In its best moments, I believe something rather sacred lives in these spaces. After all, Father God created out of nothing. He worked and built and fashioned humanity out of dust. Work isn’t our curse or burden to bear. I believe it’s a gift. Creating, making, contributing, building something wonderful is a gift.

But in its worst moments, all this working and striving and hustling can be broken and damaging. It’s exhausting and can leave you ragged and breathless in the cruelest of ways. We have a way of twisting what was made for our good. Work—I believe—is one of those things we bend and shift in so many ways.

We aren't Machines

And I am one of the worst offenders. Recently in a meeting with our wedding officiant, our pastor asked my fiancé and me how things were coming along for the wedding.

“Are you getting stuff done? How’s it coming together?”

These are the questions we’re getting asked almost weekly because in approximately one month, we’ll stand in front of family and friends and the Father and commit to forever. But in this meeting, Luke spoke up before I could.

“Kate is a machine,” he said with wide eyes filled with both awe and a little concern. At the same time, I saw our pastor nod his head. Having worked with me full-time in the church office, he knows enough about me to know the truth.

I had to tell my pride to take a back seat. We weren’t always made to be machines. The Father didn’t design us to work and produce and spit out lives of meaning through our doing and creating. More and more, I believe He invites us to create alongside Him, relying on Him, depending on Him—all for the joy of reflecting His image through our work.

You and I have limits and margins and capacities, and while I’m a firm believer that the Father can and does increase our capacity in every season, I have to remind myself that I’ve experienced this in the healthiest ways when I’ve relied on Him, depended on Him.

Invited to the Breakfast on the Beach

There’s this beautiful story in John 21 that moves me to tears and to my knees. After Jesus had risen from the dead and appeared to the disciples, they seemed to be in a wandering state. Their life went from the chaos and joy and excitement of following Jesus to a quiet, question-filled existence. I bet that had to feel jarring to say the least.

One night as they stood on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, Peter said, “I’m going fishing.”

I love Peter. I get Him. He gives me hope. In a moment of questions and maybe feeling antsy and wondering what was next, Peter decided to do something, to work. So he and his friends fished all night but caught nothing. Nothing. All that work—casting and recasting the nets—for nothing.

As the sun began to rise, they saw a man and a small fire on the shore. They didn’t know who He was, but He told them to throw in their nets once again. When they did, they caught over 150 fish. And their hearts suddenly remembered. This had happened before with Jesus.

Peter immediately jumped out of the boat and swam to shore. I imagine He laughed and wept and clung to Jesus. And out of the corner of his eyes, I bet he saw it then—fish roasting on the fire.

Jesus made breakfast for them on the beach with the very thing they couldn’t catch all night. No amount of working or striving or hustling made a single fish swim into their nets. But with one word, Jesus filled their nets to their breaking point. And on the shore, in the place of rest with Him, Jesus already had what their bodies so longed for—food, fish roasting on the fire.

The Invitation Still Stands

Whew. Maybe I’m the only one who needs this reminder today, but I doubt it. In our hustle culture, it’s easy to twist working and striving. I am all for working hard and building something beautiful out of nothing. After all, this is what the Father did, and we were made in His image.

But these days, I need the reminder of this story—that no matter how many times they threw their nets into the sea, the disciples didn’t catch anything. No amount of work brought what they so desperately wanted until they listened to Jesus and let Him do what they could not.

Friends, the same is true for us. Yes, go fishing and cast your net again and again. Show up and do the work, the things God has called you to do. But don’t give into hustle culture. Resist the temptation to rely on yourself. We serve a God who longs to make us breakfast on the beach and serve us there.

Today, maybe He longs for you to experience more rest even in your working. The disciples still cast their net one more time. They still rowed hard to keep their boats from sinking, but it was all because of Jesus’ work.

May we do the same.

And may we look up and see the beauty of a God who has already made us breakfast and longs to serve us.

The post You’re Invited to Breakfast on the Beach with jesus appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Every day I encounter people from different cultures and languages and countries. I’ve actually grown accustomed to being the minority on my streets. The other day I saw two white American women walking on Devon Avenue, and I actually wondered if they got lost. 

I wonder how many of my neighbors have the same reaction when they see me. 

My team and I serve refugees and immigrants from all over the world—Afghanistan, India, Pakistan, Iraq, Congo, Somalia, Syria, Ethiopia, Burma, Malaysia, Bangladesh, and more. We try to meet felt needs like giving diapers and rice and oil or fans in the summer or blankets in the winter. My team teaches English and helps kids with homework. We step into homes and build relationships with people.

