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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have seen this tree a thousand times since I moved into my house a year ago. Day after day after day I drive by this tree. In the fall, I’m sure I saw its many leaves change from green to gold to red to orange. I’m sure I saw it bloom this spring, its blossoms swaying in the wind. I’m sure I’ve seen it every day.

Today was the first day I noticed this tree.

Today was the first day I noticed the green of its leaves, the kind of green from a Crayola factory. Today was the first day I noticed the way it bends and twists and curves, the way it stretches so high in the sky. Today was the first day I noticed it through the window panes of my front porch.

A million tiny, beautiful gifts cascade from the Father to my life. They come in the form of trees, of clear blue skies, of coffee dates and dinner dates and movie nights with friends. A million tiny, beautiful gifts cascade, and I notice very few.

Instead of gratitude, my heart constantly seems to be penetrated by a subtle yet powerful darkness—discontent, wanting more. Always discontent. Always wanting more. This darkness looks like comparison, like discouragement, like seeking and seeking and seeking. Rushing and rushing and rushing. What’s new? What’s next? What’s better? Anything is better than this.

And while I don’t believe I am alone in the struggle, I think those who wrestle with this kind of discontentment fail to talk about the deep darkness that comes with a heart that always seeks more, seeks the new, the next, the better.

It seems it is a struggle against God himself, against the place and the purpose and the plans he has set me in. It seems it is a struggle against his goodness and his faithfulness, a struggle against his love and his grace. It seems it is a struggle against the good and beautiful and perfect things he has placed in my life day after day after day after day.

Like the air I breathe in and out. Like the roof over my head. Like the warmth of my bed.

Like this tree that bends and twists and curves.

In recent weeks, I began to peel back the layers of my discontented soul and heard a small whisper from the Lord, a still small voice that begged me to step an inch closer to the Father’s heart.

Pause. Notice. Be grateful.

It was a call to push out the darkness, to push out the discontentment. It was a call to enter into thankfulness, to dependence, to joy.

So I’ve created a new habit. Every morning, I find my way to the front porch. Some days I am wide awake. Other days I fight off sleep with every step. In the stillness of my peaceful town, I pause and notice, and as I notice, I make a list of ten things I am grateful for. And each evening after I climb into bed, I pause and notice, and as I notice, I make a list of ten things I am grateful for. Every morning, every evening, a list of ten things.

After a little while of this, I began to notice new things. I noticed a million tiny, beautiful gifts that daily wash over my life. I noticed the sound of birds outside. I noticed the smell of the early-morning air. I noticed laughter shared with friends.

I noticed my tree.

And my heart that was so detached from the gifts of the Father began to beat a bit differently. The darkness has begun to run because there is little place for discontentment when there is gratitude. There is little place for comparison when there is joy. And inch by inch, I feel as if this gratitude takes my hand and walks me a step closer to the heart of Jesus.

My list of ten things each morning and ten things each evening are small steps. They are small stakes in the ground that declare the work of the Father. They draw attention to the details he is orchestrating, to the gifts he has given.

They point out the things I have passed by a thousand times and never once noticed. They point out only a few of the million tiny, beautiful gifts that cascade from the Father. And they beckon my heart to the heart of the Father. They call my soul to rest and rejoice, to say thank you, to point out the beauty of this incredible life I have been given.

And they point out trees, trees that bend and curve and twist. Those big and beautiful trees.

The post Pause. Notice. appeared first on Kate Berkey.