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

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

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

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

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

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

Sacred and Holy Roots

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

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

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

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

Becoming, Becoming, Becoming

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

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

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

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

Living with Anticipation

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

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

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

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

It’s the word that comes to mind for my 2019. 

To be clear, this abundance isn’t the stuff of the prosperity gospel. It’s not an overflowing bank account or the newest and the nicest. It doesn’t mean brand names or the finer things in life. 

It’s abundance in friendships and family.
Abundance in my relationship with Jesus. 
Abundance in growth and confidence. 
Abundance in nearly every part of my life. 
It’s abundance from the overflow of who the Father is and the way He loves His kids. 

A Generous Portion

In October, I was preparing to return to the States after a month in Thailad, and to be honest, I wasn’t happy about it. Most mornings I felt tears near the surface as I tried to fight the pain of leaving a place and people I loved. But I remember the morning everything flipped. That day, instead of waking up with tears, I woke up with a song—Generous Portion by Cageless Birds. It’s a song that’s depth takes my breath away. It’s the kind I have to listen to on repeat to soak up its meaning. The chorus repeats: 

Nothing can stand against us
We've overcome the darkness
We will not surrender
For less than Jesus paid for
He's giving back what's stolen
We can hardly carry the generous portion

This is abundance. 

On that morning in Thailand, I remember the tears coming for a different reason. They didn’t come from fear or grief or uncertainty. Instead, they were tears from feeling overwhelmed by the abundance of the Father, by the generous portion that I couldn’t even hold. 

Abundance in Advent

This Advent season, abundance is taking on a new meaning. This past year hasn’t overflowed with the typical ideas of “abundance,” but it has been truly, extravagantly abundant. It’s the kind found in that word, “Emmanuel.” God with us. 

The birth of Jesus isn’t filled with our typical ideas of abundance either.

Ostracized by their community, Mary and Joseph faced skepticism and gossip and their own tough questions. Their life wasn’t overflowing with support from those around them. Before their first-born son was born—a boy who was God incarnate—they travelled for days to reach Bethlehem. Once they arrived, no one took them in. The only availability was a barn, a stable meant for animals. 

Abundance, am I right? 

But then
After all this

Jesus was born—the One who would transform our world. His extravagant love would help us see the Father face to face. He was the One who die and rise again and reconcile us with the Father. He would restore all things. 

Abundance. 

The abundance of worship and a glimpse of heaven overwhelmed shepherds when angels lit up the sky. The holy and sacred led them to their own worship and songs and gifts to Jesus. Wise men who travelled for months offered extravagant gifts to the new parents and their baby.

Abundance. 

But to me, the most abundant part of this story is that simple word—Emmanuel. God with us. Some people say that God bankrupted heaven when He sent Jesus to this broken world. I’ve never quite understood that phrase—bankrupted heaven. Heaven was not void of the holy and sacred when Jesus came to earth, but for the first time since those perfect days in the very beginning, Earth breathed a little deeper. It inhaled the tangible and physical presence of God among us. Our cracked and weary souls experienced healing from love and restoration and truth. 

Emmanuel.
God with us.

Abundance. 

Abundance in Our Everyday Lives

Maybe this year feels the farthest thing from abundant for you. It feels painful and challenging. Loss, grief, and pain might mark your year. Maybe you’re eager to close 2019 and are hoping that 2020 will be different from the last 365 days. 

I get it. 

I’ve been there. 

But as we reflect and remember and recount moments from this year, may we think about that word—abundance. Because our Father has given us a generous portion. He has given us more than we can hold—even in loss or grief or pain or confusion. 

Like the savior of the world born among animals to parents ostracized by their community. 
Like the most intense show of love, grace, forgiveness, and selflessness in the tiniest package—a baby in a manger. 

Friend, we live in abundance, and it has nothing to do with our own prosperity. 

It has everything to do with the Father’s generous portion. 

The post The Abundance in Emmanuel—God with Us 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.