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 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.

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. 

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

Last night, our plans for the evening were interrupted, and it left me feeling fuller than I had in a long time. 

We were supposed to host Braverly’s small group at our house, but after most of the food was prepared, we found out that all but one of our women was either sick or out of town for the upcoming Songkran celebrations. Sometimes life goes this way—unplanned and unpredictable, completely out of rhythm and totally beyond our control.

Instead of cancelling, we gathered whoever could come, plus some, and our house went from quiet and mellow to vibrant and colorful. Hser Na Gay, the house mom for our children’s home, brought her three daughters and Amy brought hers. Little kid chatter filled our small space and single sentences were formed with a combination of English, Burmese, and Karen. In a moment, it seemed like our air conditioners couldn’t keep up with the heat from the stove top and the number people making themselves comfortable in our house. 

And I love that. 

I am an introvert by nature, and I value a quiet home as much as my next introverted friend. But sometimes, my introvertedness means that I separate myself from others, that I push friends away, that I mistake self-care for isolation. I have learned that my life is exponentially better when I’m surrounded by a few extroverts, because through our differences, we pull out the best in each other. 

This is what Kristy does for me. She keeps my independent, introverted self soft. She keeps me close to the people who keep me going. She keeps the door to our home open—open to possibility, open to anyone, open to game nights and movie nights and sleepovers with mattresses laying side by side in the living room. She doesn’t do this all the time. After all, she’s also kind to my introverted self, but last night was one when the door to our home was open. 

People walked in without knocking. They helped themselves to cold water from the fridge. They dunked chips in salsa well before we set down to eat. They adjusted the fans and slouched on the couch. They weren’t in their home, but they were home. 

We had a lot of plans for the evening. We planned to introduced our Braverly women to burrito bowls and homemade salsas. We planned to ask them new questions, and dare them to be a little vulnerable with the group. We planned to share together, pray together, and end the night with fruit pizza. 

And all of our plans flew out the window, replaced by coloring and conversation and a quick fashion show when Hser Na Gay needed to try on a few dresses. And that’s ok, because community doesn’t demand that every gathering become a space for the hard questions or the vulnerable conversations. 

Sometimes it invites us to take off our shoes at the door and snack on a few grapes before dinner. It invites us to adjust the temperature of the aircons and sink into the pillows on the couch. It invites us to sift through the craft drawer to find markers and pieces of paper for the kiddos. It invites us to pull out toys and snuggle babies so the mammas can have a break. It invites us to simply be, to let the evening go wherever it should. 

It’s these moments—the ones of feeling at home in someone else’s home—that build something beautiful, something lasting. The masks are off. The guards are down; it’s a different kind of vulnerability, the kind you can’t name right away. It’s the vulnerability of being absolutely, truly yourself with a group of people who create the space for you to simply be. 

This is why my heart felt so full. 

We didn’t have an earth-shattering, soul-revealing conversation. We didn’t fix anyone’s problems or solve anyone’s worries. But we did find out how Hser Na Gay’s trip to Burma was. We found out how her family was doing, how her village was doing. We heard another terrible pun from Meghan and realized that Kayla also had a few puns to add to the mix. We heard Chichi and Nono practice their English and watched Joy come alive as she played with other toddlers. We heard about all the big and little things that happened in each other’s days, and sometimes that feels just as important as hard questions and vulnerable conversations.

Because you can’t have one without the other. 

Because sometimes you need evenings when everyone slouches on the couch, takes turns snuggling babies, fills up bowls of rice and beans and salsa, and does the little, simple things of life that maybe aren’t as simple and little as we think. 

The post Why We Need the Simple and Little Things of Life to Build Lasting Community appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I haven't done a lot of work recently.

Don't get me wrong. I have been working and checking off things from my to-do list, but more than not, these last few weeks have been filled with stops and starts. They've been the kinds of days and weeks when what seems the main thing is not the main thing.

As I write this, one of my very best friends is across from me. We're at Braverly on a busy Saturday afternoon, and she is graciously giving me the space to check off a few things from my list. This friend travelled all the way from Indiana to visit me, and it still feels like a dream that she is here, that we have spent the last few days navigating Bangkok traffic, biking through Mae Sot, eating my very favorite foods in town. It seems like a dream that she spent the time and money to step into this world and life that I love so very much.

Last month, my parents stepped away from their lives to step into mine, and at the end of this month, two more friends from Indiana will do the same. And as much as I love these visitors, I've found myself a little at war with the Northern Indiana Kate inside of me.

I was raised in a culture that worships hard work. People in Northern Indiana bow to the idol of a good work ethic, of working hard and working late, of getting things done. We are self-made people, the "pull-yourself-up-by-your-boot-straps" kind of people. We like the kind of tangible results you can hold in your hand.

