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—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. 

The post What my Grandparent’s Fridge Teaches You and Me appeared first on Kate Berkey.

My peers are chasing successful careers.
They're married and having babies.
They're buying homes and puppies and paying mortgages.

Meanwhile...
I'm single.
I'm a writer and support-raising missionary.
I'm in-between cities which means bunking at my parent's house for a minute.
I don't live in a place long enough for a dog, and the jury is still out on when I will buy a house.
And I can't help but feel behind.

Woof.

Isn't that a crummy thought? It's not a new one for me; I've battled with the voice that tells me I'm behind, that I can't keep up, that I won't catch up for years. That voice says words like "should" or "supposed to." It tempts me to run faster and harder and berates me when I trip over my own feet. 

As I stumble and fall and lag behind, I look around at those around me and wonder what's wrong with me.

Why can't I keep up? 

This week I was—again—asking these questions of myself and that still small trusted voice of my Father whispered, "Because you're trying to run a race that was never intended for you." 

Punch in the gut. 

I think sometimes, no matter how successful or put together we look on the outside, we find ourselves looking around when we're sure no one's watching. We watch family and friends and complete strangers who seem to have "arrived" and wonder when we missed the train. We hold tightly to that idol called comparison and cling to it as if our entire worth depends on it. We call ourselves to standards we could or should never meet, because at the end of the day, your race is not mine and mine is not yours. 

When I step back long enough, I remember the truth—I love my job. I love my life. I really don't want yours. That's your story to live, and I'll take mine.

Somedays, though, our identity shifts. It becomes wrapped up in things we can measure and pursue and aim for. And suddenly, we find ourselves stuck in a race we will never win. 

And it's exhausting.

There's this curious verse in Colossians 4. It's a single line near the end of Paul's messages to individuals in the city, and it simply says, "And say to Archippus, 'Be sure to carry out the ministry the Lord gave you.'”

I love this verse. It might become my new life motto—minus the change in name—because in the midst of these words to people in the church, Paul singles this guy out. He doesn't say that his ministry is better or worse than anyone else. He doesn't ask him why he's not further along in the project, why he hasn't reached a certain milestone. It's almost as if this guy just needs a reminder. Like you and I need a reminder. Your ministry is important, so be sure to do the work the Lord gave you. 

So friend, do this with me—let go of that grip on comparison. Pick yourself up and disqualify yourself from the race you're in. Walk to the starting line of your own and begin again. Your race will not look like mine, and mine will not look like yours. That's all kinds of wonderful and beautiful and extraordinary. 

Be sure to carry out the ministry the Lord gave you, because only you can. And dear friend, our world desperately needs you to run your own race. 

The post Hey, Maybe This isn’t Your Race to Run appeared first on Kate Berkey.

On these days, I’m faced with a choice. Do I call it out, encourage it to come into the light, to take up space in my cluttered mess? Or do I let it be? Do I bypass the difficult work of choosing joy when cynicism or complaining or comparison seem to be much easier? 

In this particular season, joy has felt distant and difficult. As my world spins in the chaos of transition and change and the in-between, it becomes more and more challenging to lean into this thing called joy. It becomes more and more challenging to rejoice, to sing and celebrate, to rest in hope. And I have a feeling I’m not the only one in this battle. 

I bet I’m not the only person who fights for joy. I think more of us, if we had the courage to admit it, find joy a bit challenging. Joy is a choice. Joy is vulnerable. Joy is risky. Joy is difficult. 

But joy is also life. It’s hope and grace. Joy is beauty. It’s holy and sacred. 

Joy is worth fighting for, and it starts with gratitude.

Gratitude changes our hearts, doesn’t it? It’s so very hard to complain, to be cynical, to compare ourselves with others when we practice gratitude. Gratitude calls us home. It calls us to the place we belong—a place of rest in the Father. It reminds us that this very big and beautiful and complicated world isn’t about us. 

And aren’t these the kinds of reminders we need every day. On the days we can’t seem to get out of our own head. On the days when our circumstances feel overwhelming. On the days when we have more questions than answers. On the days when the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t even the tiniest dot. 

