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

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

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

A Generous Portion

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

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

This is abundance. 

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

Abundance in Advent

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

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

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

Abundance, am I right? 

But then
After all this

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

Abundance. 

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

Abundance. 

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

Emmanuel.
God with us.

Abundance. 

Abundance in Our Everyday Lives

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

I get it. 

I’ve been there. 

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

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

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

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

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

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.