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.

Three years ago Braverly opened its doors for the first time. On this Fall day, life was business as usual for 99.9% of the world. Kids went to school. Government bodies met and argued about something. Somewhere a recent college grad moaned about the struggles of adulting. 

Life.as.usual. 

But a small group of people in a quirky Thailand border town felt a little anxious and excited and completely full of anticipation. Their hearts beat a little faster, and their steps held a little bit more purpose. On that day, a dream was stepping into reality and breathing its first few breaths on its own. 

Braverly was born. 

Braverly

A quick look at street view on Google Maps shows that simple, beautiful concrete building. From the street, you can see Braverly’s logo—that big, cursive B and the words “bikes. bagels. bags.” But once inside, you see that other word that pulses through the veins of this café and sewing center—brave.

Braverly came from the dream from an American who imagined a place that trained and empowered marginalized and oppressed women—moms, sisters, and aunties trying to build a better life for their family. From there, the idea of a café and sewing center slowly began to form. Not only would these spaces give women valuable business, life, and hands-on skills, they would provide opportunities to impact Mae Sot and possibly even the world. 

Etched on the back wall is the slogan and driving force—three simple lines that inspire everything.

Live brave.
Dream bravery.
Influence bravery.

Every day the women in the Braverly family are challenged to live with courage over fear. They are stretched to dream scary, big, difficult dreams for themselves, their families, and the world. And because of their courageous decisions, they encourage bravery in others.

For three years, this has been the mission, and it has begun to make a mark on Mae Sot. Yet, there is a longing for more. This dare toward courage, this challenge to choose bravery is for the world. It’s a message we all need to hear and be wrecked by and choose every day. So while the café became known in Mae Sot, the dream grew. 

What if Questions Inspire Bold Dreams

What if these beautiful handmade products—bags, wallets, clutches, and more—were sold across the world? What if these story-carrying products created by incredibly courageous women in Thailand found their way to the arms of women in the U.S., Spain, Kenya, and Mexico? What if a simple purse was a reminder for women all over the world to choose courage over fear every day, to dream intimidating dreams, and to encourage others to choose bravery? 

What if? 

It’s the question that seems to start every big and beautiful and terrifying adventure, doesn’t it? What if humans could fly through the sky and reach places we never imagined? What if we could connect the entire world through cables and satellites? What if we took a risk, a step out? What if we tried and failed? What if we tried and succeeded, and the world became a better place because of our courage?

What if?

For Braverly, the questions have always been simple—what if one woman found freedom, wholeness of heart, empowerment, and life in the Father? What if that one person became two became three became a whole family, community, a whole nation? 

Why it all Matters to You

Last week, the dream stepped a little closer to reality when Braverly’s online store launched. Yes, people of America, you can now buy beautiful products made by incredibly brave women in Mae Sot, Thailand. You can show off a unique headband crafted from beautiful Thai fabric. You can carry a one-of-a-kind clutch or bag created by someone you have more in common with than you know. 

The dream of Braverly was never just about Mae Sot, about the people who invest so much of their time and skills, heart and soul into this place. It was always about the world—about you and me. It was about all of us, because if we pause long enough, we just might see that we have more similarities than we ever could imagine. 

You get the opportunity to be part of the Braverly story. You get to choose courage over fear, bravery over insecurity. What if we became a people marked by courage? 

What if we were a people marked by Braverly?

Join the movement, and check out these handmade, story-carrying product here. 

The post Why a Café in Mae Sot, Thailand Matters to You appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I keep telling myself that word over and over again—season. 

“There is a time and season for everything,” I remind my heart. 

The Father whispers back, “It’s time for the seasons to change.”

It’s the same thing He said over a year ago when He first led me to this country, and it seems fitting to hear Him say it once again. Honestly, though, some days my heart longs to keep things the way they are. This once foreign place is now familiar. This once uncomfortable town is now home, and my heart is grateful. I’ve done the hard work of cultivating community, of investing in relationships, of building trust in ministry. I’ve built relationships—beautiful relationships—with the women we work with, and it feels so deeply challenging to say goodbye. 

“Seasons, seasons, season,” my soul whispers. 

The seasons have changed here in Thailand. The scorching hot weather gave way to buckets of rain the sky couldn’t hold anymore. Rain storms rock our town day and night, and clouds block the sun we never thought would disappear. Rainy season has burst in and brought planting season along with it. The trees and plants once dying of thirst practically blind our eyes with their vibrant greens and yellows and reds. 

