But on the days when I’m less grumpy, less sweaty or upset about how much I sweat, I remember how beautiful summer is. I remember I live in a city with about 5,000 beaches and bike paths and three months of sunshine. On those days, I celebrate these summer months. 

My husband and I have tried to enjoy these moments more recently. Until this month, we had filled our summer with a wedding, travel, a book launch, and a brand-new job. Most days we are just tired—two introverts trying to juggle life, a new marriage, and a new person who lives in our space 24/7. With every passing day, though, we settle in a little more—into life, into love, into the beauty of this season. 

We’ve recaptured wonder. July is sunscreen and sand and summer heat. It’s the sound of music playing on the beach or on the basketball court. This month has taken on the sounds of a city bursting with life—busting at the seams with people eager to soak up the sunlight before winter returns to our world. 

To be honest, friend, I’ve struggled to love this city. I miss the quiet of my hometown. I miss the sound of tractors in the field. Nothing has quite replaced those Indiana sunsets or the peace and simplicity of my rural town. 

But these July nights have come close. We’ve spent more evenings at the beach, enjoying picnics and books and friends. These nights are not quiet or peaceful. This week roughly 100 cars sped down lakeshore drive with mufflers that echoed all the way to our beach towels. Planes consistently streamed over our heads, landing at O’Hare airport a few miles away. We still had to dodge terrible drivers and busy traffic. Chicago is still Chicago. 

Sometimes this city can feel like a machine—like something that is trying to produce as much as it can, slowly suffocating the humanness of its people. But on Wednesday, we ran into two old friends in a city with millions of people. We watched a group try to keep a volleyball in the air—diving and laughing. We listened to the sound of waves hit the beach and kids playing in the water. All around us were people meeting after work, families enjoying a picnic, friends passing a bag of chips.

After two years here, I’m remembering that contentment is a choice. It’s a posture rooted in gratitude. Sometimes it feels far, but it’s an idea the Father keeps revisiting day after day. I’m reminded of Philippians 4. I’ve learned to be content it all things, in all situations. Whether with plenty or with little, Paul tells the Philippians the beauty and freedom of contentment. This is where I’m trying to live, too, because I have plenty. 

So as silly as it may sound to someone who longs for the city, for the hustle and chaos and noise and life of these streets, I’m learning contentment here. I’m learning to see the beauty of this place—the beach, the airplanes, the families enjoying a picnic. And I’m learning to love the sounds of July—cicadas, kids in the park, music from the basketball courts, and waves hitting the shore moment after moment. 

The post Your Contentment is a Choice appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Most days I feel completely unqualified to run this center, especially when the kids pack it out, and I run from table to table, trying to help as many kids as possible. So much of my life in Chicago is an example of how the Lord will use us even when we feel completely unqualified or lacking or weak. All He wants is our “yes.” 

Despite my many inadequacies and shortcomings, this little homework center is a joy and a delight. Kids come even if they don’t have homework because they want to play games or get out of the house or just spend time with our teachers. This place humbles me in the most profound ways and delights me when I least expect it. 

A few months ago, a girl asked me if she could write a note on one of our white boards. She’s one of the most polite and thoughtful kids I’ve ever met, and when I saw what she had written, joy filled my entire body. 

This place is full of happyniss. 

My sweet friend is from a devote Muslim family. My team and I try to walk the fine line of being bold in sharing our faith while also fully respecting the decisions of many Muslim and Hindu families. Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes we fail and fall down. For me, this was a moment we got it right. 

We share verses from the Bible at homework center, but we don’t preach to the kids. We don’t turn people away because we belong to different faiths. My team welcomes everyone who walks through our doors, and we do our very best to love like Jesus did—constantly and without reservation.

So often all we can do is show up, love others, and carry the Holy Spirit. That’s it. That’s what we do every day at homework center, or at least that’s what we try to do. And even in our weaknesses and mistakes, the Holy Spirit used us, because this “happyniss” wasn’t from us. I believe it is the joy of the Lord, the moving and working of the Holy Spirit in our small space. And my prayer is that someday, my sweet friend would collide with this God—the God who made her and loves her and takes her as she is. 

