A little over a month ago, I started writing a chapter about community, and then our world went into lockdown. Ironic, isn’t it? With every word I wrote about drawing together, our world pulled further away. We locked ourselves in our homes, afraid of our neighbors. Our only connection to one another was through whatever device could connect to the internet. Social media, Marco Polo, Netflix party—none of it is bad but all of it is an attempt to fill the void of personal connection. 

I wrote over 5,000 words in this chapter, and after I read it, I wanted to vomit. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph felt like the kid who shouts “Jesus” as the answer to every Sunday school question. So I’m starting over, and I’m spending more time in prayer than in writing. Because our world is growing more and more desperate for this thing called belonging, and I long to offer something of substance rather than something cute. 

None of this is new. Virus or no virus, we wake up more lonely and afraid than yesterday. Anxiety plants seeds in our minds and traps us in an endless cycle. Panic and fear hold us behind iron bars, and we feel so alone. If only we would look to our left and right and notice the men and women standing beside us bearing their own burden called fear. 

If only we realized we’re all aching for belonging, for connection, for community. We’re aching for love, and we’re aching for our people. If you’re like me, you’ve spent more time on Facetime or Zoom or Skype in the last three weeks than ever before. And if you’re like me, you might be a little tired of it all because connecting with people while the internet buffers is so challenging. Quarantine or no quarantine, I ache for genuine connection, and so do you.

Genuine connection comes when the masks come off. Sometimes it comes with hard questions or uncomfortable silence followed by honest answers. It’s messy and awkward and vulnerable. But when we’re honest about our lives and stories, we just might find what we’re searching for—belonging.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine leaned into vulnerability during one of the most vulnerable times we’ve all experienced. She shared the messy struggles of this quarantine and created space for my own messy story. No masks. No pretending. Just honesty. And her beautiful courage took my breath away, because we experienced genuine connection.

Friend, we have to fight for this. We have to find the courage to step into vulnerability. In a day of FaceTime and Social Media where our masks sit readily available, authentic connection begs us to burn them. Cut the act. Forget the show. Stop hiding behind distractions. Come as we are, because our world fears things we never dreamed we would—like grocery stores and parks and our neighbors.

But we need our neighbors, and we need to be honest with our neighbors. Because we share courage among each other. 

Community looks different in the middle of a nation-wide quarantine, but connection doesn’t. Connection is the same struggle it was a few months ago. It extends its hand as an invitation. It calls to us, “Come. Step into vulnerability. Be honest. In community we find courage.” 

So friend, fight for connection. Share whatever courage you carry and borrow some of your friend’s. Create space for conversations that invites people to bring their truest self and bring your truest self, too. 

Because I need your courage, and you need mine.

The post Connection in Quarantine appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I—most certainly—belong to the latter group. I like to think it came with the genes. 

As a kid, I remember staring at my grandma and grandpa Berkey’s fridge in child-like wonder. It was and still is an array of funky magnets and family photos, Bible verses and comics they found particularly funny. I’m sure every child in my family has completely rearranged the bottom half of grandma’s fridge at least once, but I’m not sure it bothers her all that much. 

On its best day, that fridge is the definition of controlled chaos. Most of the time, though, it feels like a kind of Where’s Waldo collage of faces. 

Growing up, grandma and grandpa’s picture was always front and center. For the majority of my childhood, it was a single moment captured of them on the very worn, very loved gray swing that hung near the merry-go-round and trampoline. It was one of those mid-laughter shots, the kind that brings tears to my eyes these days as I remember the sound of my grandpa’s voice, the echo of his laughter. For most of my little-kid days, this was the picture that came to mind when I thought of my grandparents and their home—the perfect description of the life they chose to build together. 

Side note: Yes, my grandparent’s house has a merry-go-round and a trampoline with no safety net. My childhood was indeed incredibly magical.

Surrounding their picture was, of course, shots of the rest of the family—kids and grandkids and great grandkids. But mixed in among the faces I find familiar, are pictures of people I don’t know at all. They are people who call my grandparents by their preferred names—grandma and grandpa. Not related in the slightest, yet here, they had found a kind of family and home.