There is a season for everything, even for the most incredible, amazing gifts—like rainy season, like planting season, like this life and ministry in Mae Sot. These days, I’m trying to embrace these seasons, because I could have cried tears of joy when the first downpour of rainy season hit Mae Sot. Seasons need to change, even if they are painful changes—like the slow shift into hot season or the painful “goodbyes” and “see you laters.” 

These changes can be uncomfortable and difficult and leave us feeling like a foreigner in our own body. But with these changes come with the opportunity for new life, new growth, new color. As much as we don’t want to admit it, we need these changes.

For me, this change looks like moving back to the States for awhile. It looks like continuing work on the Braverly book project. It looks like discerning the Father’s plan on a few other projects. It looks like taking one step at a time, trusting the Father’s voice in the midst of the changing season.

And isn’t that all we can do—take one step after the other, trusting the One who asked us to step in the first place? He longs for our trust and faith, our hope and confidence that He is good. He longs to watch us open our clenched fists and let the seasons change, knowing that He is stepping with us in the change and transition.

So let the seasons change. Let the clouds cover the sun for a moment so rain can soak the thirsty ground. Let the trees and the flowers and the fields take their fill of water. Let them drink so that soon enough new life and growth and color will fill our world. 

These days, this is what I’m trying to do—welcome in the new and celebrate the close of something beautiful, remembering that the Father longs to do big and beautiful things in every season, in every place, in every person. So I will celebrate the days to come, even their “goodbyes” and “see you laters.” I will celebrate the changing seasons. 

May we let the seasons change, and may we find joy in their differences. May we see beauty in the close of something wonderful and anticipate the joy of the new beginning waiting for us tomorrow. 

The post It’s Time for the Seasons to Change appeared first on Kate Berkey.

On this particular day, business in Braverly was slow. A few customers trickled in and left with drinks to go which meant my only distraction was the smell of freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance and dark clouds blanketed the sky. Rainy season was upon us, so we were always prepared for a downpour. While the weather swirled and tried to make up its mind about releasing buckets of rain, I took advantage of the silence, the peace. 

But on this day, my plans were interrupted when one of our Braverly women pulled up a chair next to mine, and I was reminded that some distractions aren’t what they seem. Some are actually friendships and conversations and moments together.

This day wasn’t one to relish the silence. It was a day to relish relationship.

My friend and I talked about home–about Burma, about America. We talked about our siblings and told stories of our families–about the dumb things we did together, about memories we shared with them. She told me about her family spread across on three continents—Asia, North America, and Australia. Her eyes filled with a kind of longing I’ve come to recognize. I see it when I talk with my team about our family and friends in the States. I see it when I talk to our women about their family across the world. It's a longing for home, for family, for the familiar.

On this day, I simply sat and listened and asked questions. I learned about her mother who died when she was a baby, about her grandma who helped raise her. Tears swam in her eyes when she told me how much she wanted to see her mom—even just a picture of her. As it was, no one had a single snapshot, and I thought about what it must feel like to ache so deeply. I thought about what it must feel like to lose my mom as a two month old baby. I thought about what it must feel like to wonder what my mom was like, what she looked like, if we had the same eyes or the same smile. And I ached with my friend. 

Then she said such a simple, heart-aching sentence, “It’s so hard to be away from family.” 

On that day, my friend wasn't looking for someone who had all the answers or who would tell her that everything was going to be ok. She was looking for someone who would empathize with her. She needed someone who would look into her tear-filled eyes, unafraid of the raw emotion and say something along the lines of, “I get it. I feel that too. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to wonder the way you do about your mom, but I feel an ache in my heart when I think about my mom too. I miss her. I’m there with you.” 

More and more, I’m convinced that these are some of the most valuable, most meaningful moments we can share with one another. They come when we are least expecting it—like when we're grateful for a distraction-free environment to get work done. 

Around us, people are dying to feel seen, valued, loved, and known. They are dying to know that others care about them enough to pause the important work they’re doing to simply sit and be with them.

I didn’t offer my friend some kind of life-altering truth that day. This wasn’t the conversation for that. It was the conversation to remind her that I see her. I know her. I love her. I value her. It was the conversation to honor her story and her history. It was the conversation to remind myself that this—these moments, these conversations, these opportunities—are ways we get to build the Kingdom of God. 

So here’s what I want you to do. I want you to call a friend. I want you to go out for coffee. I want you to sit down, to listen, to ask good questions. I want you to remind the people in your life that you see them, you know them, you value them, and you love them. I want you to honor them—their story, their family, their joys, and their pains. And I want you to say those beautiful, kind words. “I get it. I’ve been there too, and I’m with you now.” 