These last few weeks have held very little that is tangible. They've held more conversations than to-do lists. They've held more moments of doing life together than working late. I think life needs both the hard work and the life together, but these days, I'm more grateful for these moments of conversation and life-on-life moments and the space for exploration.

Here's what I've learned–sometimes what seems like the main thing is not the main thing.

Sometimes the most important thing isn't to check off things from the to-do list or stress over deadlines. Sometimes the most important thing isn't to work late, work tirelessly, work until you can't work anymore. And when we mistake these things for the most important things all the time, we miss the beautiful and holy that surround us–like people, like relationships, like the things you can't measure, like the things that never stick to a deadline.

These days the most important thing has looked like sitting with my parents at the border so they could see No Man's Land for themselves. It has looked like baking with my mom and our women at Braverly. It has looked like sharing the story of the book project with my very best friend. It has looked like having honest and vulnerable conversations about the book's content and being surprised by the way our dialogue leads to richer writing. It has looked like biking through town with my sweet friend, sweating through our clothes in the near 100 degree temperature. It has looked like introducing people I love from the States to people I love from Thailand and Burma and beyond.

Sometimes what seems like the main thing isn't the main thing.

So these days I'm not getting much done on my to-do list. Even writing this blog post has taken much longer than it should have because of distractions. But these distractions, I'm learning, are not always bad. More times than not, they are gifts, things that will slip away in a moment if I don't recognize them.

These days, I'm looking for those moments, those distractions, those incredible, beautiful, holy gifts.

These moments, they are the main thing in this season.

The post Sometimes the main thing isn’t the main thing appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This is what I love. This is the place I love.

Recently, Troy and I made plans with friends we’d been trying to spend time with for months. We’d planned to go out to eat, maybe grab a pizza or wings or burgers or any one of the nearby options, but instead we invited them to my house. We traded a crowded restaurant for a home, and for me, I felt a silly giddiness about it all. My heart of was filled with excitement knowing that we would end the day at the table, forks and knives scrapping against one another, glasses of lemonade being filled and refilled, cups of coffee brewing well into the evening. My love affair with flavors and this place was all-consuming as Troy and I brainstormed and planned and shopped.

This, not that. What about this recipe? What if we tried that? Do these flavors go together?

Instead of rushing to make all the food before our friends came, we decided to cook together once everyone arrived. The four of us gathered in the kitchen, munching on heaping bowls of fresh cherries and strawberries as we cooked and talked and chopped and diced. In a moment, this room that was once quiet now echoed with the sound of laughter and conversation and knives hitting the cutting boards. It seemed to shrink as the four of us worked, one of us cutting sweet potatoes, the other chopping chicken, one slicing pineapple, the other squeezing lemon juice into a pitcher. We made messes and memories, bumping into one another, adjusting the oven temperature and lighting the grill.

And as we worked, we talked. We talked about relationships and about the future. We talked about hopes and dreams, about what “ideal” looked like. We talked about jobs and college and careers. But more than that, we laughed because food and joy should always walk hand in hand.

After the final timer went off, we gathered at the table where a place was set for each of us. And this is the beauty of dinners around the table. After cooking, there was a spot for each to come and sit and be. The kitchen, I’ve found, is a place of hurry and work and timing, and the table is a place of rest. This space, if you let it, is a place of contentment, of slowing down, of laughter, and of kindness. It’s a place that invites conversation and questions, a place that creates the space for friendships to form and to deepen.

In the chaos of life, in the busyness of weeks, it seems that there is little time for this space. We are a culture that runs off of fast food, microwave dinners, pre-made meals that only need to be thrown in the oven. We rarely take the time to cut and chop and dice together, let alone sit at that table.

But that evening, I found that the table created a safe place. We spent hours there, laughing and chatting, snitching food from pans instead of our plates. The table became the place where we could show our truest selves and be met by kindness and grace. Just as we found nourishment for our bodies, we found nourishment for our souls, for the parts of ourselves that longed to connect with others, to truly be seen.

Of course, the table isn’t the only place where these kinds of connections happen, but to me, it has proven time and again to be the best. Because the table invites people to come as they are, allergies and preferences and pickiness included. The table has a place set for everyone, a plate waiting for anyone, a cup, a fork, a spoon, a napkin, a knife for all. And when we take the time to create this kind of place for people, to invite people and to love people through food, through a seat around our table, something holy happens.

In the midst of laughter and silliness, joking and eating, we just may find our souls at rest, connecting more deeply with those we sit with. Our God is a God of connecting, of listening, of loving people. Our God is a God of creating spaces for people to enter. Our God is a God who invites people to himself, to come as they are, their messes and memories included. Our God is a God who nourishes us in the deepest ways, watering our parched and dry souls when we allow him to.

And in a small way, this is what dinners around the table have the potential to do. If we allow Him, if we create space and carve out time for moments, the God of the truest form of hospitality is present at the table, in the conversation and the laughter.