The Beautiful, Awkward Work

It's a beautiful work, but it’s also incredibly awkward. No matter how many similarities we share as humans, we still speak totally different languages. We come from different backgrounds. We believe very different things, and although these differences are beautiful, they can make for some awkward moments.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited families in their homes only to endure 20 or 30 or 40 minutes of awkward and broken conversation. I ask a question. Someone gives a totally unrelated answer. I rephrase it. We sit in silence. Eventually, one of us gives up and sips quietly on our tea.

This work is beautiful, but it’s awkward.

Today, I sat with a friend from Afghanistan who has been in the States for seven years, but she still struggles to speak and understand English. Possibly my favorite moments are when she gives up on English completely and speaks to me in Uzbek. She nearly always raises her eyebrows as if to say, “It’s fun, right? Not knowing the language. Really fun.”

As I sat with my Afghani friend, I asked her a question, trying to understand more of her story. She gave me that look I’m coming to recognize and responded in Uzbek. Almost without thinking, I heard myself mumble, “Ok. That didn’t work.” I leaned forward and said, “Let’s try this again.”

Let’s Try Again

That didn’t work, but let’s try this again. I can’t tell you how many times each day I think that. 

Yikes, that explanation didn’t work. Let’s try again. 
That visit didn’t go well. Let’s try again. 
Lord knows we’re speaking different languages, but let’s try again. 
I still don’t understand you. Let’s try again. 
You still don’t understand me. Can we try again? 

Over the course of nearly two years in this neighborhood, this has become the unconscious beat of my heart. And I think it’s beautiful. What if our world had this posture? What if this is how we approached community and conversation?

Today, my friend and I stumbled through yet another awkward conversation together. We may not have fully understood the other, but we tried our best. We both leaned in. It didn’t work the first time. Honestly, it didn’t work the second or third, but we tried again and again and again. 

We must Lean in and try Again

I’ve found that some of my most profound relationships with people in the neighborhood come from those I struggle the most to understand. As we stumble and fumble through our words and their meanings, we lean into each other. We slow down. We pause. And we laugh, because trying to understand someone who speaks another language is hilarious. 

Friend, what could it look like for you to lean in, to say, “That didn’t work, so let’s try again”? Chances are, you may not interact with someone who speaks a different language, but you probably have people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you. We must lean in and try again. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. It’s difficult, but I believe it’s a holy and sacred work. 

So would you lean in with me? 
Would you try again? 

Who are some people in your life you struggle to understand or who struggle to understand you? How can you lean in? 

The post Why You Should Try Again appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I digress.

Here’s what you need to know. I’m essentially faking it till I make it, and so many other people in this world are much more qualified for the role I’m in. They’re better suited for this city and this ministry.

But they’re not here.
I am.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

The Father has put me here—sitting in the homes of refugees, hearing people’s stories, leading things I never imagined. He’s asked me to help men and women apply for jobs and help them understand the barrage of emails they receive from their child’s school. He’s opened doors for me to visit them, teach them, learn from them, and experience life alongside them.

I am deeply unqualified, but I am here. And you are exactly where you are. This is not by accident.

Our worlds may look drastically different. Our schedule and time and community may not resemble each other’s in the slightest, and that’s ok. I think so often we get caught in the comparison game. At least, I know I do. I look at other’s stories and life and the world I catch only glimpses of on social media and I think to myself, “Yikes! I’m not __ enough next to them.”

Fill in the blank with whatever you want. We’ve all been there.

But here’s what this neighborhood teaches me day after day, moment by moment. We don’t always have to be qualified or the most qualified to be used by the Father right where we are. Most people in our world aren’t really looking for someone who is qualified. They’re looking for someone who is consistent. They need a person they can count on, a person they can call, a person they can laugh and cry with, a person who sticks to their word. Most people need someone who won’t back out or back down.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

Our world needs the consistent rather than qualified, because our Father will qualify us for whatever situation He gives us.

This has been the constant refrain from the Father to me since I moved to Chicago. “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.” Honestly, sometimes I just don’t want to be consistent. I’d rather back out of commitments or blame my inconsistency on busyness. It’s so easy to do, because guess what? It’s true. I am busy. I’ve never been busier in my life than when I moved to Chicago.