Because sometimes these are the best ways we can love those around us. 

The post When Interruptions Become Moments of Doing Life Together 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.

I am a lover of the everyday ordinary. 

Lest you think my life in Thailand is beyond crazy or a “I-could-never-do-that” kind of thing, know that this life is filled with the ordinary in the midst of the extraordinary. It’s filled with trips to the grocery store and to the bank. It’s filled with work and staff meetings and deadlines. It’s filled with alarm clocks and dishes and errands. It’s filled with busy weeks and days off. It’s filled with friends and game nights and movie nights. It’s filled with delicious food and leftovers and eating out. It's filled with the planned for and the unexpected, the anticipated and the spontaneous. And it's filled with significant ministry moments. It's filled with days teaching English to 160 kids. It's filled with moments at the border. It's filled with youth group and Braverly small group and worshiping alongside people from Thailand and Burma and America.

And isn’t that so beautiful? 

No matter where I live or what I do, the Lord constantly reminds me not to miss these beautiful, ordinary things in pursuit of "more."

Like the dad who skips with his daughter to the bus stop in the morning.
Like the puppies who live at the end of my street.
Like the blood red moon that filled the sky last week.
Like the smell of grilled pork on the side of the road.
Like the sweet lady on the corner who sells mango sticky rice.
Like the view from my bike as my friends and I go on a bike ride.
Like the nights Kristy and I listen to Frank Sinatra as we cook tacos for the third night in a row.

I never want to miss these moments in pursuit of the bigger thing, the more obvious thing, the thing our culture celebrates. We love movies with a big plot twist or big reveal. We love the dramatic love story or the superhero. We love impossibilities and underdogs and the things that leave us speechless. I certainly am a sucker for these things. You’ll always find me rooting for the underdog, and you better believe I want that underdog to have a big moment.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with these big moments, absolutely nothing at all. 

Unless…
Unless they leave us discontented with our incredible lives.
Unless they leave us craving more and more and more.
Unless they keep us from missing the beautiful, extraordinary, ordinary things around us. 
Unless they create a set of impossible expectations that no person or job or place or work or life could ever meet. 
Unless our hearts become hardened to gratitude, to saying “thank you” for the big and the little. 
Unless anything smaller than that big thing we’re chasing is seen as a disappointment.

What an incredible challenge, am I right? At least I know it is for me. I’ve realized that I deeply struggle with contentment, with this idea of enough. My spirit seems to long for more, for something bigger, grander, more abundant, and in the meantime, I forget that the Father has already given me more than enough. There is nothing but abundance in the Kingdom of God. 

If I stop
If I pause
If I notice
If I look
If I see

It’s there. More than enough is there.
It’s in the finances that come in each month from beautifully generous people. 
It’s in the dinner around the table with good friends.
It’s in the bike ride to work, the one that leaves me sweaty but also feeling so very a part of my community. 
It’s in the team I get to worship and pray with every Tuesday afternoon during staff meeting.
It’s in the videos of my nieces and nephew that my family sends me.
It’s in the smile of Paw Wah.
It's in the sound of Hser Ku Paw's singing.
It’s in the hug from MyLatte.
It’s in the rain that cleared the smog that hung over Mae Sot. 
It’s in the very mundane, very average, very routine parts of my life just as much as it's in the big moments, the ones that donors love to read about.

In this season, the Father is teaching me so much about the word “enough.” Enough doesn’t need the big or extravagant to be content. It doesn’t need to be stuffed. It’s the opposite of gluttony in every sense of the word. Enough is rooted in contentment. It’s rooted in gratitude. It’s rooted in dependence on the One who constantly gives more than enough. When I’m constantly searching for more, I miss the very tangible, very beautiful, very holy things the Father is already doing around me.

And I’m tired of missing those things in pursuit of more. 
He’s already given me more than enough. He’s given me abundance. 
I don’t want to miss those things. 

The post We Need to Stop Missing the Beautiful and Holy in the Everyday Ordinary Around Us 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.

The post Sometimes the main thing isn’t the main thing appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Let’s get real about living in Thailand.

Real talk…
Every time I go to the bathroom at a certain coffee shop in town, I check for snakes.
When I speak Thai, I usually say “Thank you” when I mean to say “Hello.” Honestly, it’s confusing for both of us.
Once, I almost ran over a chicken with my bike.

