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.

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.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend and I met for ice cream. Never mind that it was 20 degrees outside or that we hid under layers of sweaters and coats. We braved the icy temps for the best ice cream in town and sweet friendship and connection. 

For the last year, I worked alongside this woman in Mae Sot, Thailand. We laughed and cried, prayed and carried each other’s burdens. We attempted to teach English and fumbled through more than one cross-cultural interaction.

Our tried-and-true friendship stands on this history and shared experience. And now, we’re both in this strange land called transition. 

For me, it’s moving to a city I’ve been to dozens of times but have never called home. For her, it means living in the States and following the Lord to a place that holds more questions than answers. 

So that night, we told stories and shared reminders. In some ways, our conversation was a giant pep talk to the other person. 

Hang in there. 
The Father is always good. 
He’s got this. 
He’s asked us to step, so don’t give up now. 

Here’s the thing—I avoid shallow encouragement and cringe at clichés or Scripture slapped on a problem. Because worries won’t disappear with a quick answer. For me, empty responses to people’s real pain and questions and anxieties is worse than saying nothing. 

But on this chilly December evening with my dear friend and sister, these responses were the farthest thing from shallow. They were truths, and in our whirlwind, we needed them.

Bearing it Together

These days, our worries keep us up at night or wake us up too early. Our dreams are moments of trying to figure out the details—me staring at spreadsheets, her searching for a place to live. As we shared our stories that cold December night, we didn’t ignore the hard parts, the anxiety we both carry, and the giant trust fall in each day. 

But with each acknowledgement of the difficult and uncertain, we spoke truth. We reminded the other of who the Father is because no matter how challenging this season is, our God hasn’t changed. As circumstances change, He remains consistent, unfazed, constant. 

These days, faith feels like clinging to truth in the chaos and uncertainty, carrying the Father’s promises. 

During our conversation, my friend and I didn’t solve our problems. We didn’t find answers or raise the financial support we both need. Our search continues for more than one thing—a place to live, a roommate, a team, a dozen other little details. But when we said goodbye, we carried something more sacred and lasting than meeting these temporary physical needs. 

We held our dusted-off confidence in the Father. Reminding one another of His promises, we helped the other hold tight to faith. And we made the other stronger with that simple idea—don’t give up. 

Don’t give up. 
Don’t give up. 

Reminding One Another of Truth

Faith and friendship doesn’t ignore the difficult It doesn’t gloss over the very real worries and anxieties we face. It walks one another through the challenge. It bears the burden. It gets out of the house on a wintry night to remind the other she doesn’t walk alone. 

I believe with my whole heart that the Father designed the Church to be people who walk one another through what feels impossible. The Father designed us to remind each other of truth, to repeat that phrase in our words and actions—don’t give up. 

It’s so easy to lose sight of truth amidst the whirlwind in our daily lives. I’m sure I’m not the only one to focus on the surrounding swirl instead of the steady consistency of the Father. Friend, we need each other. We need to remind one another of truth. 

So do me a favor. Today, set aside your long list of to-dos. Let the whirlwind swirl around you and find someone who needs reminded of truth. With confidence, speak it into her life and let her speak truth into yours. It’s in these simple life-on-life moments that we carry the courage and faith and endurance to not give up. 

The post Reminding One another of truth in the whirlwind appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Rustic and charming indeed. Forget epitome of small-town America, this house was the epitome of what life looks like right after college. 

For all its quirks, I absolutely adored this house. My two years inside those walls are ones I look back with the deepest kind of gratitude and joy. It wasn’t that every day was amazing or that this decades old home didn’t betray us every once in awhile, but this place fostered something I had only experienced with the six people I grew up with—family and home. 

I moved into that house with one of my absolute best friends. We’ve known each other since the first grade, and since then, we’ve just sort of stuck around. No matter what, we’ll never be able to get rid of the other, nor would we ever want to. But the other two girls in the house were more like acquaintances—people I’d heard of or seen in school but not close friends by any means. 

