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.

It was the end of May in Northern Indiana, and it seemed as if the torrential downpour would never stop. I remember the way the rain pounded on the roof of the tiny cottage almost the entire weekend. I remember the way the water soaked the ground until the earth couldn’t absorb anymore. I remember the sound the drops made on the metal roof—loud, resounding, like the steady beat of a million drums. I remember watching the rain hit the windows, seeing it trace lines down the glass.

And I remember the way it seemed like the dirt and grim of my own life were being washed away. I remember the way the healing waters seemed to soak my raw and bleeding soul until I couldn’t absorb a drop more. I remember the way truths beat on the walls around my heart and mind, busting through an exterior built by lies and insecurities and doubts.

I remember the state of my humanity as I sat on the small loveseat in the tiny cottage, sometimes just staring at a wall, sometimes writing, sometimes reading, sometimes crying. I remember the state of my body—bloated and exhausted. I remember the state of my heart—anxious and angry and overwhelmed. And I remember the state of my confused and weary soul.

It was May of 2017, and I felt so very deeply broken. A voice deep within my soul told me that I needed a break, that I needed to step away from this world that I had created and cultivated. It was a world that was slowly suffocating me.

I was overcommitted to a million different things—an amazing small group of high school girls, a serious relationship, a job that left me searching for more, trips that took me around the world, leadership roles that asked me to pour out more and more of myself, friendships and family relationships, dreams for the future, and dreams that felt like they were dying. I was exhausted in more ways than I knew how to put into words, and in this exhaustion, I was met with words from those around me which held me in deeper shame.

“You’re too young to be this tired.”
“You can be tired when you’re my age.”
“Oh, come on, you’re fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. I felt beyond the opposite of fine. I had reached the end of myself. I had reached the end of who everyone else wanted me to be. I had reached the end of who everyone else expected me to be. I couldn’t run faster, work harder, or be better.

I was done, and I didn’t realize how done I was until I sat in that tiny cottage hearing nothing but the sound of the rain and the chaotic noises of my own soul.

Crying along with all the voices around me was my own voice. It was the voice of the Kate who tried to be perfect, who tried to have it all together. She screamed, “Be better. Work harder. Run faster. Stop being weak.”

Deep down, I believed that it wasn’t just my coworkers and friends and family and my own frantic soul that said these things. Deep down, I felt like these words were coming from the mouth of the Father. I felt like He looked at my world, at the state of my life and felt disappointed. I felt like I wasn’t measuring up to His expectations, like I was failing him.

I felt like He was 10 miles ahead of me, scolding me, “Come on! Be better! Work harder! Run faster. You’re better than this.”

That weekend, a new voice emerged from my soul, one that simply said, “I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep working and striving and hustling. I can’t keep trying to prove my worth, prove that I have a place, prove that I belong, prove that my voice matters. I can’t keep trying to prove myself to others, and I’m tired of trying to prove myself to God.”

And in those moments of deeply vulnerability, I remember being surprised by the Father, because I wasn't met with scolding or correction or a disappointed dad. I was met with love. I was met with grace. I was met with rest. I was met with arms that held me, feet that carried me. I was met with a God who saw me in my fragile, human state, and embraced me with a level of kindness that left me feeling seen and known.

I was met with kind words that He spoke to my soul, the one that couldn’t take a step further, not because it was tired of working hard but because it was tired of trying to prove that it could.

As my heart cried, “Be better,” 
the Father whispered, “Rest here, Love.” 
As my heart cried, “Work harder,”
the Father whispered, “You are enough.”
As my heart cried, “Run faster,”
the Father whispered, “Let me carry you.” 

And my heart was overwhelmed by this God I had always known but struggled to understand.

My story and this journey I am on with the Lord is full of these moments, moments of being completely surprised by the God I have known about since I was a little girl. This journey to discover the heart of the Father began in that small cottage in the middle of Northern Indiana. That weekend was the catalyst to discover not the God I wanted him to be, but simply the God He is. That weekend was a stake in the ground kind of moment, a pivot, a decision to go another way. It was a decision to choose rest over hustle, to choose practices over performances, to choose grace over perfection.

And it was a stake in the ground kind of moment to start this long journey—the one where I find myself completely surprised by the God I've always known but never understood.

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