May we be a people who invite and create space and listen and love. May we be a people who work together, who make memories and messes as we try to create something beautiful. May we be a people who set a place, who save a chair for others.

And may we be a people who gather around the table.

The post On Dinners Around the Table appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This is how the Berkeys usher in the new year.

But this isn’t the only time in 2014 that a person could find us celebrating. We celebrated March 10, the day we met Finley Sophia. We celebrated May 24, the day Nick and Mary got married. We celebrated Nick and Mary’s graduation from college at the end of July with a trip to Mexico. We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries. We celebrated homecomings and weekends together. We celebrated those rare times Notre Dame Football actually came out with a win.

My family loves to celebrate yet so many days go by with little celebration.

I’m a celebrate-every-moment-you-can kind of person. I get tired of the mundane. Skeptics and cynics steal life from me. I love a good party with the people who I love most. Tonight as I sit around the fondue pots with my brothers and friends, my niece and my parents, the people who have attended our party for years, I’m going to be celebrating 2014. I’m celebrating the final year of college. I’m celebrating the friendships that have lasted another year. I’m celebrating the times I wanted to pull out my hair, those 26.2 miles of the marathon. I’ll be celebrating the good things like the day my niece was born. And I’ll be celebrating the tough things like fear of what’s to come at the end of May.

Because these good and these tough things remind me that I am alive. And that’s worth celebrating.

What are you celebrating from 2014?

The post Celebration-The Reminder That I’m Still Alive appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I’m finding that Sunday’s marathon is this terrible, wonderful event. In less than six hours I experienced the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I felt invincible, and I felt like someone was repeatedly punching me in the gut. So how did it go? Hard seems like an understatement.

As my dad and I walked to the start line, I remember choking back tears and saying, “I didn’t imagine how much courage it would take to make it to the start line.”

Courage was the theme of the day.

“Courage. Courage to start. Courage to run. Courage to finish. Courage to try hard. Courage to trust. Courage to begin something that will get a lot worse before it gets better.”

I wrote that in my journal two days before the marathon. I had no way of knowing just how true those words would be on race day.

The race started out perfectly, well minus a few hiccups in the starting corrals. My dad and I ran our goal time each mile. I ran my fastest half marathon. But I knew something wasn’t right. My stomach was turning, and my body felt as if it were bracing for something terrible. Mile 13.1, the halfway point, provided that terrible. I experienced some of the worst stomach issues that I’ve yet to face in my life. My dad and I slowed to a walk because running made everything ten times worse. We walked from aid station to aid station. Quitting was not an option.

Runners like to talk about the wall, the invisible barrier that hits them during a long run. The wall usually hits in the upper miles, 18-22. For me, it hit at mile 15. At that point we had walked for 2 miles, I felt as sick as ever, and our pace was slower than a grandma on an electric scooter. We still had 11 miles to go, and quitting wasn’t an option. My dad wrapped his arm around me as we walked, as if protecting me from my own thoughts.

“Only 11 more to go.”

The streets of Chicago are wet with a lot of my tears.

Because in that moment, I was not brave. I was feeling all kinds of hopeless. Everything in my body hurt, and I was pretty sure my stomach was trying to murder me. Each step took us farther from the city yet closer to the finish line. My mom and best friend were waiting for us at mile 21.5, another 6.5 miles away. I trained for this race for months, woke up early to do training runs, altered my schedule and my diet. Race day was not supposed to go like this. I was better than this.

Every couple of miles it would hit me: I was walking 10 miles of my  first marathon. The voices in my head were busy that day. They were ruthless, and it took every ounce of energy to tell them to take a hike.

After another onslaught from these thoughts, my  dad said the words that defined the day.

“Courage is not persisting when everything is going well. Courage is persisting when everything falls apart.”

When people ask me about race day, a picture immediately pops into my head. My mom and best friend were still waiting for us at mile 21.5 even though we were hours late in getting there.The voices in my head told me that when I saw them, they were going to be incredibly disappointed in me. They were going to tell me to suck it up. They were going to tell me that I was better than this.

Isn’t it funny the kinds of games our thoughts play on us? They turn family and friends into enemies. They conjure up lies that tear us down.

Because when I saw them, they were cheering. My friend ran out to me on the course, breaking many spectator rules for race day. She wrapped her arm around me and walked with me. My mom told me that I was her hero as she joined us on the course. I’ve never held so tightly to two people in my life.

Seeing them, hearing their words, gave me the courage to continue on.

I was not very brave on Sunday.

I was not very positive.

But I’d like to think that I was courageous.

Because everything fell apart that day.

Everything.

But my dad and I finished. Thanks to some medicine, we ran the last three miles.

We finished strong. We finished battered, blistered, and sore.

But we finished courageous.

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