On this particular day, business in Braverly was slow. A few customers trickled in and left with drinks to go which meant my only distraction was the smell of freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance and dark clouds blanketed the sky. Rainy season was upon us, so we were always prepared for a downpour. While the weather swirled and tried to make up its mind about releasing buckets of rain, I took advantage of the silence, the peace. 

But on this day, my plans were interrupted when one of our Braverly women pulled up a chair next to mine, and I was reminded that some distractions aren’t what they seem. Some are actually friendships and conversations and moments together.

This day wasn’t one to relish the silence. It was a day to relish relationship.

My friend and I talked about home–about Burma, about America. We talked about our siblings and told stories of our families–about the dumb things we did together, about memories we shared with them. She told me about her family spread across on three continents—Asia, North America, and Australia. Her eyes filled with a kind of longing I’ve come to recognize. I see it when I talk with my team about our family and friends in the States. I see it when I talk to our women about their family across the world. It's a longing for home, for family, for the familiar.

On this day, I simply sat and listened and asked questions. I learned about her mother who died when she was a baby, about her grandma who helped raise her. Tears swam in her eyes when she told me how much she wanted to see her mom—even just a picture of her. As it was, no one had a single snapshot, and I thought about what it must feel like to ache so deeply. I thought about what it must feel like to lose my mom as a two month old baby. I thought about what it must feel like to wonder what my mom was like, what she looked like, if we had the same eyes or the same smile. And I ached with my friend. 

Then she said such a simple, heart-aching sentence, “It’s so hard to be away from family.” 

On that day, my friend wasn't looking for someone who had all the answers or who would tell her that everything was going to be ok. She was looking for someone who would empathize with her. She needed someone who would look into her tear-filled eyes, unafraid of the raw emotion and say something along the lines of, “I get it. I feel that too. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to wonder the way you do about your mom, but I feel an ache in my heart when I think about my mom too. I miss her. I’m there with you.” 

More and more, I’m convinced that these are some of the most valuable, most meaningful moments we can share with one another. They come when we are least expecting it—like when we're grateful for a distraction-free environment to get work done. 

Around us, people are dying to feel seen, valued, loved, and known. They are dying to know that others care about them enough to pause the important work they’re doing to simply sit and be with them.

I didn’t offer my friend some kind of life-altering truth that day. This wasn’t the conversation for that. It was the conversation to remind her that I see her. I know her. I love her. I value her. It was the conversation to honor her story and her history. It was the conversation to remind myself that this—these moments, these conversations, these opportunities—are ways we get to build the Kingdom of God. 

So here’s what I want you to do. I want you to call a friend. I want you to go out for coffee. I want you to sit down, to listen, to ask good questions. I want you to remind the people in your life that you see them, you know them, you value them, and you love them. I want you to honor them—their story, their family, their joys, and their pains. And I want you to say those beautiful, kind words. “I get it. I’ve been there too, and I’m with you now.” 

Because sometimes these are the best ways we can love those around us. 

The post When Interruptions Become Moments of Doing Life Together 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.

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.