions. Their life wasn’t overflowing with support from those around them. Before their first-born son was born—a boy who was God incarnate—they travelled for days to reach Bethlehem. Once they arrived, no one took them in. The only availability was a barn, a stable meant for animals. 

Abundance, am I right? 

But then
After all this

Jesus was born—the One who would transform our world. His extravagant love would help us see the Father face to face. He was the One who die and rise again and reconcile us with the Father. He would restore all things. 

Abundance. 

The abundance of worship and a glimpse of heaven overwhelmed shepherds when angels lit up the sky. The holy and sacred led them to their own worship and songs and gifts to Jesus. Wise men who travelled for months offered extravagant gifts to the new parents and their baby.

Abundance. 

But to me, the most abundant part of this story is that simple word—Emmanuel. God with us. Some people say that God bankrupted heaven when He sent Jesus to this broken world. I’ve never quite understood that phrase—bankrupted heaven. Heaven was not void of the holy and sacred when Jesus came to earth, but for the first time since those perfect days in the very beginning, Earth breathed a little deeper. It inhaled the tangible and physical presence of God among us. Our cracked and weary souls experienced healing from love and restoration and truth. 

Emmanuel.
God with us.

Abundance. 

Abundance in Our Everyday Lives

Maybe this year feels the farthest thing from abundant for you. It feels painful and challenging. Loss, grief, and pain might mark your year. Maybe you’re eager to close 2019 and are hoping that 2020 will be different from the last 365 days. 

I get it. 

I’ve been there. 

But as we reflect and remember and recount moments from this year, may we think about that word—abundance. Because our Father has given us a generous portion. He has given us more than we can hold—even in loss or grief or pain or confusion. 

Like the savior of the world born among animals to parents ostracized by their community. 
Like the most intense show of love, grace, forgiveness, and selflessness in the tiniest package—a baby in a manger. 

Friend, we live in abundance, and it has nothing to do with our own prosperity. 

It has everything to do with the Father’s generous portion. 

The post The Abundance in Emmanuel—God with Us appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Rustic and charming indeed. Forget epitome of small-town America, this house was the epitome of what life looks like right after college. 

For all its quirks, I absolutely adored this house. My two years inside those walls are ones I look back with the deepest kind of gratitude and joy. It wasn’t that every day was amazing or that this decades old home didn’t betray us every once in awhile, but this place fostered something I had only experienced with the six people I grew up with—family and home. 

I moved into that house with one of my absolute best friends. We’ve known each other since the first grade, and since then, we’ve just sort of stuck around. No matter what, we’ll never be able to get rid of the other, nor would we ever want to. But the other two girls in the house were more like acquaintances—people I’d heard of or seen in school but not close friends by any means. 

We all had busy schedules—two of my roommates coaching high school soccer in the fall, one working on the weekends, another working two jobs. Some weeks it seemed like our door was constantly opening and closing—one person coming home, another leaving. But for awhile, we got into this routine that helped forge the kind of home we all craved. 

Once a week we would try to eat dinner together. Sometimes this looked like gathering around the table together, returning to the kitchen for seconds and thirds. Other times, though, it looked like collapsing together in the living room, balancing plates on pillows on our laps. 

After two years together, this house felt radically different than when we all first moved in. For the first time in our lives, home wasn’t our parent’s house. It wasn’t the place we grew up. It was that two-story house on Olive Street, and I absolutely love this. 

In 2018, things changed. One of my roommates got married, and I moved to Thailand. 2019 brought more change when another moved to Indianapolis and another to a different town. Now, this house is home to a new family. It’s strange to drive past it, and honestly, I try not to. It feels a little sad, like a kind of loss. Part of me wants to walk through the front door one more time, but I know that even if I were to go inside, it wouldn’t be home. 

Home was so much bigger than this space. 

Last weekend, we all came together—the South Olive Four. I was back from Thailand. Danae drove up from Indianapolis, and my other two friends cleared their schedules for another meal around the table. We ate a feast together, munching on bread and brie and pie late into the night. 

We gathered in a new home, a new space. The table was different, the space wasn’t so much our own as a borrowed space. But as we sat together, catching up, telling stories, laughing until tears rolled down our cheeks, the house didn’t seem to matter. 

What mattered were the days that feel like an eternity ago—the ones we spent forging friendships day after day. Like the days we walked each other through the death of grandparents or heartbreaking break ups or crummy days at work. The days we blasted Christmas music and decorated for the holidays. The days we celebrated engagements and then weddings, passed tests, and completely average, ordinary Thursdays. The days we spent doing life together—all of life. 

