I bought this wall hanging mostly because it fit it into my suitcase. When you’re packing your life away into two rolling suitcases, space is a premium, and this took up little space. But I also got it because I needed the wildflowers, the wildness of their arrangement, and the reminder: courage, dear heart.

Courage was the theme of that season. In fact, I moved to Thailand to write a book about courage. Our book, A Place Called Braverly centers on living and dreaming bravely and influencing bravery in others. So courage is a journey I’m well familiar with. 

Our Journey to A Place Called Braverly

Kristy and I wrote this book through prayer and conversation with Jesus. We wrote and rewrote and edited some more. Once we had finished nearly the entire book but scrapped most of it. These ideas of courage and bravery didn’t come from concepts we thought of on our own. They came from a journey with the Father—rediscovering His heart and learning how His love completely anchors our courage. 

The book was also inspired by Braverly—a place I’ve talked about a million times on this blog and in my life. I feel nothing but deep love, gratitude, and admiration for this place and the women who make it a living and breathing thing. In its basic form, Braverly is a place that trains women in culinary and sewing skills in Mae Sot, Thailand. In the café, our women make incredible coffee, tea, bagels, salads, and more. They make customers feel at home and learn customer service skills every day. In the sewing center, our women design bags, headbands, and clutches that reflect their personalities and cultures. They stitch together their ideas and designs, creating beautiful products sold in Thailand and the US.

Deeper than that, Braverly’s mission is to empower women from oppressed people groups on the Myanmar/Thailand border, to move past their fears and walk in confidence and truth. Braverly exists to draw women closer to the heart of the Father. We believe Jesus modeled a kind of wholeness of heart everyone can and should experience. So we don’t just train our women to do a job or grow in their skills. We strive to show them the person of Jesus Christ and help them develop their own relationship with Him.

The Heartbeat of Braverly

Each day in the café, we see the challenge to “Live brave. Dream bravely. Influence bravery.” It’s the slogan painted across our wall. By this, we mean that fear won’t stop us. We won’t let fear keep us from trying to learn new things. Fear doesn't stop us from dreaming with the Lord and saying, “Wherever you want me to go and whatever you want me to do, I’ll do!” We won’t let fear win.

From all this and more, A Place Called Braverly was born. The heartbeat of Braverly is so much bigger than Mae Sot, Thailand. It’s something the world needs to hear, to be reminded of, to be challenged by. 

Live brave. 
Dream bravely. 
Influence bravery. 

As we wrote A Place Called Braverly, Kristy and I realized that none of this could happen outside of the Father. All of our brave living, dreaming, and inspiring was shallow outside of who the Father is and who He says we are. Until we root our courage in His love, we will search for bravery in all the wrong places. 

A Book for You

This is the journey of A Place Called Braverly. It’s a book filled with Scripture and personal, vulnerable stories from Kristy and me. Our goal is not only to inspire you but also to challenge you, to push you, to call you higher, to help you step deeper into courageous lives. 

This book was a labor of love in so many ways, and when we wrote it, we thought of you, dear reader. We thought of your heart that needs courage in ways we can’t even understand. 

So, courage, dear heart. Take courage and go on this journey with us. Rediscover your Father’s heart and collide with a God who loves you more than you can even imagine. 

It’s not too late to pre-order your copy of A Place Called Braverly. It’s available at Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, Bookshop, and wherever books are sold. You can also pre-order a copy here! 

The post What is A Place Called Braverly? appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In its best moments, I believe something rather sacred lives in these spaces. After all, Father God created out of nothing. He worked and built and fashioned humanity out of dust. Work isn’t our curse or burden to bear. I believe it’s a gift. Creating, making, contributing, building something wonderful is a gift.

But in its worst moments, all this working and striving and hustling can be broken and damaging. It’s exhausting and can leave you ragged and breathless in the cruelest of ways. We have a way of twisting what was made for our good. Work—I believe—is one of those things we bend and shift in so many ways.

We aren't Machines

And I am one of the worst offenders. Recently in a meeting with our wedding officiant, our pastor asked my fiancé and me how things were coming along for the wedding.

“Are you getting stuff done? How’s it coming together?”