I’m convinced that we need fewer words and more tangible actions that speak love to those around us. We need less preaching and more actions led by the Holy Spirit. Friend, if you are a follower of Jesus, you carry Him. You carry the Holy Spirit. Jesus said that the world would know we are His followers because of our love for others. May the fruit of our lives be the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

May you spread more than just “happyniss” today.
May you carry Jesus.
May you carry the Holy Spirit.
May you carry His love. 

The post On Cultivating Places of Happyniss appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Every day I encounter people from different cultures and languages and countries. I’ve actually grown accustomed to being the minority on my streets. The other day I saw two white American women walking on Devon Avenue, and I actually wondered if they got lost. 

I wonder how many of my neighbors have the same reaction when they see me. 

My team and I serve refugees and immigrants from all over the world—Afghanistan, India, Pakistan, Iraq, Congo, Somalia, Syria, Ethiopia, Burma, Malaysia, Bangladesh, and more. We try to meet felt needs like giving diapers and rice and oil or fans in the summer or blankets in the winter. My team teaches English and helps kids with homework. We step into homes and build relationships with people.

The Beautiful, Awkward Work

It's a beautiful work, but it’s also incredibly awkward. No matter how many similarities we share as humans, we still speak totally different languages. We come from different backgrounds. We believe very different things, and although these differences are beautiful, they can make for some awkward moments.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited families in their homes only to endure 20 or 30 or 40 minutes of awkward and broken conversation. I ask a question. Someone gives a totally unrelated answer. I rephrase it. We sit in silence. Eventually, one of us gives up and sips quietly on our tea.

This work is beautiful, but it’s awkward.

Today, I sat with a friend from Afghanistan who has been in the States for seven years, but she still struggles to speak and understand English. Possibly my favorite moments are when she gives up on English completely and speaks to me in Uzbek. She nearly always raises her eyebrows as if to say, “It’s fun, right? Not knowing the language. Really fun.”

As I sat with my Afghani friend, I asked her a question, trying to understand more of her story. She gave me that look I’m coming to recognize and responded in Uzbek. Almost without thinking, I heard myself mumble, “Ok. That didn’t work.” I leaned forward and said, “Let’s try this again.”

Let’s Try Again

That didn’t work, but let’s try this again. I can’t tell you how many times each day I think that. 

Yikes, that explanation didn’t work. Let’s try again. 
That visit didn’t go well. Let’s try again. 
Lord knows we’re speaking different languages, but let’s try again. 
I still don’t understand you. Let’s try again. 
You still don’t understand me. Can we try again? 

Over the course of nearly two years in this neighborhood, this has become the unconscious beat of my heart. And I think it’s beautiful. What if our world had this posture? What if this is how we approached community and conversation?

Today, my friend and I stumbled through yet another awkward conversation together. We may not have fully understood the other, but we tried our best. We both leaned in. It didn’t work the first time. Honestly, it didn’t work the second or third, but we tried again and again and again. 

We must Lean in and try Again

I’ve found that some of my most profound relationships with people in the neighborhood come from those I struggle the most to understand. As we stumble and fumble through our words and their meanings, we lean into each other. We slow down. We pause. And we laugh, because trying to understand someone who speaks another language is hilarious. 

Friend, what could it look like for you to lean in, to say, “That didn’t work, so let’s try again”? Chances are, you may not interact with someone who speaks a different language, but you probably have people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you. We must lean in and try again. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. It’s difficult, but I believe it’s a holy and sacred work. 

So would you lean in with me? 
Would you try again? 

Who are some people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you? How can you lean in? 

The post Why You Should Try Again appeared first on Kate Berkey.

You fix your eyes ahead to a place I can’t quite grasp, and neither can you. You fixate on something that may or may not happen. Your eyes are on the future—the future of your kids. Only God knows if it will turn out how you dream it might, but you still hope and long and pray for it to come.

