I can’t stop looking at this picture. 

It’s more than just a great memory or moment. It does more than just make me smile or fill me with joy. It reminds me to take risks, to do things that scare me. It reminds me to be brave.

It reminds me that our courage is contagious.

A few days ago, my family came back from a vacation to Disney World. We ate way too much food, walked way too many steps, and let the kids skip one too many naps, and it was completely worth it. Who wouldn’t love those kind of days—staying out late, watching fireworks, riding ride after ride after ride. 

My oldest niece is five years old and was finally tall enough for a few more rides. I’m not claiming that Disney World has real roller coasters. I completely understand that they cater to families and kids, but for my niece, some of these rides were intense. They were unknown and unfamiliar in every way. She asked us over and over again if they were scary, if they were just pretend, if they were outside or inside. Without fail, every time we went on a new ride, I could feel her excitement and fear as we stood in line. It was never one or the other. It was always a mix—sometimes a little more fear than excitement, but in those moments, I realized something beautiful.

My family’s courage was contagious. 

So we smiled big. We held her hand. We cheered her on. We didn’t hide the fact that we would go fast and down some big hills, but we tried to help her believe that when the cars came to a stop at the end, she would still be smiling. 

That’s why I love this picture. 

It was our fourth time on this particular ride, and by that point, Finley loved the ups and downs and twists and turns. We laughed and screamed together, and when I yelled, “Finley, put your arms up,” she threw them in the air without hesitation. 

As silly as it might seem to those who love the kind of rides at Cedar Point or Six Flags, this was an act of deep, deep courage for my kiddo. With every new ride, she took a risk, she took a step. She chose to trust us, trust that we knew her and knew what she could handle. She trusted our own courage and caught a little bit of it herself, because courage is contagious. And when she caught even a hint of apprehension in us, we could see it on her face, because fear can be just as contagious. 

And I can’t get these truths out of my head, because I see them in the world around me every day. I see them in our women at Braverly—the way they encourage each other to try new things. I see them in the way my parents lead their business together, each one catching a little bit of courage from the other. 

And sometimes I see the opposite. I see how fear-based conversations in our country cause division at best. I see how our fear of the unknown cause us discredit things that seem different or risky. I see how our fear sends ripples we cannot control.

Our courage is contagious and so is our fear.

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Day after day, we influence others. We inspire, or we hold back. We spark courage or fear. Our actions, our thoughts, our emotions matter, and they matter more than we realize. We can catch courage from other–courage to show up and be seen, courage to listen to those with whom we differ, courage to open our hearts and minds to ideas and perspectives, courage to create space for those with whom we disagree. Courage rather than fear, because I believe the Father is in our courage. And our culture desperately needs more of the Father's heart.

When we cultivate courage in our own lives, we just might find ourselves standing next to someone who needs a little bit of courage themselves. And when we choose courage over fear, we're not just making this decision for ourselves. We're making it for our family, our community, our culture, our country.

Friend, remember that your courage is contagious. 

The post Your Courage is Contagious 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.