A few weeks ago, a dear friend and I met for ice cream. Never mind that it was 20 degrees outside or that we hid under layers of sweaters and coats. We braved the icy temps for the best ice cream in town and sweet friendship and connection. 

For the last year, I worked alongside this woman in Mae Sot, Thailand. We laughed and cried, prayed and carried each other’s burdens. We attempted to teach English and fumbled through more than one cross-cultural interaction.

Our tried-and-true friendship stands on this history and shared experience. And now, we’re both in this strange land called transition. 

For me, it’s moving to a city I’ve been to dozens of times but have never called home. For her, it means living in the States and following the Lord to a place that holds more questions than answers. 

So that night, we told stories and shared reminders. In some ways, our conversation was a giant pep talk to the other person. 

Hang in there. 
The Father is always good. 
He’s got this. 
He’s asked us to step, so don’t give up now. 

Here’s the thing—I avoid shallow encouragement and cringe at clichés or Scripture slapped on a problem. Because worries won’t disappear with a quick answer. For me, empty responses to people’s real pain and questions and anxieties is worse than saying nothing. 

But on this chilly December evening with my dear friend and sister, these responses were the farthest thing from shallow. They were truths, and in our whirlwind, we needed them.

Bearing it Together

These days, our worries keep us up at night or wake us up too early. Our dreams are moments of trying to figure out the details—me staring at spreadsheets, her searching for a place to live. As we shared our stories that cold December night, we didn’t ignore the hard parts, the anxiety we both carry, and the giant trust fall in each day. 

But with each acknowledgement of the difficult and uncertain, we spoke truth. We reminded the other of who the Father is because no matter how challenging this season is, our God hasn’t changed. As circumstances change, He remains consistent, unfazed, constant. 

These days, faith feels like clinging to truth in the chaos and uncertainty, carrying the Father’s promises. 

During our conversation, my friend and I didn’t solve our problems. We didn’t find answers or raise the financial support we both need. Our search continues for more than one thing—a place to live, a roommate, a team, a dozen other little details. But when we said goodbye, we carried something more sacred and lasting than meeting these temporary physical needs. 

We held our dusted-off confidence in the Father. Reminding one another of His promises, we helped the other hold tight to faith. And we made the other stronger with that simple idea—don’t give up. 

Don’t give up. 
Don’t give up. 

Reminding One Another of Truth

Faith and friendship doesn’t ignore the difficult It doesn’t gloss over the very real worries and anxieties we face. It walks one another through the challenge. It bears the burden. It gets out of the house on a wintry night to remind the other she doesn’t walk alone. 

I believe with my whole heart that the Father designed the Church to be people who walk one another through what feels impossible. The Father designed us to remind each other of truth, to repeat that phrase in our words and actions—don’t give up. 

It’s so easy to lose sight of truth amidst the whirlwind in our daily lives. I’m sure I’m not the only one to focus on the surrounding swirl instead of the steady consistency of the Father. Friend, we need each other. We need to remind one another of truth. 

So do me a favor. Today, set aside your long list of to-dos. Let the whirlwind swirl around you and find someone who needs reminded of truth. With confidence, speak it into her life and let her speak truth into yours. It’s in these simple life-on-life moments that we carry the courage and faith and endurance to not give up. 

The post Reminding One another of truth in the whirlwind 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.