We all had busy schedules—two of my roommates coaching high school soccer in the fall, one working on the weekends, another working two jobs. Some weeks it seemed like our door was constantly opening and closing—one person coming home, another leaving. But for awhile, we got into this routine that helped forge the kind of home we all craved. 

Once a week we would try to eat dinner together. Sometimes this looked like gathering around the table together, returning to the kitchen for seconds and thirds. Other times, though, it looked like collapsing together in the living room, balancing plates on pillows on our laps. 

After two years together, this house felt radically different than when we all first moved in. For the first time in our lives, home wasn’t our parent’s house. It wasn’t the place we grew up. It was that two-story house on Olive Street, and I absolutely love this. 

In 2018, things changed. One of my roommates got married, and I moved to Thailand. 2019 brought more change when another moved to Indianapolis and another to a different town. Now, this house is home to a new family. It’s strange to drive past it, and honestly, I try not to. It feels a little sad, like a kind of loss. Part of me wants to walk through the front door one more time, but I know that even if I were to go inside, it wouldn’t be home. 

Home was so much bigger than this space. 

Last weekend, we all came together—the South Olive Four. I was back from Thailand. Danae drove up from Indianapolis, and my other two friends cleared their schedules for another meal around the table. We ate a feast together, munching on bread and brie and pie late into the night. 

We gathered in a new home, a new space. The table was different, the space wasn’t so much our own as a borrowed space. But as we sat together, catching up, telling stories, laughing until tears rolled down our cheeks, the house didn’t seem to matter. 

What mattered were the days that feel like an eternity ago—the ones we spent forging friendships day after day. Like the days we walked each other through the death of grandparents or heartbreaking break ups or crummy days at work. The days we blasted Christmas music and decorated for the holidays. The days we celebrated engagements and then weddings, passed tests, and completely average, ordinary Thursdays. The days we spent doing life together—all of life. 

That night around the table, we did life together yet again. We talked about the things that bring us joy, things we deeply and joyfully anticipate and look forward to. And we talked about the things that are really challenging, because this is life. It’s beautiful and messy and amazing and heartbreaking. It’s difficult and also deeply holy. 

And I was reminded once again that home and family are so much bigger than an actual place or the people we share DNA with. These are things forged by time and vulnerability and engagement. They happen when we lean into one another, choosing community over isolation, openness over guardedness, grace over grudges. 

Today, this is what I am holding onto—that home, that family, that night spent around a new table in a new house. I’m holding onto the joy that comes when home is cultivated day after day as we call each other into community. 

The post What Happens When We Cultivate Home appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In the kitchen, Kristy and I put the finishing touches on dinner—sometimes take out, other times something homemade. We’ve learned it doesn’t really matter what we eat. Food will always unite us.

This home—normally a quiet space—fills with noise and chaos in the best of ways. We wipe up food that spills onto the floor and laugh about water that falls from cups. It’s messy and beautiful and wonderful—the life-on-life kind of night our hearts ache for. 

And as we gather and talk and share life, our home fills with the sound of so many languages. Our friend Mylatte speaks Burmese. Nom wan speaks Thai. Paw wah adds Karen—one of the languages of the Karen people—to the mix. Rebecca and Eliana weave English, Thai, Karen, and Chinese into a single sentence. And the few Americans in the room speak English. 

Four. 

That’s four languages (plus a spattering of Chinese now and then) echoing through the room. Each of us picks up bits of the conversations we can understand. We simplify our words to help others join—using broken English or Thai or Karen or Burmese when needed. And when we need to communicate something to the entire group, time seems to slow down. 

First say it in English
Then Burmese 
Then Karen
Then Thai
Does everyone understand? 

What a beautifully complicated, chaotic gift. 

This is an average night at Braverly small group—a night for all of our Braverly women and any family or friends who want to come with them—to gather in our home. Our conversations range from completely silly to meaningful encouragement to thought-provoking questions. Every conversation, every question, every word needs translated into each language, and I think this is absolutely beautiful. 