Real talk…
Every time I eat cheese in Thailand, my whole body feels like it might die. This has made pizza a real challenge. 
I’ve never eaten so many Tums in my entire life. 
Sometimes Kristy and I spend $11 on a pint of chocolate ice cream, and honestly, we don’t have any regrets. 

Real talk…
About four times a day, I almost get hit by a car or motorbike. At this point, I’m a pro at dodging fast moving vehicles. (Seriously, don’t worry about me, grandma.)
The most common word out of my mouth is, “What” followed closely by the most common phrase I say, “Sorry, what?”
Once a week, a sweet woman cleans our house. Unfortunately, she thinks she knows how to organize our house better than we do. I’m still looking for an iPhone cord she “organized” when I visited Kristy for a week last April.

Real talk…
I had to get a chest x-ray from a machine so old, they had to load film in it each time. I’m told this is a huge improvement from the time my teammates had to get a chest x-ray done in a van.
Every time my neighbor coughs, I can hear it in my house. At this point, I’m seriously concerned for his health.
When I first moved to Thailand, my team kept saying that “Paw Majah was going to stop by Braverly.” It took me two months to realize that this was a branch of immigration and not the name of a small Thai man.

Real talk…
Sometimes we have no idea what people are telling us to do, so we end up writing “warranter” (whatever that is…) on an official document before we realize that people were telling us to write “volunteer.”
Sometimes I respond to people in Spanish. It’s about as effective as you might imagine.
Sometimes I pretend I don’t see the cockroach in our bathroom so Kristy has to kill it. Sorry, friend.

Real talk…
I don’t have a skin disease. Those are mosquito bites.
I guess I always imagined I would consume some sweetened condensed milk in my life, just not every single day of it.
Just because the store’s security guard salutes you when you walk inside, doesn’t mean you should salute him back. He salutes everyone. I’m pretty sure that’s what he’s paid to do. Don’t be that American. 

Real talk…
Sometimes a tiny lizard sleeps under my bed.
Once, a lizard got stuck to a sticky part on a coffee bag and its tail broke off and it died on my coffee bag.
Kristy also smashed a lizard in our door.

Real talk…
At this point, I might love air conditioners more than my family.
In rainy season, I don’t know whether to get completely drenched without my raincoat or put it on and die from heat exhaustion.
I haven’t taken Thai class since October of 2018, and I don’t plan to subject myself to that humiliation any time soon.

Real talk…
Every day I pass an arcade game called “Lucky Papa.” This is why we can’t have nice things, Thailand. 
Mae Sot was awarded “worst air quality in Thailand” in 2018, and we’re on track to win it for the second year in a row.
This morning, I decided to save my lungs from inhaling our terrible air and paid to run at the gym, which has no air conditioner and also leaves the windows open. At this, I’m not exactly sure what I paid for.

But
Real talk…
I love my weird, quirky, Mae Sot, even with its crazy drivers and terrible cheese.
I am insanely grateful to have a team that believes in me and empowers me to chase after the calling God has given me. 
I am constantly humbled that I have been invited into our friends’ lives, that I have a place in the Kingdom of God, that I have a role to play in being the hands and feet of Jesus. 

Real talk…
Some days I wonder if this gift of living and working in Thailand is a dream.
Some days I wonder if any place will ever feel like home so fast again.
Some days I wonder how I will ever leave my Outpour family. 

The post The Real Talk that Never Quite Makes it into the Newsletter appeared first on Kate Berkey.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

And yet.

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

One step.

That’s all the Father asked me to take.

Just one step.

And then another.

And then another.

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

He asked me to take a step.

And then another.

And then another.

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

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

Let’s do this together.

Always together.

The post Always Together appeared first on Kate Berkey.

There is this space between Thailand and Burma. It’s no more than a half a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. It runs right up to the river separating the two countries.

This space of land belongs to no one.

Thailand doesn’t want it.

Burma doesn’t want it.

This is No Man’s Land.

Here, there are no laws. There is no education system. There is no health care. Living inside  makeshift homes are stateless people (people with no proof of citizenship to a country), wanted criminals, drug dealers, pimps, and the like. This small space is a trafficking hub, moving people discretely into a harrowing reality. This small space is a violent one, and I was told that it’s not uncommon to find bodies floating down the river from No Man’s Land.

It’s not a place for foreigners. It’s not a place for Thai or Burmese citizens. It’s a place for people trying to escape something.