These are the questions we’re getting asked almost weekly because in approximately one month, we’ll stand in front of family and friends and the Father and commit to forever. But in this meeting, Luke spoke up before I could.

“Kate is a machine,” he said with wide eyes filled with both awe and a little concern. At the same time, I saw our pastor nod his head. Having worked with me full-time in the church office, he knows enough about me to know the truth.

I had to tell my pride to take a back seat. We weren’t always made to be machines. The Father didn’t design us to work and produce and spit out lives of meaning through our doing and creating. More and more, I believe He invites us to create alongside Him, relying on Him, depending on Him—all for the joy of reflecting His image through our work.

You and I have limits and margins and capacities, and while I’m a firm believer that the Father can and does increase our capacity in every season, I have to remind myself that I’ve experienced this in the healthiest ways when I’ve relied on Him, depended on Him.

Invited to the Breakfast on the Beach

There’s this beautiful story in John 21 that moves me to tears and to my knees. After Jesus had risen from the dead and appeared to the disciples, they seemed to be in a wandering state. Their life went from the chaos and joy and excitement of following Jesus to a quiet, question-filled existence. I bet that had to feel jarring to say the least.

One night as they stood on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, Peter said, “I’m going fishing.”

I love Peter. I get Him. He gives me hope. In a moment of questions and maybe feeling antsy and wondering what was next, Peter decided to do something, to work. So he and his friends fished all night but caught nothing. Nothing. All that work—casting and recasting the nets—for nothing.

As the sun began to rise, they saw a man and a small fire on the shore. They didn’t know who He was, but He told them to throw in their nets once again. When they did, they caught over 150 fish. And their hearts suddenly remembered. This had happened before with Jesus.

Peter immediately jumped out of the boat and swam to shore. I imagine He laughed and wept and clung to Jesus. And out of the corner of his eyes, I bet he saw it then—fish roasting on the fire.

Jesus made breakfast for them on the beach with the very thing they couldn’t catch all night. No amount of working or striving or hustling made a single fish swim into their nets. But with one word, Jesus filled their nets to their breaking point. And on the shore, in the place of rest with Him, Jesus already had what their bodies so longed for—food, fish roasting on the fire.

The Invitation Still Stands

Whew. Maybe I’m the only one who needs this reminder today, but I doubt it. In our hustle culture, it’s easy to twist working and striving. I am all for working hard and building something beautiful out of nothing. After all, this is what the Father did, and we were made in His image.

But these days, I need the reminder of this story—that no matter how many times they threw their nets into the sea, the disciples didn’t catch anything. No amount of work brought what they so desperately wanted until they listened to Jesus and let Him do what they could not.

Friends, the same is true for us. Yes, go fishing and cast your net again and again. Show up and do the work, the things God has called you to do. But don’t give into hustle culture. Resist the temptation to rely on yourself. We serve a God who longs to make us breakfast on the beach and serve us there.

Today, maybe He longs for you to experience more rest even in your working. The disciples still cast their net one more time. They still rowed hard to keep their boats from sinking, but it was all because of Jesus’ work.

May we do the same.

And may we look up and see the beauty of a God who has already made us breakfast and longs to serve us.

The post You’re Invited to Breakfast on the Beach with jesus 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.

But The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill is brutal, and I’m not sure why I’ve gravitated back to it for a second time. I’m sure part of my reasoning is my love of a well-crafted and well-told story, and believe me, this is a well-told story. It’s captivating and intriguing and leaves the listener wanting more. But I think more than that, the story itself captivates me.

It hooks me. I can’t stop thinking about the American church and the empires we’ve built. I’m captivated by the role of platform—online and otherwise—for Christians in our modern world. Because to be sure, if anyone wants to be anyone with significant influence, they need a platform. They need a social media presence and a following online and in person. They need a large email list and thousands of subscribers. The more, the better.

Ditch the Masses?

And I’m not sure that all of this is bad—the large numbers. After all, didn’t the crowds follow Jesus? Did they mob Him, pressing in on every side of Him? Won’t the masses gravitate toward a story filled with truth and love and light? Don’t we all crave meaning and purpose in a way that our world just can’t satisfy?