But consistency is greater than busyness, and if the busyness of life and ministry keep me from being consistent with others, the balance is off.

Sometime last Spring, a family I visited weekly moved far away—just far enough to stretch my 7-minute commute into 30-45 minutes one way. My boss gave me an out. He told me I could visit a new family. After all, the needs are so great in this neighborhood. He could connect me with someone else.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

But that still small voice came again, “Consistency, Kate. Be consistent.”

Through gritted teeth, I battled the traffic week after week to see this family. I struggled through the parking nightmare at the end of each night, and I didn’t always have the best attitude. I’m human. Some days are hard.

Today, though, this family and I experience a richness in relationship that is unlike any I share with others in this neighborhood. The Father has opened doors and given me opportunities I don’t deserve to love on this family in His name. And that one thing that seemed so difficult in the moment has become the thing that built this beautiful relationship—consistency.

Friend, our worlds might look very different on the outside, but at the heart of it all, we aren’t so different. The Father has put people in your life. Some are easy to love and convenient. They are ones you look forward to celebrating and spending time with. Others are the opposite in nearly every way, but they are still in your life. I think more times than not, the Father looks around this world for people who will choose consistency, the ones who will stick with others even when it requires sacrifice and selflessness.

We won’t always get it right, but may we choose consistency. Because someday that consistency just might build something beautiful.

The post That One Thing that Will make All the Difference appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This strange season is a welcomed sabbath for some. For others, it’s one of the most stressful seasons they’ve ever faced. For me, it’s confusing—like the weirdest game of red light, green light. 

Go. Stop.
Stop. Go. 

I’m certainly not the only one experiencing the whiplash. 

Here’s the thing. I see where I need to go. I can almost reach it. It’s two-and-a-half hours away, but it’s a city on lockdown, a state that’s shut down. People are inside their homes, afraid of a virus they can’t see but could knock them to their knees. This city is where the Father called me in 2016. Year after year I tried to get there, and every year, the door closed.

Now the door is open, but I'm just out of reach.

I think all of us have a similar story, right? There's a place we're trying to get to, and for some of us, it's a place we've longed for and waited on for years. But we're paused—our plans on hold.

A few days ago, I asked the Father for a word or phrase—anything I could hold to and hear echo in my mind these days. Almost immediately, I heard Him say, "Worship before victory." 

Woof. It’s a word that hits me in the face, that knocks the breath from my lungs a bit. 

Remember the story of Jericho? It's a story of insurmountable odds and a plan that expected the supernatural. The Father had prepared a land for Israel—a place He promised to them. He called them to live there, build their homes in this place. But before they could enter the promise, they had to get past a giant, impenetrable fortress of a city—Jericho. 

The Lord told Joshua and his men to walk in silence around the city for seven days. Leading their march were priests who blew ram's horns and carried the ark of the covenant—a tangible representation of the Lord's presence. 

Do you see it? Swords and horses and muscles didn't protect Israel as they walked into the unknown. Worship was their guard. The Lord’s presence was their shield.

Praise paved their way. 
Worship came before victory. 

And even in this completely unconventional way, victory came. 

Every day in Indiana, I wake up in a place I didn’t expect to be. Plans are on hold. Uncertainty hangs in the air. And I know I’m not the only one. In fact, I know that my situation pales compared to the other fortresses in many of my friends' lives. This virus has disrupted our entire world. It has shaken our ideas about tomorrow. 

And if you're like me, you may be asking the Father, "You want me to march around this thing, led by your presence and worship. You don’t want me to fight? You don’t want me to even push on the wall? And you’re saying that a shout will turn the walls to dust?"

Yes.

Friends, I’m not advocating apathy or doing nothing when we should do something. Joshua and his army still marched around the city for seven days. But victory came in a way no one would have expected. 

It came through worship.
It came through trust.
It came through faithfulness.
It came through that one loud shout on the last day—a final mark of faith. 

These days our world shakes and trembles. Fear drives our conversations. We stare up at the walls surrounding our own Jericho and feel overwhelmed and stuck. In these days, we have to hold to the promises the Father has given us throughout Scripture. He’s doing something new. Victory is coming, but the path to it isn't what I would have picked. 

Yet
Even still
Worship. 

So friend, this is my word to you from the Lord—
Worship before victory
Let it be your guard
Before you and behind you
Worship all around you
He is our good Father
Who gives us our daily bread
His Word does not return empty
So may our whole heart and mind and soul and strength—our entire being—be an act of worship.
Victory is coming.

