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.

It was the end of May in Northern Indiana, and it seemed as if the torrential downpour would never stop. I remember the way the rain pounded on the roof of the tiny cottage almost the entire weekend. I remember the way the water soaked the ground until the earth couldn’t absorb anymore. I remember the sound the drops made on the metal roof—loud, resounding, like the steady beat of a million drums. I remember watching the rain hit the windows, seeing it trace lines down the glass.

And I remember the way it seemed like the dirt and grim of my own life were being washed away. I remember the way the healing waters seemed to soak my raw and bleeding soul until I couldn’t absorb a drop more. I remember the way truths beat on the walls around my heart and mind, busting through an exterior built by lies and insecurities and doubts.

I remember the state of my humanity as I sat on the small loveseat in the tiny cottage, sometimes just staring at a wall, sometimes writing, sometimes reading, sometimes crying. I remember the state of my body—bloated and exhausted. I remember the state of my heart—anxious and angry and overwhelmed. And I remember the state of my confused and weary soul.

It was May of 2017, and I felt so very deeply broken. A voice deep within my soul told me that I needed a break, that I needed to step away from this world that I had created and cultivated. It was a world that was slowly suffocating me.

I was overcommitted to a million different things—an amazing small group of high school girls, a serious relationship, a job that left me searching for more, trips that took me around the world, leadership roles that asked me to pour out more and more of myself, friendships and family relationships, dreams for the future, and dreams that felt like they were dying. I was exhausted in more ways than I knew how to put into words, and in this exhaustion, I was met with words from those around me which held me in deeper shame.

“You’re too young to be this tired.”
“You can be tired when you’re my age.”
“Oh, come on, you’re fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. I felt beyond the opposite of fine. I had reached the end of myself. I had reached the end of who everyone else wanted me to be. I had reached the end of who everyone else expected me to be. I couldn’t run faster, work harder, or be better.

I was done, and I didn’t realize how done I was until I sat in that tiny cottage hearing nothing but the sound of the rain and the chaotic noises of my own soul.

Crying along with all the voices around me was my own voice. It was the voice of the Kate who tried to be perfect, who tried to have it all together. She screamed, “Be better. Work harder. Run faster. Stop being weak.”

Deep down, I believed that it wasn’t just my coworkers and friends and family and my own frantic soul that said these things. Deep down, I felt like these words were coming from the mouth of the Father. I felt like He looked at my world, at the state of my life and felt disappointed. I felt like I wasn’t measuring up to His expectations, like I was failing him.

I felt like He was 10 miles ahead of me, scolding me, “Come on! Be better! Work harder! Run faster. You’re better than this.”

That weekend, a new voice emerged from my soul, one that simply said, “I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep working and striving and hustling. I can’t keep trying to prove my worth, prove that I have a place, prove that I belong, prove that my voice matters. I can’t keep trying to prove myself to others, and I’m tired of trying to prove myself to God.”

And in those moments of deeply vulnerability, I remember being surprised by the Father, because I wasn't met with scolding or correction or a disappointed dad. I was met with love. I was met with grace. I was met with rest. I was met with arms that held me, feet that carried me. I was met with a God who saw me in my fragile, human state, and embraced me with a level of kindness that left me feeling seen and known.

I was met with kind words that He spoke to my soul, the one that couldn’t take a step further, not because it was tired of working hard but because it was tired of trying to prove that it could.

As my heart cried, “Be better,” 
the Father whispered, “Rest here, Love.” 
As my heart cried, “Work harder,”
the Father whispered, “You are enough.”
As my heart cried, “Run faster,”
the Father whispered, “Let me carry you.” 

And my heart was overwhelmed by this God I had always known but struggled to understand.

My story and this journey I am on with the Lord is full of these moments, moments of being completely surprised by the God I have known about since I was a little girl. This journey to discover the heart of the Father began in that small cottage in the middle of Northern Indiana. That weekend was the catalyst to discover not the God I wanted him to be, but simply the God He is. That weekend was a stake in the ground kind of moment, a pivot, a decision to go another way. It was a decision to choose rest over hustle, to choose practices over performances, to choose grace over perfection.

And it was a stake in the ground kind of moment to start this long journey—the one where I find myself completely surprised by the God I've always known but never understood.

The post Surprised by the God I’ve Always Known but Never Understood appeared first on Kate Berkey.

And now it is time for a season of no.

In the last couple of weeks as the final commitments of this past year have finished, I have found the state of my soul bruised and blistered and worn, showing the wounds of a battle well fought. It’s been alarming but not in the immediate action sort of way, because if my soul is battered, my mind is in a fog. And I’ve found myself pushing back the cobwebs of a life that was frantically lived day to day.

Just make it to tomorrow. Just make it to tomorrow. Just make it to tomorrow. And some days the mantra was just make it to tonight, the afternoon, the next hour.

It’s been a whirlwind of crazy without a Sabbath, a disaster I was keenly aware of at the time yet felt trapped to do anything about. And as I rushed and hustled and hurried, I became reacquainted with a glaring, ugly idol that took over my heart and my mind and my soul. It was at the very center of my schedule—busy.

We love that word. Americans love to worship this word, this lifestyle. Christians especially tend to equate busyness with godliness, especially if they are busy with Christian things.