Gratitude is our guard, the sword we draw as we charge into battle. It’s our song, our hallelujah, the foundation of true and holy life in abundance. It’s a daily decision. Gratitude does not just appear. It needs exercised. It’s a practice.

For me, this practice looks like list-making. Daily adding moments of gratitude—big and little, subtle and obvious. 

A warm blanket in a cold room.
An overwhelmingly generous support report for the month. 
Running without getting chased by street dogs.
Eating fresh blueberries by the fistful. 
Catching up with an old friend. 
Coffee in the morning. 

It’s not revolutionary or innovative. But I think that’s the point. Gratitude calls us to a place of profound simplicity—to the deeply beautiful basics of our life. 

And from the shadows, gratitude beckons joy. It invites joy to take up space and tells complaints and comparison and cynicism to move out. Gratitude puts us in a posture of humility and grace and dependency. Gratitude reminds us that even in our most scattered, fractured, splintered seasons, the Father remains faithful. He is still good. He is still God. 

On your feet now—applaud God!
     Bring a gift of laughter,
     sing yourselves into his presence.
Know this: God is God, and God, God.
     He made us; we didn’t make him.
     We’re his people, his well-tended sheep.
Enter with the password: “Thank you!”
     Make yourselves at home, talking praise.
     Thank him. Worship him.
For God is sheer beauty,
     all-generous in love,
     loyal always and ever.
Psalm 100 (The Message)

Today and tomorrow and the next day, may we choose gratitude and joy. Let’s choose to see beauty in the big and the little, the subtle and the obvious. Let’s choose to do the courageous work of calling out joy from the shadows, choosing it over cynicism, complaints, and comparison. 

Gratitude will be our guard, the sword we draw as we run into battle. 

May we be people who choose gratitude, and in doing so, choose joy. 

The post The Simple Practice that Changes [Almost] Everything appeared first on Kate Berkey.

On one of my drives back to Taylor after a weekend at home, I found myself in tears. This was not uncommon, but the hopelessness in my heart was new. I was done. I was tired of doing something hard. I just wanted something easy.

And then a song came on my iPod, one that I skipped before because I didn’t know the words. At this particular moment, though, I didn’t have the energy to drive and find a song that I wanted to listen to. So it played, and it made the tears come harder.

The song was “Called Me Higher,” by All Sons and Daughters. Its powerful lyrics rocked my world that day on County Road 46 in New Paris, Indiana.

And I could hold on
I could hold on to who I am and never let You
Change me from the inside
And I could be safe
I could be safe here in Your arms and never leave home
Never let these walls down

But You have called me higher
You have called me deeper
And I’ll go where You will lead me Lord
You have called me higher
You have called me deeper
And I’ll go where You lead me Lord
Where You lead me
Where You lead me Lord

Before college, I wanted to do great and hard things for God. I prayed tough prayers. I asked him to send the challenges my way. I was ready.

In reality, I wasn’t. I wasn’t ready for the change, for the uncomfortable situations, for the new friendships that I needed to form. I wanted nothing more than to stay at home where I was comfortable.

Thankfully, I didn’t drop out of school and move back home. That would have been a huge mistake. Last night I was reminded of this at an All Sons and Daughters Concert. As they played “Called me Higher,” I was reminded of God’s incredible faithfulness. Two years ago I could not have imagined the place I am now. I could not have imagined the person I am now. I could not have imagined all of the blessings God was going to bring. I am surrounded by friends, by mentors, by a supportive community. I still find it hard to leave home, but home has become interchangeable between the home I have in Nappanee and the home I have in Upland.

And now as college winds down, I’m holding onto this story. The story of a nineteen year old girl crying as she drove back to school. The story of that song, of the days, the weeks, the months that followed. The story that drips with hope, hardships, and home. The story that brought friends who feel more like brothers and sisters. I know that the next chapter of this story will include a new level of uncomfortable. It’s unknown and it’s risky. It makes my heart beat faster. It tends to keep me up at night.

It’s not what I would choose. But even still:

And I could be safe
I could be safe here in Your arms and never leave home
Never let these walls down

But you have called me higher.

God has planned a life for me greater than I could ever imagine. Even when I cannot see His plan, I will remember that He has called me higher.

The post Called Me Higher appeared first on Kate Berkey.