Everything you do now has the potential to change the trajectory of your family forever.

Everything you do is for your children. Every job that feels beneath you. Every dollar you save so your kids can have a better education or join extracurricular activities. It’s all for them. I’ve never met such sacrificial people. I’ve never encountered this kind of love in flesh and bone.

That’s not to say my parents didn’t love me the same way you love your kids. They absolutely did, but I see a kind of giving that feels so rare. It gives it all. It works long, grueling hours. It takes the jobs no one else wants. Your love astounds me.

And while it’s not always perfect, while I may not always agree with you, I can’t help but admire and respect you with profound awe. You imagine a future that could exist for your kids, for your family. But you’re not just affecting one generation. Everything you do now has the potential to change the trajectory of your family forever.

As a woman with no children, no husband—just me—I hope that one day I will have the sacrificial love you have for your kids. I hope I look at the horizon and dream of something so much bigger than myself. Let me borrow your eyes to see a future that could come. Let me see what you see and do what you do because you do so much.

To the parent who did all of this for their child’s future—hoping against all things to see it blossom into something beautiful—I see you, and I admire you.

So
To the parent who struggles to read emails and letters sent from their child’s school, I see you, and I admire you.
To the parent who works the night shift cleaning dirty airplanes at O’Hare airport, I see you, and I admire you.
To the parent who can’t seem to find their place in this strange American culture, I see you, and I admire you. 
To the parent who worries that their children will lose their culture and language, I see you and I admire you.
To the parent who left a comfortable culture and language, I see you, and I admire you.
To the parent who did all of this for their child’s future—hoping against all things to see it blossom into something beautiful—I see you, and I admire you.

When I see you, I see the love of Father God who bankrupted heaven, who gave everything. I see a God who sacrificed Himself to save His kids. When I see you, I see glimpses of the sacred among us. I see the Image of God. 

When I see you, I see glimpses of the sacred among us. I see the Image of God.

So, to the refugee and immigrant parents in my neighborhood, I see you, and I thank you.

With love,
Your American Neighbor

The post A Letter to the Parents in my Neighborhood appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I used to be someone who cared deeply about everyone and everything. You know those bright-eyed college graduates with dreams of changing the world? That was me. And it’s not that I’ve given up on this dream, but it looks different now. It’s looks like loving one neighbor and then another and then another. Because I can’t change the world. It’s too big and too much.

Last week, I visited a family from Afghanistan. They fed me mantu at their kitchen table and told me about their lives. The husband has been in America for over ten years; his wife has been here for just two or three. The rest of their family is in Kabul—a shell of a city since America abruptly left and the Taliban took over. Every time I’m with them, I ask about their family. Are they safe? Are they ok? Do they have any money or food?

The honest answer to each of these questions is, “No."

No, they’re not safe.
No, they’re not ok.
No, they don’t have any money.
No, they don’t have any food.

This is just one family’s story, an echo of most people’s stories in Afghanistan.

Their family members work all day for little to no money because the country has no money. They eat crumbs and hope to survive another day. They hide in the shadows from the Taliban. They fear for their lives. This is just one family’s story, an echo of most people’s stories in Afghanistan.

Winter is coming, and money is scarce. Food is even more scarce, and this country is on the brink of collapse, of starvation. Do you know what happens when families get desperate, when starvation is knocking on their doors? Do you know what’s happening in Afghanistan? Have you heard stories of parents who are selling their young daughters—8, 9, 10-year-old girls—to men in their 50s and 60s and 70s? Did you know that their price is a few thousand dollars, and this will only provide for the family for a few months before they run out of money again? Have you heard the stories? Have you seen the pictures—seen the desperation and shame in the parent’s eyes?  

It’s hard to look desperate parents in the eye—the ones who feel they have no other option than to sell their baby girls and beg their new husbands not to beat them.