As a kid, I remember looking at their faces and listening to my grandma tell me their names and stories. 

This one a missionary. 
This one an exchange student. 
This one an old church friend. 
This one the family of grandpa’s old coworker. 

To be completely honest, as a child I was pretty territorial. 

My family was mine. 
My best friend was mine. 
My grandparents—you guessed it—were mine. 

Praise the good Lord that your girl has really grown over the last 26 years. But little-kid Katherine didn’t love the fact that these people got to call my grandparents grandma and grandpa, and I think I used to look at their fridge with a kind of scowl—like I was toddler having a pity party about having to share my toys.

A few years ago, though, my brother and I were eating dinner at my grandparent’s house, just a couple of months before my grandpa took a turn for the worse. It would be one of the last meals shared around that table when my grandpa was fully engaged—telling terrible dad jokes and recounting stories from their history. 

That night, they again told us the many names and stories of people on the fridge. Person after person, each had a story, and they remembered every one. Each was significant. Each held such deep value. Each was incredibly loved and faithfully prayed for. 

And I began to feel something new take up space in my heart—pushing out that old tyrant called territory. 

I felt gratitude for their overwhelming, outrageous generosity.

As my grandparents told me stories about their friends on the fridge, I began to remember other stories—the ones my dad had told me about his parents. I remembered how my grandpa would often give my dad money and tell him to slip it into a certain person’s car while they were in the church. I remembered the stories of my aunt and uncle and dad’s friends who found refuge and love and good food at my grandparent’s house. I remembered the amount of elderly people they drove to and from doctor appointments. I remembered the years of driving teenagers to youth group and back home on Wednesday nights. 

My 88-year-old grandma recently lamented about how her poor eyesight and mobility is keeping her from sending small devotionals to missionaries serving across the world. My dear grandma, this warrior, has been sending these devotionals for 50 years. 

50 years of paying the bill to mail devotionals to men and women and families across the globe. 50 years of taking time to write notes of encouragement. 50 years of faithfulness.

My grandparents have taught me something I’ve desperately needed to learn—selfless, overwhelming, outrageous generosity. They’ve taught me to live with open hands. Nothing is mine. Nothing is beyond giving. 

These days, their fridge seems a little more empty than what I remember as a kid, but it's still crazy full. The faces of family—blood and adopted—fill the front and both sides, reminding us all to choose generosity first. 

I’m no where near their level of open handed, but someday, I desperately hope for a fridge like theirs—full and a little chaotic, the mark of family and friendship and kindness. Step by step, I’d like to think I’m on the right track, following that generous couple in the photo together on the swing—the one on the fridge. 

The post What my Grandparent’s Fridge Teaches You and Me appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Here goes.

I’m single. 

Whew. There. I said it. 

If you know me or follow me on social media, this isn’t a surprise. People tend to know if someone is in a relationship, because our culture is obsessed with relationships.

And dear Church, you are obsessed with relationships and dating and marriage. So as a woman who has had to navigate singleness in the Body of Christ, would you allow me to say a few truths that the Church desperately needs to grab ahold of? 

I feel the crushing weight of this label called single.

I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted. I’m tired of the jokes about putting me on some obscure dating site. I’m tired of yet another sermon on marriage. I’m tired of hearing, “So, I know this guy who’s single.” And I’m tired of all of these things coming from the Church. 

It’s hard to describe the crushing weight of this label called single. My town and home church are perfect for couples and families. Both are beautiful places, and I’m grateful for the ways they taught and shaped my family and me. But as a single woman trying to find a place and a community to belong in, this reality is painful, challenging, and crushing—especially when it is paired with incessant comments about relationships. 

So, before you start another conversation with your single friend about relationships, pause. Please, for the love of our sweet Father, just pause. Remember that the person sitting across from you is so much more than this label called single, but at the same time, she just might feel like she could die from the crushing weight of it.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

To be fair, no one actually asks, “You’re still single? What’s wrong with you?”