When I came back to the States, people asked what the hardest part of life in Mae Sot was. For me, the answer was simple—the language. Thankfully, many people in Mae Sot understand enough English, and although my Thai is sad, I can get by. But after awhile, the shallow, small conversations become tiring.

Your girl doesn’t do small talk well. In fact, I hate it. But when the common language is so small, it’s all you can do. 

So I learned to do small talk like a champ while still craving the real deal—the kind of conversation that bonds and unites the hearts and souls of a group. 

But in this craving, in this longing for a common language, I found that it had always existed. It just didn’t look like words. It didn’t look like English or Thai or Burmese. It wasn’t like the tribal language of Karen or Poe Karen. 

It was the look of longing when we talked about family or showed pictures of our parents and siblings. It was the smile when we talked about our dreams for the future or held tangible pieces of our hopes close to our chest—like the way Hser Ku Paw held her new camera. It was the way we ducked and ran to avoid the pouring rain. It was the laughter that echoed in the room when we tried (and failed) to say something correctly in another language. It was the dance party that started when a song played over the speakers. 

Because despite our different languages, we were held together, united, and more similar than I could have ever imagined. 

That group of women in my living room on Thursday holds hopes and dreams for their futures. They long for a life for themselves and their families that is good and beautiful. They crave to be seen and known and loved by others. Kindness and empathy are desires of their hearts—being seen for more than just the hard parts of their stories. 

They like to try new things, and as scary as it is, they like to try challenging things. They like to prove themselves to others and to their own insecurities and doubts. They don’t like to get caught in the rain or stand in the blazing Thailand sun. Babies who bounce up and down to silly music make both of us laugh and dance along with them. Sometimes they say the wrong word in English, and most of the time, they laugh at me when I pronounce a Thai word incorrectly. 

We are held together by so much more than a language. We are united by our humanness, by the hopes and dreams and desires of our hearts. We find common ground in our delights and our sorrows, our stories. We are so very different—from different backgrounds and histories. And yet, we are one—the Church in its holy sacredness. We may not all believe the same things or hold the same values, but that’s ok. 

That’s ok. 

That’s ok.

I feel like I should say this again for America—a country who seems to lord their differences over others and can’t seem to pause long enough to find common ground. 

We may not believe the same things, think the same way, or hold the same values, and that’s ok. 

I don’t speak the same language as my beautiful Karen or Thai or Burmese friends. We come from distinct histories and experiences. We don’t think the same way about some things, but there exists a sisterhood forged by acts of love and kindness and empathy—values our world desperately needs. 

Church, we speak different languages. We come from different experiences and stories and histories, and this is beautiful. May we make space for one another and allow bonds of family to be forged out of this simple act of love.

The post I Think We Speak Different Languages, and That’s Beautiful appeared first on Kate Berkey.

My peers are chasing successful careers.
They're married and having babies.
They're buying homes and puppies and paying mortgages.

Meanwhile...
I'm single.
I'm a writer and support-raising missionary.
I'm in-between cities which means bunking at my parent's house for a minute.
I don't live in a place long enough for a dog, and the jury is still out on when I will buy a house.
And I can't help but feel behind.

Woof.

Isn't that a crummy thought? It's not a new one for me; I've battled with the voice that tells me I'm behind, that I can't keep up, that I won't catch up for years. That voice says words like "should" or "supposed to." It tempts me to run faster and harder and berates me when I trip over my own feet. 

As I stumble and fall and lag behind, I look around at those around me and wonder what's wrong with me.

Why can't I keep up? 

This week I was—again—asking these questions of myself and that still small trusted voice of my Father whispered, "Because you're trying to run a race that was never intended for you." 

Punch in the gut. 

