I’m amazing at being impatient. It runs in my family—and humanity—so I have to practice. I have to practice waiting and pausing and extending kindness in the frustration that tags along. 

In the last few years, baking bread has become one of my patience practices. I discovered my desperate need when I constantly undercooked things—cookies and cakes and brownies and sometimes chicken. My pre-baking days were a dangerous time to be my friend, or maybe it kept things exciting. Jury’s still out.

Enter flour, salt, yeast, and water.

Early on, I served my family and friends bricks disguised as bread—a tangible representation of my impatience. Most recipes say to let dough sit until doubled in size for about 1-2 hours. But who has time to let something sit for two hours? Often, I gave my dough 60 minutes and not a moment longer. 

Over time, I failed and learned and tried again. One day, the process became therapeutic—mixing and kneading and proofing and pausing. Bread became less about reaching the end and more about the process of creating something delicious. 

And, friend, delicious bread takes time—more time than my undercooked self knew. 

Somewhere around week four of this coronavirus quarantine, I attempted sourdough—the longest process ever. I figured this was the perfect time to try and fail and try again. And I decided I needed another patience practice, because the virus has paused so much.

Stuck in the waiting, my impatience is showing up more and more. Most days I wake up antsy and ready to move to Chicago, even though Illinois leaders shut down the state until the end of May. This desire to move isn’t bad, but in my impatience, I try to take control. I grab what never belonged to me and demand that my plan, my timing, my will be done. 

And so in the middle of all this impatience, I pulled out a bowl and mixed flour and water together and put the dough in the corner to sit. The next day, I repeated the process. 

And the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 
and the next day 

A bit of starter, some flour, a few ounces of water.

At first, the sourdough starter smelled like the very worst boy’s dorm—fermentation at its finest. Over time, though, it changed, and today, the starter smells sweet and yeasty and delicious. 

After almost two weeks of feeding and cultivating my starter, I worked up the courage to bake a loaf. In case you wondered, from start to finish, sourdough loaves take about 48 hours plus two weeks to develop the starter. 

My most ambitious patience practice yet. 

This loaf required setting timer after timer, mixing and folding and putting the dough in the corner to rise time and time again. The process didn’t take much effort, but it took more time and attention than I’d ever given a single loaf of bread before. 

And I think this is beautiful

By Sunday afternoon, I served my family a crunchy, chewy loaf of sourdough bread that exploded with flavor and called me back for one more slice, one more excuse to eat another bite. 

Here’s the thing about bread—it’s a process, and in that process, flavor builds. Shortcuts can ruin it or result in a slice of something that tastes more like air than bread. As dough sits and proofs, richness grows, but this can’t happen this unless we are patient, unless I am patient. 

And to me, that is the truth of this season. Waiting and waiting and waiting again. 

In the waiting, richness builds, and flavor grows. 
The process develops beauty and depth that I couldn’t produce on my own. 

And the waiting will not be forever. Soon, life will embrace a new normal. We will go back to work and restaurants and movie theaters. We’ll complain about being busy and disconnected. 

But for now, I will practice patience and gratitude for the richness of the waiting. 

The post On Patience Practices and Baking Bread appeared first on Kate Berkey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sacred and Holy Roots

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

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

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

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

Becoming, Becoming, Becoming

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

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

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

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

Living with Anticipation

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

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

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

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

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.