I’ll be the first to admit that it’s easier to look away from these stories. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that it all feels too much sometimes. But when I look away, I forget that these are more than just stories. These are real people whose family members live in my neighborhood. I regularly sit with women who have lost sons and husbands to the Taliban. I regularly interact with families who do not know if their family members in their home country will live another day.

These are the burdens they are carrying, and I can’t look away. Because when I do—when we do—we forget their humanity. We strip them of their dignity and reduce them to headlines and statistics and mere shells of themselves.

It’s hard to look starvation in the eye.
It’s hard to look desperate parents in the eye—the ones who feel they have no other option than to sell their baby girls and beg their new husbands not to beat them.
It’s hard to look pain and suffering in the eye.
It’s so much easier to look away.

But this Christmas, I’m reminded of a God who didn’t look away. He’s the God who took on skin and bone and moved into the neighborhood. He heard the cries of His people and came as a humble baby, a humble servant, a humble teacher, a humble savior. “He has brought down princes from their thrones and exalted the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away with empty hands.” (Luke 1:52-53)

We have a God who refused to look away.

So when you watch the news or encounter stories that feel too heavy, remember Jesus. When you glimpse all the terrible things that are happening in this world to people—flesh and blood people—remember our God who became human. Remember that He didn’t look away. Remember that He suffered more than we ever will. Remember and have hope.

When you feel yourself looking away, remember Jesus and gather enough courage to look others in the eye.

If you want to know more about what is happening in Afghanistan, here are a few links to check out.

• Child Bride Crisis
• A Video Breaking Down the First 100 Days of the Taliban
• Afghanistan's Economic Situation

The post Christmas—A God Who Didn’t Look Away appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I digress.

Here’s what you need to know. I’m essentially faking it till I make it, and so many other people in this world are much more qualified for the role I’m in. They’re better suited for this city and this ministry.

But they’re not here.
I am.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

The Father has put me here—sitting in the homes of refugees, hearing people’s stories, leading things I never imagined. He’s asked me to help men and women apply for jobs and help them understand the barrage of emails they receive from their child’s school. He’s opened doors for me to visit them, teach them, learn from them, and experience life alongside them.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

Our worlds may look drastically different. Our schedule and time and community may not resemble each other’s in the slightest, and that’s ok. I think so often we get caught in the comparison game. At least, I know I do. I look at other’s stories and life and the world I catch only glimpses of on social media and I think to myself, “Yikes! I’m not __ enough next to them.”

Fill in the blank with whatever you want. We’ve all been there.

But here’s what this neighborhood teaches me day after day, moment by moment. We don’t always have to be qualified or the most qualified to be used by the Father right where we are. Most people in our world aren’t really looking for someone who is qualified. They’re looking for someone who is consistent. They need a person they can count on, a person they can call, a person they can laugh and cry with, a person who sticks to their word. Most people need someone who won’t back out or back down.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

This has been the constant refrain from the Father to me since I moved to Chicago. “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.” Honestly, sometimes I just don’t want to be consistent. I’d rather back out of commitments or blame my inconsistency on busyness. It’s so easy to do, because guess what? It’s true. I am busy. I’ve never been busier in my life than when I moved to Chicago.

But consistency is greater than busyness, and if the busyness of life and ministry keep me from being consistent with others, the balance is off.

Sometime last Spring, a family I visited weekly moved far away—just far enough to stretch my 7-minute commute into 30-45 minutes one way. My boss gave me an out. He told me I could visit a new family. After all, the needs are so great in this neighborhood. He could connect me with someone else.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

But that still small voice came again, “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.”

Through gritted teeth, I battled the traffic week after week to see this family. I struggled through the parking nightmare at the end of each night, and I didn’t always have the best attitude. I’m human. Some days are hard.

Today, though, this family and I experience a richness in relationship that is unlike any I share with others in this neighborhood. The Father has opened doors and given me opportunities I don’t deserve to love on this family in His name. And that one thing that seemed so difficult in the moment has become the thing that built this beautiful relationship—consistency.

