It was an honor.
It was a privilege. 
It was humbling. 

I made sure to take off my shoes before I walked into the friend of my friend’s home partly because of culture and partly because of that verse in Exodus. I still believe holy ground exists in things that seem completely mundane or simply different or quite possibly even extraordinary.  

On this night, my friends and I were completely and utterly stuffed after a dinner of curry and naan and rice pudding and sweet donuts soaked in syrup and oil. Each of us tried to stretch our pants a little before sitting on the floor around the family’s table. Kids seemed to come from out of nowhere in this Chicago one bedroom apartment. They crowded around the table with us, focusing on the cartoon playing on the iPad rather than the ragtag group in their living room. Their sweet mother and auntie disappeared into the kitchen despite our constant pleas. 

“Please come sit with us.”
“We don’t need any food.”
“Sit here.” 
“Oh, thank you for the noodles.”
“Please come sit with us.”
“We came to be with you.” 

It was hospitality at its finest, especially to our dear friends from Burma. They passed heaping plates of fried noodles and giant glasses of fruit punch around the table until we all had more than enough. We exhaled slowly, unsure of how another bite of food would fit into our bellies. But this family had given out of what they had, and we would try desperately to honor them. 

Only when we were all happily eating did the sweet mother sit with us—wrapping her beautifully colored skirt around her feet. We did not come to be served by her. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 

We came to be with this family. We came to be with this sweet mother.

As chatter swirled around the room, I saw her fidgeting beside me, fumbling on her phone. I saw the picture then—her son, brand new and beautiful. She passed the phone over me to the friend she knew more than the stranger next to her. 

It was a sacred moment of pride and sorrow like how I imagine Moses’ mother must have felt when she floated him in a basket that she prayed would save him from the river's current and the depths below. 

This boy—her brand new baby—did not come out crying. He did not come out breathing. This sweet mother pushed and cried through pain to give birth to a baby who wasn’t alive. They called him stillborn, but this was not his name. 

We did not come to be served. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 
We came to be with sweet mother. 

In that sterile hospital room just weeks before, there were tears. There were cries. But it didn’t come from her baby. It came from sweet mother and sweet father—refugees in this strange land trying to build a home and life for their family. And in the weeks since this story-defining moment, there would be more tears—from the pain of recovering from childbirth, from the replaying of that moment in her mind, from the moments she could almost feel her son’s body in her arms only to look down and see nothing and no one. 

Often, I write about brave living—how it turns up in the most unexpected places. I’m not going to pretend that I was brave in that moment. I was speechless; I could only reach over and put my hand on sweet mother’s knee. The chatter and the cartoon playing in the background faded. It was a moment for my friend and sweet mother and me—the random stranger who was lucky enough for an invitation to the table. 

Brave living—in that moment—belonged to this sweet mother. Because she did not continue to serve us. She did not stay busy. She did not hide in the kitchen. She sat with her friend and a stranger. And she pulled out one of the only pictures she will ever have of her baby called stillborn. She passed him to us, one of the greatest treasures and sorrows of her heart.

And all we could say was, “He is so beautiful. He is cúndoijja.” 

We made sweet mother smile at the sound of our terrible pronunciation of this beautiful Rohingya word. Her smile, another act of bravery. 

I had no business being in this room, in this space with such a sweet mother—the kind who comforts her crying children, who finds refuge in a new country for their safety, who tries to teach them parts of their culture in a brand new place so different from the old. I had been invited to holy ground that was found in the sacred ordinary. I was surrounded by bravery and humbled by my place at the table. 

We did not come to be served. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 

We came to be with sweet mother—the bravest one in the room. 

The post Stumbling into Holy Ground Moments Around the Table of Refugees appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This week I stepped into a room filled with people who were there to hear from Kristy and me, ask questions, and see for themselves the work we’ve poured ourselves into. Nothing felt more vulnerable than stepping into that space, prying our hands open to let others see the dream we have cultivated for so long. We had one hour to explain it all, and for the sake of our translator, we had to simplify our words while still sharing the most important and complex details. We had to speak about things that are deeply personal to us, ready to hear any critiques the group had. 

This is living brave. 

On the back wall of Braverly, our mantra is painted in big, bold letters. 

Live brave. Dream bravely. Influence bravery.

It’s actually the inspiration for the book we’re writing, the heartbeat of it all. It’s a challenge we give to our women all the time. Daily, they are put in situations that force them to either face their fears and insecurities or run away. Over the years, our women have conquered so much— like the fear of trying something new, like the fear of looking silly, like the fear of failing. 

And here’s the beautiful thing: they are at their best when they choose to live brave every day.

This challenge to live brave, dream bravely, and influence bravery isn’t just for our women. It’s a charge for us. It’s a charge for me. It’s a charge for you.

I have a friend in the States who tries to do something that scares her every day, and she’s my hero. She refuses to let fears or insecurities control her. Instead, she leans into them, knowing that the place she feels the most fear is the place the Father longs to use her the most. 

Sometimes I need to sit with that truth, cling to it, and remind my heart of it. The place I feel the most fear is the place the Father longs to use me the most. 

I remember first hearing that on a podcast by Jonathon David and Melissa Helser, and it continues to rock my world. I can’t fully describe the fear that comes with writing a book, knowing it will get rejected by some agents and publishers. I can’t explain the fear that comes with vulnerably telling some of my story on the pages of said book. I can’t describe the fear that comes when I simply allow people to see the book writing process, people who have the power to question it all. 

We all have these kinds of fears, right? It surrounds our work, our relationships, our place in this world, and for me so much of this fear comes from the feeling of vulnerability. 

Sharing my ideas, opening myself up to criticism, trying something new, sharing my story—all of these things invite vulnerability into my life. It’s so much easier to write in my journal than on my blog. It’s so much easier to keep certain ideas to myself than honestly share them in a meeting. It’s so much easier to gloss over my story than share the really messy parts. 

It’s much harder to step into a room, to take a seat at the table, and share my heart, my work, my ideas, and my story with a group of people. It’s much harder to invest time and effort and energy when there is uncertainty or risk at the end of the conversation. 

But brave living calls us to show up and be seen. It calls us to say yes when our entire body screams no! Brave living is an everyday choice. Sometimes it’s a moment by moment choice. It doesn’t always mean getting on an airplane and moving across the world. Please hear the truth of that, because sometimes brave living is simply looking at the person across the table and saying, “I love you.” Sometimes it’s taking a new job. Sometimes it’s being vulnerable with others. Sometimes it’s going to the small group that seems like it might never click. Sometimes it’s sending that email or text that may never get a response. 

And sometimes it’s learning to sew a bag you don’t know if people will buy. Sometimes it’s figuring out how to make a bagel from scratch. Sometimes it’s making a home in a new country and culture because that’s what’s best your family’s future generations.

If there’s one thing these last nine months have taught me, it’s that living brave is such a daily choice that transcends culture. Our stories are littered with the big and little decisions to live brave, but they are just that—decisions. 

This week, Kristy and I decided to show up and be seen. We shared our dreams, our hearts, and our vision uncertain of how they would be received. We decided to live brave. 

And tomorrow and next week and the week after, we will show up and be seen again. We will share our dreams, our hearts, our vision without knowing the outcome. 

We will choose to live brave. 

What does it look like for you to live brave today? 

The post What it Actually Means to Live Brave appeared first on Kate Berkey.