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.

A little over a month ago, I started writing a chapter about community, and then our world went into lockdown. Ironic, isn’t it? With every word I wrote about drawing together, our world pulled further away. We locked ourselves in our homes, afraid of our neighbors. Our only connection to one another was through whatever device could connect to the internet. Social media, Marco Polo, Netflix party—none of it is bad but all of it is an attempt to fill the void of personal connection. 

I wrote over 5,000 words in this chapter, and after I read it, I wanted to vomit. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph felt like the kid who shouts “Jesus” as the answer to every Sunday school question. So I’m starting over, and I’m spending more time in prayer than in writing. Because our world is growing more and more desperate for this thing called belonging, and I long to offer something of substance rather than something cute. 

None of this is new. Virus or no virus, we wake up more lonely and afraid than yesterday. Anxiety plants seeds in our minds and traps us in an endless cycle. Panic and fear hold us behind iron bars, and we feel so alone. If only we would look to our left and right and notice the men and women standing beside us bearing their own burden called fear. 

If only we realized we’re all aching for belonging, for connection, for community. We’re aching for love, and we’re aching for our people. If you’re like me, you’ve spent more time on Facetime or Zoom or Skype in the last three weeks than ever before. And if you’re like me, you might be a little tired of it all because connecting with people while the internet buffers is so challenging. Quarantine or no quarantine, I ache for genuine connection, and so do you.

Genuine connection comes when the masks come off. Sometimes it comes with hard questions or uncomfortable silence followed by honest answers. It’s messy and awkward and vulnerable. But when we’re honest about our lives and stories, we just might find what we’re searching for—belonging.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine leaned into vulnerability during one of the most vulnerable times we’ve all experienced. She shared the messy struggles of this quarantine and created space for my own messy story. No masks. No pretending. Just honesty. And her beautiful courage took my breath away, because we experienced genuine connection.

Friend, we have to fight for this. We have to find the courage to step into vulnerability. In a day of FaceTime and Social Media where our masks sit readily available, authentic connection begs us to burn them. Cut the act. Forget the show. Stop hiding behind distractions. Come as we are, because our world fears things we never dreamed we would—like grocery stores and parks and our neighbors.

But we need our neighbors, and we need to be honest with our neighbors. Because we share courage among each other. 

Community looks different in the middle of a nation-wide quarantine, but connection doesn’t. Connection is the same struggle it was a few months ago. It extends its hand as an invitation. It calls to us, “Come. Step into vulnerability. Be honest. In community we find courage.” 

So friend, fight for connection. Share whatever courage you carry and borrow some of your friend’s. Create space for conversations that invites people to bring their truest self and bring your truest self, too. 

Because I need your courage, and you need mine.

The post Connection in Quarantine 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.

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've spent a lot of time thinking and talking about community over the years. I'm part of the generation of Christian millennials who have heard every cliché buzzword when it comes to the idea of cultivating true community. I'm also part of the generation of humans who have experienced a deep shift in what community looks like. It seems that the days of face-to-face interaction are long gone, replaced by Facetime and Facebook and feedback in the form of likes and retweets.

More times than not, I find myself swinging from one extreme to the other–all in, all the time or withdrawn and isolated.

I am an introvert. That doesn't mean I'm shy. It doesn't mean that I hate people. It just means that people don't give me energy. Lots of time with people actually drains me, and crowds are not my thing. But more times than I care to admit, I let my introverted, withdrawn tendencies pull me out of community. I let my very independent self pull me away from people who love and care about me, people who want to walk alongside me.

But these days in particular, I am so deeply aware of my need for community. I am in a new country, surrounded by new people and new language and new culture. It doesn't take long for all of this newness to become isolating. But here's what I also know: I don't allow myself to become isolated just in these new places. Sometimes, I find myself doing life alone in the most familiar of places, walking through life with people beside me but not actually taking the time to struggle through life together.

I find myself walking beside rather than walk with.

And I don't think I'm alone in this.

The idea of community means so many things to so many people. Some have been deeply wounded by community. Some have felt the pressure to conform or change or become someone they aren't in order to fit into a community. Some have experienced beauty and healing and belonging and grace in community. Some have longed for a community to belong to, feel known by, be seen by but have watched this desire go unmet for far too long.

Here's what I am certain of:
Community is hard
Community is messy
Community is complicated
And yet, community is our very inhale and exhale.

What I'm realizing is this world doesn't need one more commentary on community, on the importance of vulnerability and authenticity. We don't need more buzzwords that make people feel isolated in their struggles and striving. Maybe it's just me, but I'm tired of opinion pieces and divisive issues and emotionally and politically charged writing. More and more, I am desperate for honest conversation, honest prayers, honest experiences, honest struggles, honest joys. I am desperate for empathy and compassion and understanding and the acknowledgement that none of us do this thing of life perfectly.

These days, my goals for community look a lot like stumbling through a dance and sound a lot like desperate, honest prayers for the journey. They go something like this–

May I have the eyes to see who needs to be in my community and the discernment to know who doesn't.

May I have the courage to show up with all of myself, mess and put-togetherness.

May I cultivate relationships of vulnerability because I first chose to be vulnerable.

May I feel the freedom to be in community while still honoring the introverted person God created me to be.

May I have the grit to fight for my tribe even when it gets messy and the wisdom to know when to walk away.