Very few people in this world are that blunt and cruel. Most comments are subtle, and people don’t even realize what they’re communicating. Friend, when you ask me if I’m dating someone every time you see me, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you try to set me up with someone yet again without me asking you to, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you joke around about how I’m too strong, independent, and confident for most men, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you teach another message on marriage, plan another marriage retreat, start another small group for married people without doing anything for singles, you tell me something is wrong with me. 

On my very best days, I can remember the truth—there’s nothing wrong with me. I am not the rejected. I am not too much or not enough. I don’t need to change my personality to find a date for a Friday night. I contribute value and help the Church see a different side of the Father that marriage can’t. 

So, please, sweet Body of Christ, remember this: Every time you mention that you just want to help your single friends find that person they can spend the rest of their life with, think about what they’re hearing. Their life is beautiful right now. They’re single, and that’s ok. 

Singleness is not a problem to solve.

Wouldn’t it be super weird if the Church acted like marriage was a problem to solve? I mean, half end in divorce, so with odds like that, shouldn’t we avoid it? 

YIKES! 

Marriage is beautiful. I certainly hope I get to experience all the wonderful, complicated, messy, incredible parts of it someday. But for now, I’m in this place called single, and I don’t need rescued.

Singleness is not a problem to solve. It’s not a place to save me from just like marriage isn’t a place to save you from. 

Sweet Body of Christ, what if we celebrated singleness—really celebrated it? What if we celebrated it for more than what we can get from single people who seem to have more time and energy than couples or those with kids? What if we celebrated the ways singleness shows us the Father in extravagant ways? 

What if we celebrated single people’s accomplishments? What if we encouraged them to pursue their dreams instead of waiting for their life to start when the “right one” comes along. History would miss so many beautiful, kingdom-building people if they had waited for their spouse before radically following Jesus.

So, friend, remember that singleness is not a problem to solve or a place to rescue people from in the same way that marriage isn’t a problem or a place people need saved from.

Better Together

Now hear this: I love the beautiful, imperfect Church, and I value marriage. I’m not holding grudges against those who have overstepped boundaries in their attempts to cure my singleness. I’m not angry. I’m not bitter.

Honestly, I’m just tired, because somedays, it takes all my energy to remember that I’m ok. I’m not a problem to be solved, a brokenness to be fixed, or a woman in need of rescuing. I’m just single.

Body of Christ, you need families and couples, retirees and people in that mid-life crisis zone, kiddos and awkward teenagers. And you need me—just me in all my glorious singleness. We are better together—not trying to fix one another or conform one another to our own ideal of perfect. So, would you create space for me, for my questions and struggles, for my party of one? 

I’ll make space for you if you’ll make space for me. 

The post With Love from Your Single Friend in the Church appeared first on Kate Berkey.

It feels like the kind of moment we experience after vacation. We have pictures and stories of moments we love. All too eager, we sit down with friends or family and begin to relive these memories, and about two seconds in, we see that look—glazed eyes, disengagement, indifference. 

Listen, your friends and family, don’t really care about that smoothie bowl on day two…or maybe it was day three…no two, and they certainly don’t want to see a picture. C’mon. Let’s just face the facts. 

So, I’m a little afraid to tell this story, because it means so very much to me. Everything about it—the little girl, her family, the building she’s in. Everything. And I’m a little nervous because it’s hard to see glazed eyes and looks of indifference when you’re telling a story that means so very much to you. So give me space. Hear this story. Look at this picture, because I believe it should mean something to you too. 

When you see this picture, you see an absolutely adorable toddler. You’re not wrong. She is beautiful and mischievous and intelligent. She’s learning five languages as a four year old, so conversations with her can get a little tricky. She regularly jumps between Thai, Burmese, Karen, Chinese, and English and leaves me wondering what just happened. 

When I look at this picture, I see a story so much bigger than this girl. I see a story that wrecks me in the most beautiful of ways and inspires me to choose a life of bravery. 

I see her momma—a warrior, a woman of resilience and kindness, a woman who makes me laugh. I see the difficult parts of her story—living in the jungle for months at a time to escape the oppressive rule of Burma's military junta. I see the years she lived in Mae La refugee camp on the border of Thailand and Burma. I see the days she dared to dream about a future that was full of hope and life and light. I see the ways she models a kind of bravery for her children that I only aspire to. 