But then somewhere in the midst of the crazy, if we are brave enough to look at the state of our souls, we may just find a self that is battered and worn and hanging on by a thread. We may find exhaustion and numbness. At least that’s what I found. I found a heart that was investing in everything and nothing all at once. I found a soul that longed to rest. I found a mind that couldn’t focus on what was right in front of it. I found exhaustion in the worst kinds of ways.

And that still small voice, the one that calls me back to the core of who I am and what I believe whispered, “It’s time to say no.” The Father so graciously wrapped me in his arms and told me to rest. He told me that his burden was light, that I could find rest in him, and I wept with relief and with gratitude and with joy. And then I practiced saying that simple word—no.

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself eating breakfast with a high school student I mentor. It was an early-morning start to a day that would stretch well into the evening, but it was the only time that worked in our schedules. We sat at our tall table, sipping coffee and munching on pastries, and then she asked me if I was going as a leader to my church’s summer camp.

In that moment, my heart sank to my toes, but that still, small voice gave me grace.

It’s time to say no.

It’s not a no simply to say no. It’s a well-thought-out no. It’s the kind of no that makes way for a greater yes. It’s a no to rushing and a yes to connecting. It’s a no to proving and a yes to being. It’s a no to investing in all things and a yes to investing in a few. It’s a no to constantly giving my best self to strangers and a yes to giving the whole of who I am to the ones I love dearly.

And so as this student asked this question, I knew my answer would disappoint her. I knew that I would be saying no to a very good thing. In that moment, I wondered if I could get away with telling a half-truth, finding an excuse that might seem more “legitimate.” And in that moment, the ugly idol of busy began to knock at the door of my heart.

And so I breathed deeply and said no. I told her that I was trying to say no more often, that the pace of my life and the busyness I had allowed to take over had left me feeling hallow and shallow and awful. I explained to her that I was going to say no to whatever I could this summer so that I could say yes to other things that were just as important to me. I shared with her that those closest to me—my family and my dearest friends—had gotten the leftovers of Kate for months on end. I told her that I was drawing a line in the sand and because of that, I wasn’t going to camp.

It’s unheard of—saying no—especially in the Christian world. We rush and hustle and prove ourselves by what we are “investing” in. But sooner or later, we find ourselves scrapping the bottom of our soul, our spirit, our joy. “No” becomes harder and harder to say as we bury deeper and deeper into the belly of the beast.

There are seasons of yes, most certainly, and there are seasons of no. And I’m learning to be less afraid of both because they walk hand in hand. There is simply a tension between the two to be managed during each season of life, and this truth is freeing and frightening. Sometimes it leaves me feeling insecure and sometimes empowered. I am sometimes anxious that I’m missing out by saying no, and other times, when I finally have the chance to rest and be, I find myself grateful and healthy and whole.

And I’m learning that this is a daily choice. It’s a mindset decision. So each morning, I try to leave behind the mindset of rushing and proving and hustling. Each morning, I try as hard as I can to rest and trust and seek out the very best thing.

And I try so very hard to say that simple word—no.

The post On Saying No appeared first on Kate Berkey.

You can get lost in the music for hours, honey. You can get lost in a room. We can play music for hours and hours, but the sun will still be coming up soon. The world’s just spinning a little too fast. If things don’t slow down soon we might not last. So just for a moment let’s be still.

But these days, they are numbered…I need this faith to keep be walking, to keep me alive.

Those might sound like sad lyrics, or at least sobering ones, but I think that’s the point. These songs speak of truth. With this whirlwind of a summer, they feel like lyrics written to the tune of everyday life.

I’ve noticed that people seem to be dreaming of enough time. Time to rest, time to live, time to have a hobby, time to play, time to sit and be. At the same time, they continually add odds and ends to their plates. They don’t allow space in their lives to be still, but they did, at one point, make plans for that.

But I believe we are called to be people who learn to be still.

It’s easier said than done. I work 6 days a week. Fridays are my only day off, and I protect it furiously and without shame. I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t take time during the week to unplug, I will be unhealthy in the long run. Life is still busy, don’t get me wrong. Most days, I collapse into bed and wonder what day it is and wonder when my brain will shut off.

Is today Thursday, or is tomorrow Thursday? Also, how did it get to be Thursday? When do I move home? Hey, I need a job. Speaking of jobs, I should check my bank account. Oh wait, did I make my loan payment for this month? I wonder what the real world is like. Is this the real world? Mental note: call mom.

Speaking of the real world, I don’t want to be an adult who fills her life with so much to do that she can’t sit and be. Jesus made space in his life to pull away from others and pray. I’ve often heard preachers refer to this life choice as something we should do once in a while, like a vacation. But I’m not convinced that Jesus used “vacation” or “retreats” as his only time of rest. I think he carved out time in his days, his weeks, his months, his years to be still. Because he knew his days were numbered. He was intentional with his time as he served communities. But wasn’t he also just as intentional about pulling away? He was a limitless God who knew his limit as a human.

I so deeply desire this intentionality. I desire to recognize my limit and to set boundaries because I will never be effective as a worn and torn person. So today I ran, spent time with God, ate lunch with my roommate, picked up a few groceries, and went to Prince St. Cafe to sit and be. And in a couple of hours I will go to work until I finally climb back into bed.

So just for a moment, let’s be still. Because these days are numbered.

Songs: Let’s Be Still; These Days are Numbered by The Head and the Heart.

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