That night around the table, we did life together yet again. We talked about the things that bring us joy, things we deeply and joyfully anticipate and look forward to. And we talked about the things that are really challenging, because this is life. It’s beautiful and messy and amazing and heartbreaking. It’s difficult and also deeply holy. 

And I was reminded once again that home and family are so much bigger than an actual place or the people we share DNA with. These are things forged by time and vulnerability and engagement. They happen when we lean into one another, choosing community over isolation, openness over guardedness, grace over grudges. 

Today, this is what I am holding onto—that home, that family, that night spent around a new table in a new house. I’m holding onto the joy that comes when home is cultivated day after day as we call each other into community. 

The post What Happens When We Cultivate Home appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I—most certainly—belong to the latter group. I like to think it came with the genes. 

As a kid, I remember staring at my grandma and grandpa Berkey’s fridge in child-like wonder. It was and still is an array of funky magnets and family photos, Bible verses and comics they found particularly funny. I’m sure every child in my family has completely rearranged the bottom half of grandma’s fridge at least once, but I’m not sure it bothers her all that much. 

On its best day, that fridge is the definition of controlled chaos. Most of the time, though, it feels like a kind of Where’s Waldo collage of faces. 

Growing up, grandma and grandpa’s picture was always front and center. For the majority of my childhood, it was a single moment captured of them on the very worn, very loved gray swing that hung near the merry-go-round and trampoline. It was one of those mid-laughter shots, the kind that brings tears to my eyes these days as I remember the sound of my grandpa’s voice, the echo of his laughter. For most of my little-kid days, this was the picture that came to mind when I thought of my grandparents and their home—the perfect description of the life they chose to build together. 

Side note: Yes, my grandparent’s house has a merry-go-round and a trampoline with no safety net. My childhood was indeed incredibly magical.

Surrounding their picture was, of course, shots of the rest of the family—kids and grandkids and great grandkids. But mixed in among the faces I find familiar, are pictures of people I don’t know at all. They are people who call my grandparents by their preferred names—grandma and grandpa. Not related in the slightest, yet here, they had found a kind of family and home.

As a kid, I remember looking at their faces and listening to my grandma tell me their names and stories. 

This one a missionary. 
This one an exchange student. 
This one an old church friend. 
This one the family of grandpa’s old coworker. 

To be completely honest, as a child I was pretty territorial. 

My family was mine. 
My best friend was mine. 
My grandparents—you guessed it—were mine. 

Praise the good Lord that your girl has really grown over the last 26 years. But little-kid Katherine didn’t love the fact that these people got to call my grandparents grandma and grandpa, and I think I used to look at their fridge with a kind of scowl—like I was toddler having a pity party about having to share my toys.

A few years ago, though, my brother and I were eating dinner at my grandparent’s house, just a couple of months before my grandpa took a turn for the worse. It would be one of the last meals shared around that table when my grandpa was fully engaged—telling terrible dad jokes and recounting stories from their history. 

That night, they again told us the many names and stories of people on the fridge. Person after person, each had a story, and they remembered every one. Each was significant. Each held such deep value. Each was incredibly loved and faithfully prayed for. 

And I began to feel something new take up space in my heart—pushing out that old tyrant called territory. 

I felt gratitude for their overwhelming, outrageous generosity.

As my grandparents told me stories about their friends on the fridge, I began to remember other stories—the ones my dad had told me about his parents. I remembered how my grandpa would often give my dad money and tell him to slip it into a certain person’s car while they were in the church. I remembered the stories of my aunt and uncle and dad’s friends who found refuge and love and good food at my grandparent’s house. I remembered the amount of elderly people they drove to and from doctor appointments. I remembered the years of driving teenagers to youth group and back home on Wednesday nights. 

My 88-year-old grandma recently lamented about how her poor eyesight and mobility is keeping her from sending small devotionals to missionaries serving across the world. My dear grandma, this warrior, has been sending these devotionals for 50 years. 

50 years of paying the bill to mail devotionals to men and women and families across the globe. 50 years of taking time to write notes of encouragement. 50 years of faithfulness.

My grandparents have taught me something I’ve desperately needed to learn—selfless, overwhelming, outrageous generosity. They’ve taught me to live with open hands. Nothing is mine. Nothing is beyond giving. 

These days, their fridge seems a little more empty than what I remember as a kid, but it's still crazy full. The faces of family—blood and adopted—fill the front and both sides, reminding us all to choose generosity first. 

I’m no where near their level of open handed, but someday, I desperately hope for a fridge like theirs—full and a little chaotic, the mark of family and friendship and kindness. Step by step, I’d like to think I’m on the right track, following that generous couple in the photo together on the swing—the one on the fridge. 

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