So, I don’t think it’s always a bad thing if a church or a leader or a speaker or a writer or anyone who is following Jesus builds a large platform. But as I listen to this podcast repeatedly, I am reminded of a quote from Christine Caine that I heard in 2016. It went something like, “If the light on you is stronger than the light in you, then the light on you will destroy you.” 

If you know little about the Mars Hill story, you’re probably not alone. I only had a vague understanding before I started the podcast. A quick Google search will tell you more than you want to know, but in a nutshell, theirs is a story of a mega-church that crumbled to the ground as their leader focused on numbers and brand and platform through bullying tactics, intimidation, and a win-at-all-cost mentality. As a woman in the Kingdom of God, I must admit that I also find many of Mark’s views on men and women and marriage to be terrifying and damaging. I’m sure there are others who would disagree with me, but honestly, I have very little desire to be a part of the Kingdom he preached on week after week. I’m not sure it was an accurate representation, anyway.

A Problem Bigger than Mars Hill

I think there were more than a few things Mark got wrong about the Kingdom of God, but I’m not convinced he’s alone. I don’t think we can hold him up, crucify him, cut him down, tout him as the poster child of a pastor gone wrong. Because I think our modern Christianity loves celebrities. We love influencers and charismatic people who can build platforms and followings. We crave them, and I can tell you as someone on the other side—the side of trying to build a platform online—the pressure is real. I feel it every day. I’ve woken up at 4 in the morning thinking of all the things I should do to build mine and Kristy’s platform as we prepare to launch a book.

It's never ending, and it’s exhausting. And sometimes it just feels like a gigantic waste of time. To be fair, I don’t think it always is. After all, if we truly carry the words of life through Jesus, shouldn’t we be trying to reach the world? So, while these efforts aren’t a waste, the pressure and the worship given to those who can build something large and impressive is concerning.

Whose Kingdom are we Building Anyway

This morning as I was again listening to another episode of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, I asked myself the question, “Am I trying to build my empire or God’s Kingdom.” Not that I think I will have an empire someday. Yikes. Nah. Probably not.

It’s a heart question, a heart check. Because, "if the light on us is greater than the light in us, then the light on us will destroy us." So in all this working and striving and posting the most perfect picture and caption on social media, what is our motivation? A personal brand or the Kingdom of God? I don’t think these are just questions that leaders and writers and pastors and influencers should ask of themselves. I think this is a greater cultural question, because we are a culture that gets dopamine hits off of likes and comments.

So why are we doing all of this?
And someday, will we find we built empires and brands and personal kingdoms on sand?

Our words and our actions have power. I think we sometimes forget that. But as followers of Jesus, may we pause a little longer today and ask ourselves some honest questions about our motivations and desires and the little kingdoms we are building for ourselves.  

The post Platforms and Kingdoms and The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I don’t love the title “missionary.” It’s a word that holds so much history and weight and prejudgement. I feel unqualified for it—like I don’t deserve it. Plus, everyone has their own idea of what a missionary is, and I’m not sure I meet their expectations. 

I’ve found that people expect me to be an evangelist or a church planter. They want my sob stories—the ones packed full of emotion. With heroes of the faith running through their minds, they wonder how many people I’ve led to Jesus, how many people come to my church or small group. Numbers. They’re so important. 

And what I’ve learned—or trust—is that these thoughts and questions and preconceived ideas come from hearts of gold. They come from a good place, but they don’t describe my job. They don’t reflect the calling God has given me—a so-called missionary. 

We are Kingdom Builders

Technically, I am a missionary. It's my title and job description. And I love my job. I cannot stress this enough. Nearly every day I wake up and experience the absolute joy of it. I am beyond grateful for the support that allows me to follow Jesus. I wouldn't trade my life for the most stable, secure job in the world. 

But

I still don't feel like a missionary—at least not the one most have in their minds. 

Because I don't think you and I are that different. We—the Body of Christ—are similar. So very long ago, Jesus told us to "Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and [the Father] will give [us] everything [we] need." (Matthew 6: 33) 

This is the Church’s charge. It’s the call of Jesus' followers—not just those with the label missionary. The Father created us to be Kingdom seekers, Kingdom builders. Forget the title of missionary. Forget all you think of when you hear that word. Let go of it all. 