May I laugh and cry with my people, inviting them into all of the spaces of my life.

May I set aside the hustler, choosing to simply be with my community rather than prove that I belong.

May I find a place I belong, even if it's with people who are so very different than me, and may I have the grace to create a place for others to belong even if we are so very different.

May our differences not cause division but create opportunities to grow and learn and struggle and stumble together.

May we gather around a table, knowing that there are those on the margins who are simply waiting for an invitation to be a part of the feast, knowing that there is always an extra seat.

May we be a people who do the dance of community–embracing vulnerability and differences and messy people. May we cultivate places for people to belong. May we cultivate places for ourselves to belong, to show up and be seen, because what I'm learning time and again is community is so much more than a buzzword or a good idea.

We were created for community.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
Our very inhale and exhale.

Who is your community?
Who are the people who should be in your community?
What are your desperate, honest prayers for community?

The post On Community appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I’m trying to wake up each morning with this at the front of my mind. That might sound depressing, waking up remembering that my time at Taylor is slowly coming to a close. But I’m trying not to think of it in a depressing way. Sure those goodbyes will be tough. I don’t enjoy thinking about the weeks following, either. I will need to find a job because banks tend to get upset if you don’t pay your loan payment each month.

I wake up with this number on my mind because I don’t want to reach May 23, 2015 and wonder where the time went. When did January become March? When did March become May? When did my first day of freshman classes become my final day of senior classes? Why did I not pay attention to the calendar? Why did I wish for the semester to go by faster?

Echoing in my mind is the simple verse in Ephesians. “Make the most of every opportunity.” In a time where my focus is less on classes, less on the people I’m around and more on what’s to come at the end of May, I’m finding that it is easy to skim the moments I’m in. Seconds pass, minutes pass, hours pass. I’m always looking to what’s ahead.

But I am here. I will never be with these people, at this university, in these moments ever again.

128 days.

That’s not that many. I have 128 marbles in my jar labeled: Undergraduate Education: Taylor University. Each day, a marble will be taken out and added to the pile of yesterdays, the pile of memories that I’ll talk about over coffee with friends. And so I’ve decided to document these days, to buy a jar and some marbles. I’ve decided to take out a marble a day, a tangible reminder that these days are coming to a close.

And that’s what this is: a reminder. A reminder to make the most of each day, each moment. A reminder to celebrate, to engage in the lives of those around me. A reminder to thank those who have invested in me. A reminder to take more pictures. A reminder to take less pictures.

Because I’m human, and I need reminders. I need marble jars. I need to remember that these days, although some might seem like torture, are numbered. Because I’m tired of reaching the end of something and wondering where the time went. I’m tired of wishing I would have realized how little time I had in those moments.

And because I don’t want to miss these days.

The post Marbles in a Jar appeared first on Kate Berkey.

But this goodbye sucked. There’s no other way to put it. I could try to make it sound more poetic, try to be a real writer. But it sucked. It was the kind of goodbye that rips a person’s heart out, stomps on it a couple of times, and tries to fit it back into her chest. I felt bruised and broken, like someone stole a part of me.

He’s more than just my brother. He’s my best friend. I love him more than chocolate or coffee or chocolate covered coffee beans. And that’s a lot.

And that’s the problem with love. Love is a terrifying thing. I find that friendships scare me sometimes, not because I’m scared of getting hurt by the other person. They scare me because I know what goodbye feels like. I know what it feels like to watch the world change before my eyes. I know what it’s like to watch a car pull out of the driveway and wonder when I will get to spend time with the person sitting in the driver’s seat.

It’s a scary thing, to care so deeply for another person.

But as I find myself reflecting on the emotions of the past week, I don’t wish for a different relationship with my brother. I don’t wish away all of the moments that grew us closer, the times that took us from siblings to friends. I don’t regret the vulnerability between the two of us, the conversations that were tough, the love spoken kindly. I don’t wish for an easier goodbye.

Because that’s the thing about people, about relationships with people, about friendships. They’re tough and messy, and they hurt . But they are beautiful. They breathe life into a person.

Tim and I don’t have the perfect relationship. We went to Italy this summer with my parents, and there were moments that we both wanted to “accidentally” leave each other at a train station. But in the end, we choose to love each other, to support each other, to encourage each other.

So Tim,

Thank you for teaching me how to be a great sibling. Thank you for all the cards of encouragement you sent to me. Thanks for being the only sibling in the world to send a Starbucks gift card to his sister just because he knows how much she loves coffee. Thanks for randomly showing up at Taylor when I least expected it, for bringing flowers. Thanks for calling even when I always forget to call you. Thanks for the hours you listened to me, cried with me, encouraged me.

You’re my biggest fan, and I am yours. I believe in you more than I believe in myself most days. Your dreams may take years to become reality. You and I are the same in that regard. But I have no doubt that someday I will sit in a theater, one hand wedged in a pack of sour gummy worms for old time’s sake and the other holding a Diet Pepsi, as your movie starts. I will cheer for you when you succeed. I will cheer for you when you fail.

It takes courage to pack up and leave home, leave the comforts and the family. Don’t lose this courage.

You made goodbye extremely hard. In the process you reminded me of why true and meaningful relationships scare me. You reminded me of when vulnerability and friendship hurt. But that’s ok because I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything.

See you soon.

The post The Scary Thing About Friendship appeared first on Kate Berkey.