Recently, Kristy and I were talking about this insane life we get to live in Mae Sot. It's chaotic and beautiful and unpredictable and wonderful. It's stupid hard and surrounded by the unfamiliar, and it's also our normal.

Every day we have the opportunity to do life with incredible people on the border of Thailand and Burma. Sometimes this looks like having a casual conversation with Hser Ku Paw while we order our morning coffee. Sometimes it looks like teaching English to 150 middle school students. Sometimes it looks like youth group and Burmese church. Sometimes it looks like vulnerably telling our stories through writing or gathering our Braverly women at our house for small group. No matter what, it looks like using our gifts, talents, and passions to build God's Kingdom while also praying desperately for the Father to grow our capacities.

This is our yes.

It's wild to me that a year ago this month, I got on an airplane headed for Thailand for the first time. My short week in Mae Sot confirmed everything the Lord had been saying for months. This was my yes.

And a year later, I found myself sitting in a coffee shop with my dear friend in this city that now feels like home. As Kristy and I talked, we commented on how often we hear people say, "I could never do what you do!"

What they mean, of course, is that they could never move across the world. They could never change their life that much. They could never be a "missionary." I believe that this phrase, "I could never do what you do," could be one of the most dangerous phrases in the Church today.

This is the mindset that elevates people to a position they can only fall from, and it devalues the place and position of everyone else. This life and town and team is my yes, but it might not be yours. I'm not here because I am more courageous than the next person. I'm not here because I am a super Christian or because I love Jesus more than you do. I am here because I knew what my yes needed to be.

For years I wrestled with the Father, searching and seeking and asking Him to show me where He wanted me to go, what He wanted me to do. I knew that where I was not where He wanted me to be forever, but I didn't know where my next step was supposed to take me. And then, ever so slowly over the course of years, He began to help me see the path ahead. He began to show me my yes.

This yes happened to lead me to Mae Sot. It happened to lead me to missions and nonprofit and ministry. It happened to lead me far away from my family and all the comforts of my world in Nappanee. This was my yes, but it might not be yours.

I am confident of this–we all have a yes that is burning in our hearts. It's a yes we are still discovering or searching for, or maybe it's a yes that we've recognized all along. I believe the Father isn't looking for more people to sell everything they own and move to another country. He isn't looking for more people to become what they think they are "supposed to" become. He is looking for the people who pause long enough to recognize the yes He planted in their hearts so long ago.

My yes was to Mae Sot, Thailand. Your yes could be right where you are; it could be staring you in the face. Or just maybe, your yes might lead you far away. If there's one thing I've learned about saying, "Yes," it's that it will always lead us into deeper dependency, desperate courage, and abundant life in the Father.

But, friends, we need to stop comparing ourselves with those around us. We need to stop saying things like, "I could never do that."

Because you could.
Because there's nothing extraordinary about me.
I just said yes after years of searching and seeking and saying no to a lot of other things.

There is a "yes" burning in your heart that only you can say.

Be the kind of person who says, "Yes," to the Father.

The post One of the Most Dangerous Phrases in the Church Today appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Here are a few things you should know about me—I am a sucker for dancing in the kitchen while dinner cooks on the stove and Frank Sinatra’s voice plays in the background, and I’m an absolutely terrible dancer.

I stumble and fumble my way through a song, usually opting to simply sway back and forth. I rely heavily on the leader, which, for the record, should never be me. Sometimes, I spend more time worrying about what others might think of me than actually enjoying the simple joy of dancing. All in all, I am the very definition of out of place and awkward.

So often, this is what my relationship with the Father feels like. This is what the growing pains of our relationship feel like—like stumbling, like awkward steps, like stopping, like starting over, like learning to let Him lead. 

But as I let him lead, I’ve seen time and again that He delights in the process. He delights in the journey. He delights in the steps forward and backward. He delights in watching me us the gifts He gave me. He delights in singing over me. He delights in walking me through this journey, this process, this step-by-step dance. He corrects, and He guides. He pauses to take my face in His hands, to remind me of who I am and whose I am. He reminds me of grace. He reminds me of love. He reminds me to let Him lead. 

I’ve spent too much of my life comparing myself to others, worrying about what others might think, wondering if my story, my thoughts, my voice, my experiences matter compared to everyone else.

It’s exhausting, am I right? 

It has left me feeling like I’m not good enough, like I’ll never measure up, like my gifts don’t matter, like I don’t have anything to offer. Step by step the Father leads me through this dance, but I find myself asking if He meant to dance with someone else.

That other girl seems to have her life together. That guy is a natural and empowered leader. She seems to have a direct line of communication with the Holy Spirit. He is courageously outspoken.

Didn’t He mean to pick the extrovert, the front-of-the-room leader?
Didn’t He mean to pice that super talented person?
Didn’t He mean to pick someone else, anyone else? 

In those moments, I find myself saying words so deeply similar to Gideon. 

But I’m not that strong. I’m the youngest in my family. I’m only 25. I’m a girl in a world full of mostly male leaders and pastors and teachers. I’m just a writer. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. 

I stare at my feet, focusing on my stumbling and fumbling, too afraid to look up at the Father, let alone look around at those who might be better at this dance than I am. But in a moment of courage, when I actually lift my eyes to His face, I am surprised to find that He was always focused on me, that I was always the one He picked to dance with.

These days, I am trying to dance with courage, to follow Jesus with courage, to embrace the gifts He’s given me with courage. For me, this looks like writing with more courage, because writing is what I do. It’s who I am. I can’t run from it. Trust me, I’ve tried. I think we all have things that we’ve tried to run from—that gift or talent or thing the Father has put in our hands. Sometimes this gift makes us feel alive and content and deeply joyful. Sometimes it leaves us feeling vulnerable and weak and like a failure, and so we try to escape it.

But the thing we feel the most fear about is the very thing the Father longs to use the most to build His kingdom. 

A couple of weeks ago, when I felt like I was drowning in doubts and insecurities and questions about who the Father created me to be and what He designed me to do, He took me to Isaiah 44:8. Day after day, this verse continues to rock my world. In its simplicity, I find myself breathless and overwhelmed. 

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

There is a story inside of you and I. There is a song, a melody. There is a dream, a mission, a purpose. There is something so deeply holy inside of us, something that is sacred and beautiful, something that the Father planted so very long ago. He longs to move you and I past fear and into freedom. He longs to use our very gifts to build the Kingdom and help others experience the love and freedom and joy and life of Jesus. 

He longs to lead us through this dance.

The Father is not asking you to speak alone, to sing alone, to pursue the dream alone. He’s not asking us to do this dance alone, to stumble and fumble and fall down. I believe that if we look up from our trembling hands, if we steady our knocking knees long enough, we will see the Father looking at us with his arm outstretched. I believe that we will hear the invitation in His voice, see the invitation in His eyes, feel the invitation in the gentle way He pulls us into the dance. 

Courage, dear heart. Courage for the journey. Courage for the process. Courage for the gifts. Courage for the risks. Courage for the vulnerability. Courage for the fear. Courage for the stumbles. Courage for the starts and stops.

Courage for the dance—the one our Father delights in leading us through. 

The post Why the Father delights in our dance, even if we stumble and fumble our way through it appeared first on Kate Berkey.