I am a Kingdom builder, and so are you. 

What Exactly is the Kingdom?

When I say the Kingdom, I mean this perfect and complex way of living and being Jesus came to establish. It’s both tangible and intangible, physical and invisible. The Kingdom of God is the family of God—billions of image bearers who trust Jesus and accept the life, love, and grace He gives. Every nation, tribe, and language united under our Father in worship. 

When Jesus taught us to pray, He prayed for the Kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. The Kingdom isn’t far away. We are part of it right now. We find the Kingdom in the goodness and love and nature of the Father among us—creation, the Church, Imago Dei in the billions of people on this planet. 

Jesus looks at us—imperfect humans—and calls us kingdom builders. He asks us to build it where humans have resisted it, where it’s lacking, where brokenness and darkness have taken over. Building the kingdom of God isn’t about building our own stories of greatness. It’s about fighting for the heart of humanity to know and experience the Father. It’s an invitation to know Jesus, to know His abundant life and love. 

So, yes, I am a missionary, but when I say that, I mean I am a Kingdom builder. 

And I mean that you and I are the same. The Father designed us to join what began the moment He said, “Let there be light.” We are kingdom builders, created to open people's eyes to the sacred all around us. Our world aches for the collision of the holy and the ordinary. Our souls long for the divine—for the Father Himself. 

This is what we usher in as kingdom builders. 

Kingdom Building Work

Sometimes this looks like planting a church, running a training center, loving your coworkers, leading a small group, making dinner for your neighbor. Sometimes it looks big and grand. It catches people’s attention, and they label it missions. But more often, building the Kingdom means staying faithful in the little things and showing an aching world who the Father is. 

Our world is desperate for God’s Kingdom. It aches for heaven on earth. The created longs for the creator. The sustained begs for the sustainer. 

And so the Father gives us that charge: “Seek the Kingdom of God above all else. Build my Kingdom. Love Me and love your neighbor. Imitate me and help others see a glimpse of my face.” 

Friend, we are kingdom builders. May we wear this title proudly, letting it touch every part of our lives and our world. 

The post We are Kingdom Builders appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I don’t think I imagined my life quite this way, and I love that. 

Five years ago, I started my final semester of college. I wrote about marbles in a jar, their finite number mirroring the days which had become so very normal to me. During my senior year, my brain swam in questions about the future. 

Where would I live?
What would I do?
What would happen to my college friendships? 

2015 Kate didn’t know what was coming, but I don’t think she wanted to. I believe she would have stood frozen in fear if she knew what the Father had in store. This Kate mustered just enough courage to move to Pennsylvania for a summer internship. She dreamed about the future with abstract ideas and rosy ideals. She talked about traveling and writing and discipleship. But let’s be clear about something—2015 Kate never imagined being called a missionary, fundraising her salary, and living in a constant state of transition.

2020 Kate would stress out 2015 Kate, and I sort of love this. It reminds me of Philippians 1:6.

I’m fully convinced that the One who began this glorious work in you will faithfully continue the process of maturing you and will put his finishing touches to it until the unveiling of our Lord Jesus Christ!

Sacred and Holy Roots

We’re never quite done, are we? We are always becoming, becoming, becoming. In the last six months, the Father has held me in Jeremiah 17:7-8.

But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence. They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.

This picture of deepening roots—roots reaching to the earth’s core—grabs my heart. It captivates my soul and draws me closer to the heart of the Father. Deeper and deeper these roots stretch—past rocks and shallow soil—to undisturbed dirt. They grow and ground towering trees to the very soil once breathed into existence by the creator Himself. 

Storms of uncertainty come. Droughts and doubts threaten to tear limbs from the trunk. Seasons blast the bark with sunlight and rain and snow and everything in between. And still these trees stand. They weather every element.

Becoming, Becoming, Becoming

Growing and grounding is a process—a lifelong thing, a constant battle between faith and fear, between hope and doubt, between uncertainty and confidence. But in this process, we hold a promise. 