This girl’s momma strives and tries and sometimes fails, but she continues to strive and try and sometimes fail. Because of this, her daughters will know that fear doesn’t have to control them. They will know that they can try new things, even if they fail or make mistakes. They will know that they can dream for their future, and the Father will honor the desires He puts in their hearts. Her daughters will know a future that is full of hope, light, life, and community, because they have watched their mom pursue this first. 

I see a dare—live brave, dream bravely, influence bravery. Our world is full of catchy phrases, slogans sold on signs at Hobby Lobby, but when I read these words, I see something much deeper than a shallow tune. I see a real-life challenge given to a group of women on the Thailand/Burma border. So many of them come from histories of oppression, and fear becomes the currency through which others try to control them.

But in Jesus, we see another way—a way of courage, of love, of freedom. These women were created to live brave in the day-in-day-out routines and in the big risks. They were designed to dream bravely—to use their gifts and talents to impact their friends, families, communities, and world. And they influence and encourage bravery in those around them as they pursue this kind of life—a life of courage and confidence and wholeheartedness. Because of the way her community embraces this brave dare, this girl will know what it looks like to walk with courage. 

In this picture, I see a future—a little girl who is being taught even now to choose courage over fear, to walk in confidence and truth, to see Jesus in those around her, to honor her story and the stories she’s surrounded by. I see a girl who is a culture shaker, a world changer, a kingdom builder. I see a girl who gets to learn something so beautiful—how to bake cupcakes—because her mother first had a dream to learn how to bake. In this girl, I see a beautiful picture of investing in the generations—in the mommas and papas, sons and daughters, aunties and uncles. There is something so deeply beautiful about the way a whole family can change and transform and pursue the life the Father designed for them when everyone is invited to be part of this change. 

When you look at this picture, you probably just see a cute little girl and flour on a counter. But pause for a moment, and look again.

This girl’s mom has known the worst of the worst, but she has also known resilience, grit, perseverance. She is a woman of joy, a woman who teaches her daughters how to live with courage. This girl's father gave up his citizenship to move into the refugee camp, because he saw a need there. Through his life, his daughters have learned the most beautiful, sacrificial kind of love, empathy, and compassion. Her community comes from so many different backgrounds, but each of them is on a journey to live brave, dream bravely, and influence bravery in those around them. Because of their courage, she is learning and watching and trying and sometimes falling short. 

This beautiful girl—baking cupcakes in Thailand—is the present and the future. She is a representation of the people around us who are watching the way we live. May we be people who choose to live brave and dream bravely in our own lives so that we can encourage this kind of bravery in those around us.

The ripples of this decision have the power to change our families, our friends, our communities, our world. 

The post The Ripples I see in a Single Photograph and Why it Should Matter to You Too appeared first on Kate Berkey.

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.

Tweet

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.

That afternoon, while the Thailand heat settled around us, we laid out wicker mats and took of our shoes. We ate chicken fried rice and one too many snickerdoodle cookies. Conversations in Thai and Karen and English and Burmese filled the air. Babies napped in mammas’ arms. Toddlers were too distracted by the promise of swimming to eat their food. It was, in so many ways, a classic family gathering—food, laughter, play, and conversation.

I’ve been doing life with these people for nearly nine months, and while that’s certainly not a life time, it’s been long enough to know that I have been given a gift. This tribe, this crew, they’re not perfect. We have our dysfunctions and quirks. We make mistakes and have disagreements and face challenges, but even still, we have a kind of love for one another that far exceeds the messiness of doing life together. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about those first weeks with my team. I’m not always the best at transition and change, especially when it disrupts the well-established relationships I have built around myself. I remember those awkward first days of trying to figure out where I fit. I remember the way I cautiously stepped into meetings or meals around the table, the way we do when we’re trying to get a feel for a group’s dynamic.