The post Worship before victory 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.

“This” seems to change in every season. Sometimes “this” is some kind of problem. It’s a situation that’s out of my control. It’s a sticky relational battle. Sometimes “this” is a goal or a vision for the way I think things should be. Sometimes “this” is a change I want to see in myself or in others or in my community. “This” is constantly changing, and rarely, if ever, can I work my way out of “this.”

Right now, I have to remind myself of this daily. It’s not because I believe inaction or apathy is the solution. I don’t believe change organically happens. I don’t believe all of our problems will simply solve themselves if we just let them. No, it’s quite the opposite. I believe we need to engage with whatever “this” is in our lives, but we need to remember that it’s not all on our shoulders. 

We don’t make the trees grow. 

A few weeks ago, I did what I so often do, turning back in the pages of my journal—reading notes from my journey with the Father. Journaling isn’t for everyone, but for me, it has a way of marking moments and seasons. It’s a mix of my own thoughts and the voice of the Father, and it reminds that holy, sacred ground encounters outlast the moment they happen in. 

May 13, 2019. The words were simple, a kind of poem. That being said, I don’t claim to be a poet by any means, but every once in awhile, inspiration strikes, and I pick up a pen like I’m Mary Oliver or Maya Angelou.

In my planning and strategizing
     Don’t let me pass you by
     walk past you on the side of the road
     don’t let me miss the holy, divine sacred moments

Pause in the presence of Jesus
Dear heart, don’t hustle
It’s not you who makes the trees grow

I barely remember writing these words, but it’s a reminder most of us need often—you don’t make the trees grow. Your hustling and striving for the sake of working really hard or proving yourself do nothing to add to this world around us. It does nothing to make time move faster or the plan make more sense. It does nothing to make the world spin, the sun rise. Dear heart, don’t hustle. It’s not you who makes the trees grow. 

In this season of crazy transition and change, I remind my heart of this every single day, because these kinds of seasons don’t always feel the best. In this particular one, I feel that temptation to buy into the belief that I need to prove who I am, prove my worth, prove my skill, prove that I have a place around the table, prove that I’m doing something valuable when everyday feels so very different than the normal I’ve been used to. It’s a battle I’m so very familiar with—a battle I’ve known my whole life and will probably continue to know intimately. And these days, the Father has repeated this simple verse from Isaiah:

Only in returning to me and resting in me will you be saved. In quietness and confidence is your strength.
Isaiah 30:15

That word, quietness, doesn’t really mean to be silent. It’s something much deeper. It’s a kind of quietness in our heart, our soul. It’s a rest. It’s putting down the sword. It’s putting down work. It’s putting down the need to hustle and strive and prove. 

My culture—this midwest, farm life—values hard work. It’s deeply engrained in us. We’re a self-built kind of people. We love efficiency and effectiveness. Just look at Northern Indiana. Our main industries are RV factories, farming, and other manufacturing. We love hard work, and this isn’t a sin by any means. But I think sometimes we believe we can solve anything, become anything, do anything if we just work harder, run faster, be better—the very damaging kind of hustling.

And someday, if you’re like me, you just might wake up and find yourself completely and totally exhausted—tired of proving who you are, proving you’re strong enough, proving you're a hard worker, proving that all this hustling is for something good, when in reality, you’re trying to do job that was never yours to take.

Dear heart, don’t hustle. 
In quietness and confidence is your strength. 
It’s not you who makes the trees grow.

Sometimes I think we need this reminder—no matter how hard we work, at the end of the day, we don’t make the trees grow. We can’t. That’s not our job. We’ve taken a responsibility upon ourselves that was never ours to carry. 

Only in returning to the Father—relying on His breath in and out of our lungs. Only in resting in Him—letting His work, His very character be enough for us. Only in being with the Father will we find the kind of life we long for. In quietness—rest, peace, stillness of heart and mind and soul—and confidence is our strength. 

Friend, let go of the hustle, the never-ending working. Let go of proving yourself to a Father with whom you have nothing to prove. In the rest and stillness of being with Him, in confidence is your strength.

Dear heart, don’t hustle.
It’s not you who makes the trees grow. 

The post It’s not You Who Makes the Trees Grow appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I’ve grown used to the sound of fans, air con units, dogs barking halfway across town, birds chirping loudly by 5 AM. I’ve grown used to the sound of the water pump outside of my window, my neighbor’s incessant coughing and high pitched sneezes. I’ve grown used to the sounds of semis and motorbikes and trucks advertising local businesses through loud speakers.