Friend, our worlds might look very different on the outside, but at the heart of it all, we aren’t so different. The Father has put people in your life. Some are easy to love and convenient. They are ones you look forward to celebrating and spending time with. Others are the opposite in nearly every way, but they are still in your life. I think more times than not, the Father looks around this world for people who will choose consistency, the ones who will stick with others even when it requires sacrifice and selflessness.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

The post That One Thing that Will make All the Difference appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Nonetheless, in 2015, I visited this magical neighborhood so close to the northern suburbs that some people (mostly those downtown) hardly consider it part of the city. And to be totally honest, I get it. This neighborhood is strange and beautiful and all kinds of different. Its culture is unrecognizable from most of Chicago, because it’s a true blend, a mosaic, a beautiful mash up of countries and cultures, languages and loves.

Chicagoans call it Little India, and after only a few steps on this sacred ground, it captured my heart.

Little India

Little India is just that—a microscopic version of India. But it’s also a bit Pakistani, Persian, Burmese, Thai, Sudanese, Bosnian, Indonesian, Malaysian, American, and so much more. In this neighborhood live most of the refugees resettled in Chicago. Their cultures and languages and countries of origin make it one of the most diverse neighborhoods in Chicago and our country.

When I visited the neighborhood in 2015, I was a recent college grad with big dreams, hopes, plans and an even bigger heart. Sometimes, this beautiful combination is dangerous, because, alongside all those traits, I needed wisdom. I needed the humility to learn from everyone. I needed to learn to hold empathy and truth, compassion and candidness.

For five years, I tried to move into the neighborhood and serve those who were making it entirely wonderful. I knocked on doors repeatedly, sometimes feeling like I was putting the full weight of my dreams behind my constant thuds. Every time the door remained close. Sometimes it opened just a crack, only to shut again.

Until it didn’t.

Until one day, when I lived in Mae Sot, Thailand, I responded to an email from a couple who run a tiny organization in Little India with the words, “I don’t know how to make it happen, but I still want to work with you.”

The rest is history—albeit a long and complicated history. In June 2020, after a minor delay from a global pandemic, I moved to this beautiful neighborhood, and the world became my neighbor.

And it was nothing like I imagined.
Today I am nothing like I imagined.
And I’m sure that tomorrow will bear little resemblance to what I imagine.

Friend, I am little more than a small-town girl who moved to Chicago. I believe the Father called me to this place and equips me day after day as I rely on Him. And it is a learning curve. It’s a growing process, a stretching, a letting go and depending on the one who called me.

A Holy Process

There are these beautiful verses in 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 which say, “Now, may the God of peace and harmony set you apart, making you completely holy. And may your entire being—spirit, soul, and body—be kept completely flawless in the appearing of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One. The one who calls you by name is trustworthy and will thoroughly complete his work in you.” (TPT)

Wholeheartedly following Jesus means walking with Him, going where He asks us to go, stepping where He asks us to step, and allowing Him to make us holy—body, soul, and spirit.

This is my story in Chicago.
Just a girl from a rural town living in Chicago and serving a global community.
Who fell in love with a neighborhood and chooses to love that neighborhood when it’s challenging.
Just a girl learning and unlearning and relearning lessons from people and situations and conversations she’s never experienced before.
Who builds bridges across languages and cultures and countries.
Just a girl fumbling through this big city and beautiful ministry.

A Calling We all Carry

I believe we are called to places and people and work. Sometimes this looks specific. Other times it looks as vague as love God and love others. Both callings are equally challenging and overwhelmingly beautiful.

Over the last year, I have experienced the Kingdom of God on earth as it is in Heaven. And I want to share these moments with you. As best as I can, I want to invite you into the stories, introduce you to the people, help you experience Little India as I experience it. This place is more than a neighborhood. It is a community loved by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Let’s walk these streets together and experience the Kingdom together.
 

The post Stories and other things from Chicago: An Intro appeared first on Kate Berkey.