Those who trust, who make the Father their hope and confidence will find stability and certainty not in their external circumstances but in who the Father is. Even in their chaotic world, marked by heat and drought and storms of all kinds, the Father holds them. He sustains and keeps them grounded. 

Their roots and trust stretch. They groan with growing pains, but in becoming, they experience the Father doing a sacred and holy work in them. 

This journey with the Father, this deepening and growing, is painful. It leads us into seasons of uncertainty. More and more I’m convinced the Father builds our capacity, grows our faith and then asks us to say yes to the things that used to make our knees knock. 

Living with Anticipation

Often, we pause and reflect at the start of the year. We look back at what we left behind. We see how far we’ve come in our mind, emotions, body, and spirit. This kind of reflection reminds us of the faithfulness and goodness and love of the Father. Even on the days when He seemed far away, He was closer than we could have imagined. 

But this year, I’m caught up in something different. It’s a looking back and forward—a prayer for the next five years. Who knows what it will bring. I’m done trying to pretend I understand what the Father is doing in my life. I’ve found it builds boxes around who He is. Instead, I find myself with a spirit of anticipation, ready to say yes and step in the place I never could have imagined He would lead me. 

Friend, as we become and grow and stretch, may our roots reach deep into who the Father is. May we trust his sustaining life. And when He asks us to say yes to the thing which scares us more than anything else, may we follow Him with confidence, trusting the ground that holds us.

The post Sacred and Holy Roots appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In the kitchen, Kristy and I put the finishing touches on dinner—sometimes take out, other times something homemade. We’ve learned it doesn’t really matter what we eat. Food will always unite us.

This home—normally a quiet space—fills with noise and chaos in the best of ways. We wipe up food that spills onto the floor and laugh about water that falls from cups. It’s messy and beautiful and wonderful—the life-on-life kind of night our hearts ache for. 

And as we gather and talk and share life, our home fills with the sound of so many languages. Our friend Mylatte speaks Burmese. Nom wan speaks Thai. Paw wah adds Karen—one of the languages of the Karen people—to the mix. Rebecca and Eliana weave English, Thai, Karen, and Chinese into a single sentence. And the few Americans in the room speak English. 

Four. 

That’s four languages (plus a spattering of Chinese now and then) echoing through the room. Each of us picks up bits of the conversations we can understand. We simplify our words to help others join—using broken English or Thai or Karen or Burmese when needed. And when we need to communicate something to the entire group, time seems to slow down. 

First say it in English
Then Burmese 
Then Karen
Then Thai
Does everyone understand? 

What a beautifully complicated, chaotic gift. 

This is an average night at Braverly small group—a night for all of our Braverly women and any family or friends who want to come with them—to gather in our home. Our conversations range from completely silly to meaningful encouragement to thought-provoking questions. Every conversation, every question, every word needs translated into each language, and I think this is absolutely beautiful. 

When I came back to the States, people asked what the hardest part of life in Mae Sot was. For me, the answer was simple—the language. Thankfully, many people in Mae Sot understand enough English, and although my Thai is sad, I can get by. But after awhile, the shallow, small conversations become tiring.

Your girl doesn’t do small talk well. In fact, I hate it. But when the common language is so small, it’s all you can do. 

So I learned to do small talk like a champ while still craving the real deal—the kind of conversation that bonds and unites the hearts and souls of a group. 

But in this craving, in this longing for a common language, I found that it had always existed. It just didn’t look like words. It didn’t look like English or Thai or Burmese. It wasn’t like the tribal language of Karen or Poe Karen. 

It was the look of longing when we talked about family or showed pictures of our parents and siblings. It was the smile when we talked about our dreams for the future or held tangible pieces of our hopes close to our chest—like the way Hser Ku Paw held her new camera. It was the way we ducked and ran to avoid the pouring rain. It was the laughter that echoed in the room when we tried (and failed) to say something correctly in another language. It was the dance party that started when a song played over the speakers. 

Because despite our different languages, we were held together, united, and more similar than I could have ever imagined. 

That group of women in my living room on Thursday holds hopes and dreams for their futures. They long for a life for themselves and their families that is good and beautiful. They crave to be seen and known and loved by others. Kindness and empathy are desires of their hearts—being seen for more than just the hard parts of their stories. 