Here—in the middle of nowhere Indiana—there is only the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional bird chirping from its nest, and this quiet is a kind of unsettling that doesn’t quite make sense to me.

Call it culture shock. Call it transition. Call it being in a place that feels familiar and strange all at once. Call it moving from Mae Sot, Thailand back to Nappanee, Indiana—two completely and totally different places in this world. 

The words, “something is missing” feels like the very breath in and out of my lungs these days. It feels like the beating of my heart, the ever-present feeling in my bones. 

Something is missing. 

There are no dogs, no crazy birds, no water pump or neighbors with loud sneezes. No street dogs chase me on my run and no monks walk the streets in the morning. My bike sits in the basement—tires flat, rim dusty—as I get in my car to drive. English is all around me—spoken and written and shouted.

Something is missing, and it looks like, sounds like, smells like, feels like Mae Sot, Thailand. 

But that is the beauty and the struggle of transition—some things are missing, but other things are just about to unfold. It’s a dance that I find myself stumbling and fumbling my way through most of the time. These days, the Father keeps reminding me of those verses in Jeremiah 17.

“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.”

Jeremiah 17:7-8

It’s been a theme in my world for the last six months, a battle cry, a message of preparation—as if the Father was whispering, “Love, let me take your roots deeper and deeper, because you will need this depth more than you know.”

On the days when something deeply, truly feels missing, I try to hold tightly to joy, because there’s a sacred kind of work happening. The roots of trust and confidence and faith dig deeper and deeper on those days. They keep me steady. They keep me grounded in the most beautiful ways.

I used to be scared of transition. I used to fight change, because there was nothing more unsettling to my spirit than that feeling that something is missing. 

But I’m learning—slowly—to celebrate the beauty of these seasons. Without them, things stay the same—we stay the same.

Without these seasons, I never would have gone to college or spent a summer working at HOPE International. I never would have gone to Thailand or been a part of Braverly.

Without these kinds of seasons, we stay stagnant, still, safe—completely comfortable and totally unfulfilled. Without these kind of seasons—when something feels missing, when change and transition are our ever-present companions—our roots stay shallow, and we remain unsteady. 

So may we celebrate change and transition. May we find joy even when something feels missing. May we anticipate these seasons, because they bring the opportunity for growth, for roots that grow deeper—not in a place or a job or a ministry or a person. They grow deeper in the Father. 

The post Finding Joy Even When Something Feels Missing 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.

Thanks pal. 

In the span of three months, the life I built, my dreams and goals and hopes for the future seemed to disappear–like dust flying through the air. Those days, everything seemed to collapse at breakneck speeds while the days passed painfully slowly, as if each minute was a reminder that life was going to move on whether I wanted it to or not.

In this season—one of pain and crumbling—the Father whispered to my soul, “Release.”

Release. Let go. Pry open your clenched fists and let your life simply sit there—your hopes, your dreams, your love, your longings. It was, quite possibly, one of the most vulnerable yet most freeing words the Father has ever said to me. It was the word that led me to where I am today—a writer in Thailand.

Release.

It’s a word of surrender, of submission. For the record, I loathe that word—submission. So much baggage is tied to it, and in today’s American culture, it feels like a fighting word.

I’ve been running from it for far too long, because submission to the Father, means release. It means letting go. It means acknowledging that I don’t have control over anything. I only have the illusion of control.

The word release has found its way to my soul once more, and I think I’m feeling a little bit of PTSD at the thought of it. To be clear, it’s not coming in a season of intense pain and grief. It’s coming in a season of transition, of trying to figure things out. These days, release still means opening my clenched fists. Inside the palms of my hands, I’m trying to hold my dreams and plans for the days ahead. I’m trying to hold things loosely so that when my very next step becomes clear, I’ll find the courage to take it. It feels deeply vulnerable but also so very necessary. 

These days, I find myself pulled back to the life of Joshua, and I find comfort in the words spoken to him by the Father.

“Be strong and courageous. Don’t be afraid or discouraged. The Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” 

I love that. Who doesn’t?

But this isn’t the part of the story the Father keeps reminding me of. These days, I’m camped out in the story of Jericho, and it’s throwing me off balance a bit. This story is crazy; it doesn’t make sense. It’s illogical. It seems unwise and utterly ridiculous.