My dear friend sent me some words from author Shauna Niequist when I first moved to Thailand. “Six weeks,” she said, “it takes six weeks to settle into any kind of routine or rhythm when you move to a new place or start a new job.” Lucky for me, I did both of those things, and let me tell you, it took at least that long to settle into some kind of normal. 

It’s taken even longer to settle into family, but that’s sort of wonderful to me. 

I’m a destination kind of person, usually wishing the journey didn’t take as long, but this season, more than any other, has taught me the importance of coming back to the table of community day after day. It has taught me the importance of choosing to be intentional. Before I moved to Mae Sot, I was healing from deep hurts from those around me, and in my first few weeks here, the Father whispered to my soul, “It’s time to tear down the walls you’ve built around your heart. Brick by brick.” 

Brick by brick. 

What a slow process. He didn’t give me a sledgehammer or a wrecking ball. Most days, this idea of tearing down the wall brick by brick looked like simply showing up. It looked like saying yes to moments with my team. It looked like sitting across from a teammate and inviting her into some of the messy parts of my story. It looked like asking good questions and listening all the way to the end, no matter how long it took. It looked like choosing to be with instead of being isolated. 

And it’s taken nearly nine months of this kind of daily choice to get to the kind of beauty we experienced on Sunday. Even still, I wouldn’t trade this season for anything, and I wouldn’t go back to the Kate I was in August. 

When we choose to tear down the walls we’ve built around our stories, our fears, our insecurities, our whole selves, we open ourselves up to something so much more wonderful than we could ever imagine. We open ourselves up to family. 

Things can still be messy, complicated, and painful, but if we choose to show up day after day after day, we just might find ourselves sitting among people who were once strangers, holding their babies, laughing about inside jokes. We just might find ourselves honored to help carry each others stories, joys, and struggles. We just might find ourselves speaking a common language we never knew was possible.

It takes time–weeks, months, years. It takes a willingness to embrace awkward transitions. It takes being able to laugh at the moments when we get it wrong, forgive when there’s misunderstanding, and encourage when we need to be challenged. 

But I promise that if we keep choosing this kind of life, we just might find ourselves a little less lonely, a little less afraid, a little less insecure, because we will have created something so much bigger than a community. 

We will have built a family. 

I couldn’t be more grateful for mine—Thai, Burmese, Karen, and American. 

The post Building Family Brick by Brick appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Last night, our plans for the evening were interrupted, and it left me feeling fuller than I had in a long time. 

We were supposed to host Braverly’s small group at our house, but after most of the food was prepared, we found out that all but one of our women was either sick or out of town for the upcoming Songkran celebrations. Sometimes life goes this way—unplanned and unpredictable, completely out of rhythm and totally beyond our control.

Instead of cancelling, we gathered whoever could come, plus some, and our house went from quiet and mellow to vibrant and colorful. Hser Na Gay, the house mom for our children’s home, brought her three daughters and Amy brought hers. Little kid chatter filled our small space and single sentences were formed with a combination of English, Burmese, and Karen. In a moment, it seemed like our air conditioners couldn’t keep up with the heat from the stove top and the number people making themselves comfortable in our house. 

And I love that. 

I am an introvert by nature, and I value a quiet home as much as my next introverted friend. But sometimes, my introvertedness means that I separate myself from others, that I push friends away, that I mistake self-care for isolation. I have learned that my life is exponentially better when I’m surrounded by a few extroverts, because through our differences, we pull out the best in each other. 

This is what Kristy does for me. She keeps my independent, introverted self soft. She keeps me close to the people who keep me going. She keeps the door to our home open—open to possibility, open to anyone, open to game nights and movie nights and sleepovers with mattresses laying side by side in the living room. She doesn’t do this all the time. After all, she’s also kind to my introverted self, but last night was one when the door to our home was open. 

People walked in without knocking. They helped themselves to cold water from the fridge. They dunked chips in salsa well before we set down to eat. They adjusted the fans and slouched on the couch. They weren’t in their home, but they were home. 

We had a lot of plans for the evening. We planned to introduced our Braverly women to burrito bowls and homemade salsas. We planned to ask them new questions, and dare them to be a little vulnerable with the group. We planned to share together, pray together, and end the night with fruit pizza. 