They like to try new things, and as scary as it is, they like to try challenging things. They like to prove themselves to others and to their own insecurities and doubts. They don’t like to get caught in the rain or stand in the blazing Thailand sun. Babies who bounce up and down to silly music make both of us laugh and dance along with them. Sometimes they say the wrong word in English, and most of the time, they laugh at me when I pronounce a Thai word incorrectly. 

We are held together by so much more than a language. We are united by our humanness, by the hopes and dreams and desires of our hearts. We find common ground in our delights and our sorrows, our stories. We are so very different—from different backgrounds and histories. And yet, we are one—the Church in its holy sacredness. We may not all believe the same things or hold the same values, but that’s ok. 

That’s ok. 

That’s ok.

I feel like I should say this again for America—a country who seems to lord their differences over others and can’t seem to pause long enough to find common ground. 

We may not believe the same things, think the same way, or hold the same values, and that’s ok. 

I don’t speak the same language as my beautiful Karen or Thai or Burmese friends. We come from distinct histories and experiences. We don’t think the same way about some things, but there exists a sisterhood forged by acts of love and kindness and empathy—values our world desperately needs. 

Church, we speak different languages. We come from different experiences and stories and histories, and this is beautiful. May we make space for one another and allow bonds of family to be forged out of this simple act of love.

The post I Think We Speak Different Languages, and That’s Beautiful appeared first on Kate Berkey.

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.

I’ve grown used to the sound of fans, air con units, dogs barking halfway across town, birds chirping loudly by 5 AM. I’ve grown used to the sound of the water pump outside of my window, my neighbor’s incessant coughing and high pitched sneezes. I’ve grown used to the sounds of semis and motorbikes and trucks advertising local businesses through loud speakers.

Here—in the middle of nowhere Indiana—there is only the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional bird chirping from its nest, and this quiet is a kind of unsettling that doesn’t quite make sense to me.

Call it culture shock. Call it transition. Call it being in a place that feels familiar and strange all at once. Call it moving from Mae Sot, Thailand back to Nappanee, Indiana—two completely and totally different places in this world. 

The words, “something is missing” feels like the very breath in and out of my lungs these days. It feels like the beating of my heart, the ever-present feeling in my bones. 

Something is missing. 

There are no dogs, no crazy birds, no water pump or neighbors with loud sneezes. No street dogs chase me on my run and no monks walk the streets in the morning. My bike sits in the basement—tires flat, rim dusty—as I get in my car to drive. English is all around me—spoken and written and shouted.

Something is missing, and it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like Mae Sot, Thailand. 

But that is the beauty and the struggle of transition—some things are missing, but other things are just about to unfold. It’s a dance that I find myself stumbling and fumbling my way through most of the time. These days, the Father keeps reminding me of those verses in Jeremiah 17.

“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord and have made the Lord their hope and confidence. They are like trees planted along a riverbank, with roots that reach deep into the water. Such trees are not bothered by the heat or worried by long months of drought. Their leaves stay green, and they never stop producing fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:7-8

It’s been a theme in my world for the last six months, a battle cry, a message of preparation—as if the Father was whispering, “Love, let me take your roots deeper and deeper, because you will need this depth more than you know.”

On the days when something deeply, truly feels missing, I try to hold tightly to joy, because there’s a sacred kind of work happening. The roots of trust and confidence and faith dig deeper and deeper on those days. They keep me steady. They keep me grounded in the most beautiful ways.

I used to be scared of transition. I used to fight change, because there was nothing more unsettling to my spirit than that feeling that something is missing. 

But I’m learning—slowly—to celebrate the beauty of these seasons. Without them, things stay the same—we stay the same.

Without these seasons, I never would have gone to college or spent a summer working at HOPE International. I never would have gone to Thailand or been a part of Braverly.

Without these kinds of seasons, we stay stagnant, still, safe—completely comfortable and totally unfulfilled. Without these kind of seasons—when something feels missing, when change and transition are our ever-present companions—our roots stay shallow, and we remain unsteady. 

So may we celebrate change and transition. May we find joy even when something feels missing. May we anticipate these seasons, because they bring the opportunity for growth, for roots that grow deeper—not in a place or a job or a ministry or a person. They grow deeper in the Father. 

