Together. Always Together
And He says,
“Let the seasons change.
Let’s do something new and
Scary and
Different and
Unlike anything we’ve done so far.”
He says,
“Together. We will do this together.
Always together.”

In November 2017, my world felt like it was spinning out of control. Events happened that I did not, could not anticipate, and I remember driving one afternoon, lost in thought like I so often was, trying to solve problems that weren’t mine to fix.

The thought was so simple and so random that it made my breath catch in my throat.

“I wonder if Outpour Movement offers an internship, and I wonder if they need a writer.”

The idea immediately began to settle into my heart, into my bones. Even in that moment, as my world twisted and groaned, I knew that this thought was not random. I already had a friend working with Outpour Movement in Mae Sot, Thailand, and so I very casually mentioned it to her a couple of days later. I remember laughing to myself, thinking, “There’s no way.”

And yet.

The best stories have an “and yet” kind of moment, the kind that shifts the story, marks a moment of change, a pivot, a swing.

I will forever remember her response. She told me that in the last week or so, God had given her and another teammate a vision and a dream to invite a writer to the Outpour team. She told me that they had big, God-sized ideas. They weren’t looking for just any writer. They were looking for a writer who loved and cherished people’s stories, and they had one person in mind—me.

That feeling of an out-of-control world, it only intensified in the weeks to come. Change has a way of spinning my mind and my heart into chaos. I’d like to think that I am good at transition, but that would be a lie. I’m a planner, a list-maker. I’m not very spontaneous. I work hard on being flexible. And this, this was not part of the plan.

And yet.

In the midst of new ideas and new dreams and a new vision for the future, the Father simply whispered, “Take a step.”

One step.

That’s all the Father asked me to take.

Just one step.

And then another.

And then another.

Time and again, He was faithful. As my friends and I journeyed together, God aligned our hearts. He aligned our dreams. He aligned our vision. He showed up time and again, proving Himself to be the ever-present, ever-faithful Father that I so deeply know him to be.

In April 2018, I had the opportunity to go to Mae Sot, Thailand for the first time. At that point, I was 90% sure this was where God was asking me to journey for this next season of life. I remember landing in Bangkok late at night, ready to see a familiar face. I remember wondering if I had just landed in the country I would call home. I remember taking a deep breath and whispering to my anxious heart, “One step at a time.”

This trip confirmed everything for me. It confirmed the place, the organization, the work, the vision. Outpour works with people on the margins, people who are oppressed, people who are just trying to build a better life for themselves. My heart bleeds for these people. It desperately wants them to realize their value and worth. It desperately wants them to feel empowered and cared for and cherished.

My heart desperately wants them to see their stories for what they are—moments weaved together by a Father who loves them and sees them and knows them.

But at times, this trip also left me feeling all kinds of insecure and unsure of my own ability.

And yet.

In the moments when I sensed God most deeply, it left me feeling certain in the most profound ways. It is the kind of certainty that is still clouded with mystery.

It is the kind of certainty that is also called faith.

And so step by step, I continue to follow the Father. I continue this journey bit by bit.

Some days are overwhelming. Some days I have the opportunity to go to my four-year-old niece’s dance recital, and I cry on the way home. Some days I have the chance to laugh with my housemates who have become some of my best friends, and a deep sadness settles in my spirit. Some days I look around at this beautiful and wonderful life that I get to call my own, and I have to remind myself of the certainty the Father gave me in Mae Sot. Because some moments are overwhelming and daunting and too much for me to hold on my own.

And yet.

I am reminded that the Father never asked me to do it alone. He never told me to figure it out by myself. He never demanded that I piece together all of the details in my own strength.

He asked me to take a step.

And then another.

And then another.

And He whispered, “We’ll do this together. Always together.”

Want to join me on this journey? I can’t do this without people who come alongside me as prayer warriors and financial supporters. If you want to sign up for my email list to receive updates on the ministry, shoot me a message here. If you want to join me as a financial supporter, just click here. Beside “Missionary Support,” write Kate Berkey. I am so incredibly grateful for support, whether it’s prayer and financial. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I cannot do this on my own.

Let’s do this together.

Always together.

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If you’ve been in the church for a millisecond, you, most likely, have heard this verse. It’s simple, yet it is powerful. The promises in it sound too good to be true, and if I truly believed this verse 100% of the time, I would never be afraid.

But I have some things to work on.

I began to cling to this verse this past summer. As I thought about heading into my final year of college, the pressure reached a level that was unknown to me. In a few short months I would be finishing school forever. I would have to get a real person job. To make matters worse, I studied writing in college. We all know that’s a gold mine of a profession. The unspoken truth about writing is that it is actually terrifying. Many of my friends wouldn’t guess it, but writing is an incredibly vulnerable thing. Don’t believe me? How about you go into a room, spend a couple of hours writing about something that’s important to you, and post it on the internet. Then let me know how vulnerable you feel.

I have been ready to give up on writing before I truly began.

Because it’s risky and scary and makes my stomach feel weird.

If there is one thing I’ve been taught, though, it’s never to give up. So this past weekend, I went to the Indiana Faith and Writing Conference at Anderson University with other students from the Professional Writing department. I sat in fantastic lectures given by talented writers. I met people with incredible stories and visions. I found myself thankful that some of the tips sounded more like review because of the courses I’ve taken at Taylor.

And I found myself encouraged.

I’ve noticed a pattern in my life. I always feel closest to God when I am out of my element. When I found myself in a room with writers who seemed a million times more confident than me, I was out of my element. I felt like a blind person being led through a crowded room.

“Alright, God, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I feel like I’m about to hit a pole. Can you just make sure I don’t hit a pole?”

Guess what? He kept me from hitting a poll, and in the midst of it all, he handed me encouragement. Every speaker at the conference reiterated all of the things that my parents and friends have been telling me for years. “Just keep trying. You have a story, so write.” Sorry, Mom and Dad, but I guess I just needed authors like Ken Abraham to tell me that. At the end of the conference, as I sat in the final session, eyes glazed over and brain mussy, a clear thought formed in my mind. I know it was from God because I was no longer thinking in complete sentences at that point.

It was a simple phrase. “Stop writing what you think you should write. Write what you ought to write.”

Write what you ought to write.

Sometimes, I become so focused on what I think I should be doing, on what I should be writing. In those moments, I wonder if God shakes his head and wonders when I’ll realize that it’s not about what I think I should do. It’s about what I ought to do. Recently, James 4:17 has been kicking my butt because it’s harsh and sounds politically incorrect. But it’s a piece of truth nonetheless. “Remember, it is a sin to know what you ought to do and then not do it.” Attending the conference this past weekend reminded me of this truth. Sometimes I worry that I hide behind what I think I should write because writing what I ought to write is scary and risky.

Yet, God called me to write. He called me to trust. I believe this calling is still on my life.

So each day I’m choosing to wake up and write what I ought to write.

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