And all of our plans flew out the window, replaced by coloring and conversation and a quick fashion show when Hser Na Gay needed to try on a few dresses. And that’s ok, because community doesn’t demand that every gathering become a space for the hard questions or the vulnerable conversations. 

Sometimes it invites us to take off our shoes at the door and snack on a few grapes before dinner. It invites us to adjust the temperature of the aircons and sink into the pillows on the couch. It invites us to sift through the craft drawer to find markers and pieces of paper for the kiddos. It invites us to pull out toys and snuggle babies so the mammas can have a break. It invites us to simply be, to let the evening go wherever it should. 

It’s these moments—the ones of feeling at home in someone else’s home—that build something beautiful, something lasting. The masks are off. The guards are down; it’s a different kind of vulnerability, the kind you can’t name right away. It’s the vulnerability of being absolutely, truly yourself with a group of people who create the space for you to simply be. 

This is why my heart felt so full. 

We didn’t have an earth-shattering, soul-revealing conversation. We didn’t fix anyone’s problems or solve anyone’s worries. But we did find out how Hser Na Gay’s trip to Burma was. We found out how her family was doing, how her village was doing. We heard another terrible pun from Meghan and realized that Kayla also had a few puns to add to the mix. We heard Chichi and Nono practice their English and watched Joy come alive as she played with other toddlers. We heard about all the big and little things that happened in each other’s days, and sometimes that feels just as important as hard questions and vulnerable conversations.

Because you can’t have one without the other. 

Because sometimes you need evenings when everyone slouches on the couch, takes turns snuggling babies, fills up bowls of rice and beans and salsa, and does the little, simple things of life that maybe aren’t as simple and little as we think. 

The post Why We Need the Simple and Little Things of Life to Build Lasting Community appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I haven't done a lot of work recently.

Don't get me wrong. I have been working and checking off things from my to-do list, but more than not, these last few weeks have been filled with stops and starts. They've been the kinds of days and weeks when what seems the main thing is not the main thing.

As I write this, one of my very best friends is across from me. We're at Braverly on a busy Saturday afternoon, and she is graciously giving me the space to check off a few things from my list. This friend travelled all the way from Indiana to visit me, and it still feels like a dream that she is here, that we have spent the last few days navigating Bangkok traffic, biking through Mae Sot, eating my very favorite foods in town. It seems like a dream that she spent the time and money to step into this world and life that I love so very much.

Last month, my parents stepped away from their lives to step into mine, and at the end of this month, two more friends from Indiana will do the same. And as much as I love these visitors, I've found myself a little at war with the Northern Indiana Kate inside of me.

I was raised in a culture that worships hard work. People in Northern Indiana bow to the idol of a good work ethic, of working hard and working late, of getting things done. We are self-made people, the "pull-yourself-up-by-your-boot-straps" kind of people. We like the kind of tangible results you can hold in your hand.

These last few weeks have held very little that is tangible. They've held more conversations than to-do lists. They've held more moments of doing life together than working late. I think life needs both the hard work and the life together, but these days, I'm more grateful for these moments of conversation and life-on-life moments and the space for exploration.

Here's what I've learned–sometimes what seems like the main thing is not the main thing.

Sometimes the most important thing isn't to check off things from the to-do list or stress over deadlines. Sometimes the most important thing isn't to work late, work tirelessly, work until you can't work anymore. And when we mistake these things for the most important things all the time, we miss the beautiful and holy that surround us–like people, like relationships, like the things you can't measure, like the things that never stick to a deadline.

These days the most important thing has looked like sitting with my parents at the border so they could see No Man's Land for themselves. It has looked like baking with my mom and our women at Braverly. It has looked like sharing the story of the book project with my very best friend. It has looked like having honest and vulnerable conversations about the book's content and being surprised by the way our dialogue leads to richer writing. It has looked like biking through town with my sweet friend, sweating through our clothes in the near 100 degree temperature. It has looked like introducing people I love from the States to people I love from Thailand and Burma and beyond.

Sometimes what seems like the main thing isn't the main thing.