The post Finding Joy Even When Something Feels Missing appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This yes led me to move to Mae Sot, Thailand. It led me to this team and to this work. It led me to a life that is beautiful and challenging and a million other adjectives. 

I’ve been thinking back to those decisions I made a year ago—to get on the airplane, to quit my job, to fundraise my salary, to move away from everything that was familiar and safe. I’ve been thinking about them a lot, because I think people have it wrong. I’ve heard others tell me over and over again how brave I am. They like to tell me that I’m courageous and bold, and that’s awesome. But in so many ways, I feel like I can’t quite carry the name “Courageous,” at least not by myself. 

This name feels really incomplete. If I’m courageous, it’s because I know what it’s like to walk in fear, and I don’t want to do that again. If I am daring, it’s because I know what it’s like to live in apathy, and I don’t want that life. If I’m bold, it’s because I know who I become when I’m timid, and I don’t want to be that person. 

And if I’m courageous, like truly, honestly, totally courageous, it’s because of the countless people and experiences and truths that have encouraged me to say, “Yes.” 

I have this 5x7 picture in a worn red frame that has followed me to every home I’ve lived in since that old dorm room at Taylor. The scene is nearly five years old, taken on a random weekend when I happened to be home from college. It’s a simple, beautiful moment of me teaching my oldest niece how to walk. That day, her tiny hands gripped my index fingers, and we took little step after little step. 

I love this picture; it just might be one of my most treasured possessions in the world. It made it into my suitcases to Thailand, after all, and space is a highly valuable thing when you’re trying to condense your life into 100 pounds. But I needed this picture, this actual printed out version, not because I couldn’t just reprint it once I got to Mae Sot or because I don’t have any updated photos of Finley and I. I needed this actual, physical copy because of the little note written on the back of it. 

My brother, Tim, took this picture on one of the last weekends we were home before he moved to L.A. for an internship, before we graduated from college, and before we began our crazy adult lives. He was and still is one of my best friends and my biggest fans, and one of the best gifts he has ever given me is this picture with a simple note on the back:

This girl believes in you! I do too. She loves you. Me too. She thinks you're the greatest buddy in the world. She’s right. You’re my person too.

Today, I pulled this picture from a shelf in my room and moved it to my desk, because I’m sick with a nasty sinus infection and feeling emotionally tired and missing my family a little bit more these days. I took it out of the frame and reread the note to remind myself to be courageous, because even after we say our big and scary, “yes,” we still need reminders of why we decided to walk this way in the first place.

These days, I need reminders like this and like Joshua 1:9.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

Like Isaiah 44:8.

Do not tremble; do not be afraid. Did I not proclaim my purposes for you long ago? 

Like Isaiah 43:18-19

But forget all that—it is nothing compared to what I am going to do. For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland. 

Like Isaiah 26:3-4

You will keep in perfect peace all who trust in you, all whose thoughts are fixed on you! Trust in the Lord always, for the Lord God is the eternal Rock.

There are people next to you who need to borrow some courage. They need truth spoken over their lives. They need confidence injected into their souls. They need a note, a message, a kind word. They need truth, a simple reminder, encouragement. As the family of Christ, we have this insane opportunity to help each other say, “Yes.” Isn’t this beautiful? Isn’t it incredible that we get to walk alongside, encourage, and challenge each other? What a holy, sacred gift—lending courage, borrowing confidence, encouraging trust, and shouting our, “Yes,” together. 

A year ago, I said another, “Yes,” to the Lord. It wasn’t my first, and it certainly won’t be my last. It was a yes said with a tiny bit more courage than fear, a tiny bit more boldness than timidity, a tiny bit more audacity than apathy. This courage, this boldness, this audacity is borrowed from the Father, from His promises, from the people He’s put around me. 

This week, as I reflect on the year it has been, on where the Lord has taken me, I’m less impressed with my own journey. Instead, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for those who have chosen to walk this road with me, lending courage and confidence and kindness, helping me say my “yes” over and over and over again. 

The post Why We Need to Look for Ways to Lend Courage to One Another appeared first on Kate Berkey.