I think sometimes, no matter how successful or put together we look on the outside, we find ourselves looking around when we're sure no one's watching. We watch family and friends and complete strangers who seem to have "arrived" and wonder when we missed the train. We hold tightly to that idol called comparison and cling to it as if our entire worth depends on it. We call ourselves to standards we could or should never meet, because at the end of the day, your race is not mine and mine is not yours. 

When I step back long enough, I remember the truth—I love my job. I love my life. I really don't want yours. That's your story to live, and I'll take mine.

Somedays, though, our identity shifts. It becomes wrapped up in things we can measure and pursue and aim for. And suddenly, we find ourselves stuck in a race we will never win. 

And it's exhausting.

There's this curious verse in Colossians 4. It's a single line near the end of Paul's messages to individuals in the city, and it simply says, "And say to Archippus, 'Be sure to carry out the ministry the Lord gave you.'”

I love this verse. It might become my new life motto—minus the change in name—because in the midst of these words to people in the church, Paul singles this guy out. He doesn't say that his ministry is better or worse than anyone else. He doesn't ask him why he's not further along in the project, why he hasn't reached a certain milestone. It's almost as if this guy just needs a reminder. Like you and I need a reminder. Your ministry is important, so be sure to do the work the Lord gave you. 

So friend, do this with me—let go of that grip on comparison. Pick yourself up and disqualify yourself from the race you're in. Walk to the starting line of your own and begin again. Your race will not look like mine, and mine will not look like yours. That's all kinds of wonderful and beautiful and extraordinary. 

Be sure to carry out the ministry the Lord gave you, because only you can. And dear friend, our world desperately needs you to run your own race. 

The post Hey, Maybe This isn’t Your Race to Run appeared first on Kate Berkey.

Here goes.

I’m single. 

Whew. There. I said it. 

If you know me or follow me on social media, this isn’t a surprise. People tend to know if someone is in a relationship, because our culture is obsessed with relationships.

And dear Church, you are obsessed with relationships and dating and marriage. So as a woman who has had to navigate singleness in the Body of Christ, would you allow me to say a few truths that the Church desperately needs to grab ahold of? 

I feel the crushing weight of this label called single.

I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted. I’m tired of the jokes about putting me on some obscure dating site. I’m tired of yet another sermon on marriage. I’m tired of hearing, “So, I know this guy who’s single.” And I’m tired of all of these things coming from the Church. 

It’s hard to describe the crushing weight of this label called single. My town and home church are perfect for couples and families. Both are beautiful places, and I’m grateful for the ways they taught and shaped my family and me. But as a single woman trying to find a place and a community to belong in, this reality is painful, challenging, and crushing—especially when it is paired with incessant comments about relationships. 

So, before you start another conversation with your single friend about relationships, pause. Please, for the love of our sweet Father, just pause. Remember that the person sitting across from you is so much more than this label called single, but at the same time, she just might feel like she could die from the crushing weight of it.

There’s nothing wrong with me.

To be fair, no one actually asks, “You’re still single? What’s wrong with you?”

Very few people in this world are that blunt and cruel. Most comments are subtle, and people don’t even realize what they’re communicating. Friend, when you ask me if I’m dating someone every time you see me, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you try to set me up with someone yet again without me asking you to, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you joke around about how I’m too strong, independent, and confident for most men, you tell me something is wrong with me. When you teach another message on marriage, plan another marriage retreat, start another small group for married people without doing anything for singles, you tell me something is wrong with me. 

On my very best days, I can remember the truth—there’s nothing wrong with me. I am not the rejected. I am not too much or not enough. I don’t need to change my personality to find a date for a Friday night. I contribute value and help the Church see a different side of the Father that marriage can’t. 

So, please, sweet Body of Christ, remember this: Every time you mention that you just want to help your single friends find that person they can spend the rest of their life with, think about what they’re hearing. Their life is beautiful right now. They’re single, and that’s ok. 

Singleness is not a problem to solve.

Wouldn’t it be super weird if the Church acted like marriage was a problem to solve? I mean, half end in divorce, so with odds like that, shouldn’t we avoid it? 