So these days I'm not getting much done on my to-do list. Even writing this blog post has taken much longer than it should have because of distractions. But these distractions, I'm learning, are not always bad. More times than not, they are gifts, things that will slip away in a moment if I don't recognize them.

These days, I'm looking for those moments, those distractions, those incredible, beautiful, holy gifts.

These moments, they are the main thing in this season.

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But this goodbye sucked. There’s no other way to put it. I could try to make it sound more poetic, try to be a real writer. But it sucked. It was the kind of goodbye that rips a person’s heart out, stomps on it a couple of times, and tries to fit it back into her chest. I felt bruised and broken, like someone stole a part of me.

He’s more than just my brother. He’s my best friend. I love him more than chocolate or coffee or chocolate covered coffee beans. And that’s a lot.

And that’s the problem with love. Love is a terrifying thing. I find that friendships scare me sometimes, not because I’m scared of getting hurt by the other person. They scare me because I know what goodbye feels like. I know what it feels like to watch the world change before my eyes. I know what it’s like to watch a car pull out of the driveway and wonder when I will get to spend time with the person sitting in the driver’s seat.

It’s a scary thing, to care so deeply for another person.

But as I find myself reflecting on the emotions of the past week, I don’t wish for a different relationship with my brother. I don’t wish away all of the moments that grew us closer, the times that took us from siblings to friends. I don’t regret the vulnerability between the two of us, the conversations that were tough, the love spoken kindly. I don’t wish for an easier goodbye.

Because that’s the thing about people, about relationships with people, about friendships. They’re tough and messy, and they hurt . But they are beautiful. They breathe life into a person.

Tim and I don’t have the perfect relationship. We went to Italy this summer with my parents, and there were moments that we both wanted to “accidentally” leave each other at a train station. But in the end, we choose to love each other, to support each other, to encourage each other.

So Tim,

Thank you for teaching me how to be a great sibling. Thank you for all the cards of encouragement you sent to me. Thanks for being the only sibling in the world to send a Starbucks gift card to his sister just because he knows how much she loves coffee. Thanks for randomly showing up at Taylor when I least expected it, for bringing flowers. Thanks for calling even when I always forget to call you. Thanks for the hours you listened to me, cried with me, encouraged me.

You’re my biggest fan, and I am yours. I believe in you more than I believe in myself most days. Your dreams may take years to become reality. You and I are the same in that regard. But I have no doubt that someday I will sit in a theater, one hand wedged in a pack of sour gummy worms for old time’s sake and the other holding a Diet Pepsi, as your movie starts. I will cheer for you when you succeed. I will cheer for you when you fail.

It takes courage to pack up and leave home, leave the comforts and the family. Don’t lose this courage.

You made goodbye extremely hard. In the process you reminded me of why true and meaningful relationships scare me. You reminded me of when vulnerability and friendship hurt. But that’s ok because I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything.

See you soon.

The post The Scary Thing About Friendship appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This is how the Berkeys usher in the new year.

But this isn’t the only time in 2014 that a person could find us celebrating. We celebrated March 10, the day we met Finley Sophia. We celebrated May 24, the day Nick and Mary got married. We celebrated Nick and Mary’s graduation from college at the end of July with a trip to Mexico. We celebrated birthdays and anniversaries. We celebrated homecomings and weekends together. We celebrated those rare times Notre Dame Football actually came out with a win.

My family loves to celebrate yet so many days go by with little celebration.

I’m a celebrate-every-moment-you-can kind of person. I get tired of the mundane. Skeptics and cynics steal life from me. I love a good party with the people who I love most. Tonight as I sit around the fondue pots with my brothers and friends, my niece and my parents, the people who have attended our party for years, I’m going to be celebrating 2014. I’m celebrating the final year of college. I’m celebrating the friendships that have lasted another year. I’m celebrating the times I wanted to pull out my hair, those 26.2 miles of the marathon. I’ll be celebrating the good things like the day my niece was born. And I’ll be celebrating the tough things like fear of what’s to come at the end of May.

Because these good and these tough things remind me that I am alive. And that’s worth celebrating.

What are you celebrating from 2014?

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