Two weeks ago, I found myself walking along the perimeter of No Man’s Land, walking past little stands selling cigarettes and dried shrimp. I saw beautiful people and heard their voices. In the bushes of No Man’s Land, I saw a man moving discretely, trying not to be seen. That’s the goal of many in No Man’s Land.

Don’t be seen. Don’t be noticed. Blend in. Become forgettable.

This is No Man’s Land.

My friends who were with me that day, filled me in on the realities of this place, and as I heard the stories, a deep ache settled in my bones. There are times in our lives when, if we allow them to, stories and places and people have the power to make our entire being hurt. For me, I’m often left feeling breathless, tears at the surface of my eyes.

Even the words for prayer seem so very far away.

As the three of us sat together, kids and moms began to make their way to the river, no doubt seeking reprieve from the 100 degree temperatures of hot season. One of the kids floated on an old igloo cooler lid. Another splashed his friend. A few laughed and played together. One of the moms held her tiny baby close as she waded deeper into the water. In some ways, it was like watching a scene from a beautiful movie, one where friends and neighbors played together. And yet just behind the group was No Man’s Land—a place of little opportunity and little hope.

My heart did not break for the people of No Man’s Land because I wanted them to experience the American version of life in abundance. I didn’t want to see them in a two-story home with a white picket fence. I didn’t want to see them with hoards of money or possessions.

That’s not true abundance. That’s not a fulfilled life. That’s not the kind of hope you can anchor to.

My whole being ached because I so desperately wanted the people of No Man’s Land to experience the abundant hope and life and light that comes from the Father.

That day, sitting in the hot Thailand sun, my friends and I began to talk about the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom is something that is complex and beautiful and wonderful. You can’t hold it in your hands or build a fence around it’s borders. It’s impossible to describe fully, but you know it when you see it.

It’s a place of hope and love. It’s a place where the name of Jesus is proclaimed, where relationship is king, and the rites and rituals of religion take the back seat. It’s a place of belonging and being known. It’s a place where people are seen for who they are becoming, who the Father created them to be. It’s a place where the Holy Spirit is more than an idea. He is alive and active and moving and working. It’s a place that transcends culture and language and customs and traditions.

It’s for all people—westerners, Thai, Burmese, refugees, wanted criminals, stateless people, orphans, sons, daughters, moms, dads.

Everyone.

Everywhere.

On that day listening to the sounds of No Man’s Land, the Holy Spirit asked me a simple question.

Can you imagine if my kingdom was being built in No Man’s Land.

Today, this small space of land is on the list of things I don’t quite know what to do with. As a foreigner, I cannot go into No Man’s Land. Even if I wanted to go in, I can’t speak the language. I am not the hope or the savior or the light of No Man’s Land. That’s not my job. I haven’t quite figured out what role I play in building God’s kingdom in No Man’s Land.

But.

Can you imagine if God’s kingdom was being built in a place like No Man’s Land?

Can you imagine if the hopeless found hope? Can you imagine if the trafficker encountered the father? Can you imagine if the stateless family didn’t have to prove that they belonged to a place? Can you imagine if the criminal experienced redemption and reconciliation? Can you imagine if God’s kingdom was being built in No Man’s Land?

It’s on the list, the list of things I don’t quite know what to do with.

But it’s also on another list, the list of reasons why I will uproot my life in Nappanee, Indiana, and move 10 minutes away from the Thai/Burmese border. I don’t know what I am supposed to do to help build God’s kingdom in No Man’s Land, but I know that I have been called.

This calling is a calling to words, to bring hope through phrases and sentences and paragraphs. It’s a calling to bring words to people’s stories with dignity and respect. It’s a calling to share these stories with people all over the world, to teach them about places like No Man’s Land, about organizations like Outpour Movement. It’s a calling to remind people that God’s kingdom is being built all over the world. It’s a calling to remind people that the Kingdom is massive and beautiful and a beacon of hope in the midst of brokenness.

I believe that someday this will be said of No Man’s Land. Someday it will be a place of hope instead of a place of violence. It will be a place of family instead of of place of trafficking. It will be a place of abundant life instead of a place of merely existing. It will be a place of being known instead of a place of disappearing into the bushes.

This will be No Man’s Land.

“The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed planted in a filed. It is the smallest of all seeds, but it becomes the largest of garden plants; it grows into a tree, and the birds come and make nests in its branches.”

Matthew 13: 31-32

Want to join me in this journey? Click here to find out how you can partner with me as I seek to tell these stories.

The post This is No Man’s Land appeared first on Kate Berkey.