It’s why I need to remember that I don’t make the trees grow. I don’t make the sun rise or cause the seasons to change. On my own, I don’t say much of significance—the kind of eternal echoes that last past my final breath.

This striver, this prover, this stamp on my skin that I wear like a badge of honor pushes the Father away, makes me the hero of the story. Oh how I wish this was a new conversation, new prayers of repentance, but it’s not. It’s as old as I am—26 years of letting go of the idol called proving. 

About a year ago, I sat with the Father in my Mae Sot home. On that day He whispered to my heart, “Ask me what your name is.” 

The beauty and sacredness of this deeply personal invitation still takes my breath away. On that day, I asked, hoping against all the doubts in my mind that He would answer. Isn’t it funny that even when we’ve been invited into a conversation with the Father, our heart still wonders if we’ll encounter Him? 

“What’s my name?”

Beloved.

The word came almost immediately, as if the Father had been waiting every day of my life for me to finally hear this name. I believe this wasn’t the first time this name had left His lips. It was just the first time I’d heard it—the first time it had broken through the noise, the working, the proving, the doubts.

Beloved.

It’s the name the Father sung over the Son before His ministry had really begun. It was a name based not on performance but on family. He was the Beloved because he was the Son. And I am the Beloved because I am the daughter—a name, a calling, an identity based not on my track record, my tireless work, my endless striving, but on family.

And, friend, He calls you Beloved too.

This truth catches me off guard every time. It captivates me and reminds me, once again, of the truth. Time and again, the Father tells me to rest in this name, in His love and delight. Day after day He tells me to start here—rested in the name He’s given me. This name, this family, this identity is enough because He is enough. 

Friends, our culture values numbers and efficiency. Success is defined by how many people we influence, how much money we make, how many likes and shares and retweets we boast. We reach greater status by the number of notches on our belt—the people we know, our instagram-worthy house, name brand anything. So we work and we strive and we prove that we are good enough. We are capable. We have arrived. 

But if you’re like me, sooner or later you begin to understand that you control nothing. You are here today and gone tomorrow. You are trending right now but will be old news in an instant. People value and praise you until next comes along—and it always comes quicker than we expect. 

Today, I am humbled by my own humanness, but more than that, I am humbled by my Father’s delight in me. I’m humbled by the name He’s given me—Beloved. This place of family, this belonging in relationship moves me to gratitude. I hold my empty hands and beg my good Father to fill them up. I am reminded that until I can rest—find “enough” in the name the Father gives me—I will never find the exit ramp for this thing called proving and neither will you. 

So friend—brother and sister, father and mother, aunt and uncle in Christ—put down your striving. Put down your need to prove—whatever that looks like for you. Throw down these idols, and call on the Father. I believe that He’s not far—that my experience with Him in the middle of Thailand is not unique to our relationship. 

He waits beside you, begging you to ask, “What’s the name You call me?”

Believe—in spite of all doubt—that He wants to answer you, and remember that this name isn’t new. It’s been sung over you from the beginning of time. It’s time for us to rest in the name the Father gives us. 

The post One of the Most Important Questions We Can Ask the Father appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Here are a few things you should know about me—I am a sucker for dancing in the kitchen while dinner cooks on the stove and Frank Sinatra’s voice plays in the background, and I’m an absolutely terrible dancer.

I stumble and fumble my way through a song, usually opting to simply sway back and forth. I rely heavily on the leader, which, for the record, should never be me. Sometimes, I spend more time worrying about what others might think of me than actually enjoying the simple joy of dancing. All in all, I am the very definition of out of place and awkward.

So often, this is what my relationship with the Father feels like. This is what the growing pains of our relationship feel like—like stumbling, like awkward steps, like stopping, like starting over, like learning to let Him lead. 

But as I let him lead, I’ve seen time and again that He delights in the process. He delights in the journey. He delights in the steps forward and backward. He delights in watching me us the gifts He gave me. He delights in singing over me. He delights in walking me through this journey, this process, this step-by-step dance. He corrects, and He guides. He pauses to take my face in His hands, to remind me of who I am and whose I am. He reminds me of grace. He reminds me of love. He reminds me to let Him lead. 

I’ve spent too much of my life comparing myself to others, worrying about what others might think, wondering if my story, my thoughts, my voice, my experiences matter compared to everyone else.

It’s exhausting, am I right? 

It has left me feeling like I’m not good enough, like I’ll never measure up, like my gifts don’t matter, like I don’t have anything to offer. Step by step the Father leads me through this dance, but I find myself asking if He meant to dance with someone else.

That other girl seems to have her life together. That guy is a natural and empowered leader. She seems to have a direct line of communication with the Holy Spirit. He is courageously outspoken.

Didn’t He mean to pick the extrovert, the front-of-the-room leader?
Didn’t He mean to pice that super talented person?
Didn’t He mean to pick someone else, anyone else? 

In those moments, I find myself saying words so deeply similar to Gideon. 

But I’m not that strong. I’m the youngest in my family. I’m only 25. I’m a girl in a world full of mostly male leaders and pastors and teachers. I’m just a writer. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. 

I stare at my feet, focusing on my stumbling and fumbling, too afraid to look up at the Father, let alone look around at those who might be better at this dance than I am. But in a moment of courage, when I actually lift my eyes to His face, I am surprised to find that He was always focused on me, that I was always the one He picked to dance with.

These days, I am trying to dance with courage, to follow Jesus with courage, to embrace the gifts He’s given me with courage. For me, this looks like writing with more courage, because writing is what I do. It’s who I am. I can’t run from it. Trust me, I’ve tried. I think we all have things that we’ve tried to run from—that gift or talent or thing the Father has put in our hands. Sometimes this gift makes us feel alive and content and deeply joyful. Sometimes it leaves us feeling vulnerable and weak and like a failure, and so we try to escape it.

But the thing we feel the most fear about is the very thing the Father longs to use the most to build His kingdom. 

A couple of weeks ago, when I felt like I was drowning in doubts and insecurities and questions about who the Father created me to be and what He designed me to do, He took me to Isaiah 44:8. Day after day, this verse continues to rock my world. In its simplicity, I find myself breathless and overwhelmed. 

Do not tremble. Do not be afraid. Did I not proclaim my purposes for you long ago?

There is a story inside of you and I. There is a song, a melody. There is a dream, a mission, a purpose. There is something so deeply holy inside of us, something that is sacred and beautiful, something that the Father planted so very long ago. He longs to move you and I past fear and into freedom. He longs to use our very gifts to build the Kingdom and help others experience the love and freedom and joy and life of Jesus. 

He longs to lead us through this dance.

The Father is not asking you to speak alone, to sing alone, to pursue the dream alone. He’s not asking us to do this dance alone, to stumble and fumble and fall down. I believe that if we look up from our trembling hands, if we steady our knocking knees long enough, we will see the Father looking at us with his arm outstretched. I believe that we will hear the invitation in His voice, see the invitation in His eyes, feel the invitation in the gentle way He pulls us into the dance. 

Courage, dear heart. Courage for the journey. Courage for the process. Courage for the gifts. Courage for the risks. Courage for the vulnerability. Courage for the fear. Courage for the stumbles. Courage for the starts and stops.

Courage for the dance—the one our Father delights in leading us through. 

The post Why the Father delights in our dance, even if we stumble and fumble our way through it appeared first on Kate Berkey.