I can just imagine Joshua saying, “Hey fam, tomorrow we will line up behind some priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant, and while they blow rams horns, we will march around Jericho once a day for six days. Don’t talk at all. Don’t make a noise. I don’t want to hear laughter or the faintest whisper. We will do this in silence. On the seventh day, we will walk around Jericho seven times, and when I give you the signal, we’ll shout really loud. That’ll show ‘em!”

Seriously? The Father wants His people to march around a towering city in complete silence for seven days, and a loud shout on the seventh day will make the walls crumble? Now I get why He told Joshua to be strong and courageous before they even saw the walls of Jericho.

Even still Joshua rallied Israel. He gave the orders and led the way. They marched day after day in silence, the only noise coming from the sound of their feet against the earth and the rams horns at the front of the pack. Day after day, those in Jericho probably looked out their windows at the caravan below. I’m sure it was a little eery at first and then probably just annoying. 

But then on the seventh day, they walked around that city seven times, and after the final lap, they let out a kind of roar that shook the walls of the city. That day, the Father made those walls crumble to the ground because of the trust and obedience of His people. 

Release even when things don’t make sense. 
Release even when the way forward isn’t clear. 
Release even when we have more questions than answers.
Release even when we’re waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Release and trust even when the Father tells us to do something that seems illogical and maybe even unwise. Release and trust when the Father asks us to walk in a space that feels dark and uncertain. Release it all. Pry open our clenched fists and let all we love sit vulnerably in the palms of our hands. Our Father can be trusted.

These days, I find myself looking for Jericho moments, Jericho commands, because those are big, bold, impossible dreams. They’re the kind only the Father can make happen, and aren’t those the kind we should chase anyway? I don’t want to settle for the kind I can make happen on my own, the ones that make sense in my mind. I want to pursue the ones that send ripples into the world around me because of the what the Father does. 

When people heard about Jericho, they said in hushed voices, “Only God could have done that.” 

This is what I want to be able to say. Only God could have done that. So I will release. We will release. 

Release and trust that the Father will do what only He can do.

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On one of my drives back to Taylor after a weekend at home, I found myself in tears. This was not uncommon, but the hopelessness in my heart was new. I was done. I was tired of doing something hard. I just wanted something easy.

And then a song came on my iPod, one that I skipped before because I didn’t know the words. At this particular moment, though, I didn’t have the energy to drive and find a song that I wanted to listen to. So it played, and it made the tears come harder.

The song was “Called Me Higher,” by All Sons and Daughters. Its powerful lyrics rocked my world that day on County Road 46 in New Paris, Indiana.

And I could hold on
I could hold on to who I am and never let You
Change me from the inside
And I could be safe
I could be safe here in Your arms and never leave home
Never let these walls down

But You have called me higher
You have called me deeper
And I’ll go where You will lead me Lord
You have called me higher
You have called me deeper
And I’ll go where You lead me Lord
Where You lead me
Where You lead me Lord

Before college, I wanted to do great and hard things for God. I prayed tough prayers. I asked him to send the challenges my way. I was ready.

In reality, I wasn’t. I wasn’t ready for the change, for the uncomfortable situations, for the new friendships that I needed to form. I wanted nothing more than to stay at home where I was comfortable.

Thankfully, I didn’t drop out of school and move back home. That would have been a huge mistake. Last night I was reminded of this at an All Sons and Daughters Concert. As they played “Called me Higher,” I was reminded of God’s incredible faithfulness. Two years ago I could not have imagined the place I am now. I could not have imagined the person I am now. I could not have imagined all of the blessings God was going to bring. I am surrounded by friends, by mentors, by a supportive community. I still find it hard to leave home, but home has become interchangeable between the home I have in Nappanee and the home I have in Upland.

And now as college winds down, I’m holding onto this story. The story of a nineteen year old girl crying as she drove back to school. The story of that song, of the days, the weeks, the months that followed. The story that drips with hope, hardships, and home. The story that brought friends who feel more like brothers and sisters. I know that the next chapter of this story will include a new level of uncomfortable. It’s unknown and it’s risky. It makes my heart beat faster. It tends to keep me up at night.

It’s not what I would choose. But even still:

And I could be safe
I could be safe here in Your arms and never leave home
Never let these walls down

But you have called me higher.

God has planned a life for me greater than I could ever imagine. Even when I cannot see His plan, I will remember that He has called me higher.

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