YIKES! 

Marriage is beautiful. I certainly hope I get to experience all the wonderful, complicated, messy, incredible parts of it someday. But for now, I’m in this place called single, and I don’t need rescued.

Singleness is not a problem to solve. It’s not a place to save me from just like marriage isn’t a place to save you from. 

Sweet Body of Christ, what if we celebrated singleness—really celebrated it? What if we celebrated it for more than what we can get from single people who seem to have more time and energy than couples or those with kids? What if we celebrated the ways singleness shows us the Father in extravagant ways? 

What if we celebrated single people’s accomplishments? What if we encouraged them to pursue their dreams instead of waiting for their life to start when the “right one” comes along. History would miss so many beautiful, kingdom-building people if they had waited for their spouse before radically following Jesus.

So, friend, remember that singleness is not a problem to solve or a place to rescue people from in the same way that marriage isn’t a problem or a place people need saved from.

Better Together

Now hear this: I love the beautiful, imperfect Church, and I value marriage. I’m not holding grudges against those who have overstepped boundaries in their attempts to cure my singleness. I’m not angry. I’m not bitter.

Honestly, I’m just tired, because somedays, it takes all my energy to remember that I’m ok. I’m not a problem to be solved, a brokenness to be fixed, or a woman in need of rescuing. I’m just single.

Body of Christ, you need families and couples, retirees and people in that mid-life crisis zone, kiddos and awkward teenagers. And you need me—just me in all my glorious singleness. We are better together—not trying to fix one another or conform one another to our own ideal of perfect. So, would you create space for me, for my questions and struggles, for my party of one? 

I’ll make space for you if you’ll make space for me. 

The post With Love from Your Single Friend in the Church appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This girl, the one who could fit in a crib meant for children, was 13 years old. 

I still remember hearing her age. The air left my lungs. My head spun. My eyes watered. My knees buckled. And I remember the way I couldn’t look her in the eye, because just a week earlier, I had been 13. When I’d first walked into the room, I thought I was so different from the little girl in the crib, but now I knew the truth.

We weren’t so different after all.

We were practically the same age. Our hair was the same color, and our eyes looked so very similar. We both burst with joy when we heard a voice we recognized, felt a touch we knew to be loving and kind. Both made in the image of our sweet Father, He called us Beloved. He knew our needs, and He cared so deeply for them.

In that moment, I had a choice: 

Stare at the wall behind the girl, fidget like the awkward teenager I was, and edge toward the door
or
I could look her in the eye. I could take her hands in my own, stroke her head, and wipe the hair from her face. I could honor her by engaging her, by seeing her. Simply put, I could love her by not looking away.

When I close my eyes today, I can still see this beautiful, 13-year-old girl laying in an isolated room in a Romanian orphanage. Her face is a little blurry—the cruel result of time gone by and new memories that demand space in my mind. But this experience and those emotions are still there, the lingering effects of an encounter with hard realities.

I never want to forget this experience, her face, her eyes. I never want to forget that my first reaction was to look away. And I never want to forget that realization—she and I were not as different as I thought. Because if I had more in common with this girl in a Romanian orphanage, I have to wonder how much I share with the person just down the road.

Confronting our Vulnerabilities

I believe this simple truth—that we have more in common with one another than we realize—is one of the reasons Jesus told us to love our neighbor as ourself. It’s why He told us to create space for everyone around our tables and in our homes. Could it be this is why He said those fateful, beautiful, grace-dripping words, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone”? 

Our world is full of hurting people, stories that rip our hearts apart. Humans are exceptionally good at marginalizing one another, separating ourselves from one another. It’s called pride and selfishness and a seemingly innate need to be more than we are. 

But, friend, if we look our neighbor in the eye, we just might see—like my little 13-year-old self saw—that we’re not all that different. 

We all lay awake some nights paralyzed by fears or worries or anxieties. 
We all have beautiful, complex hopes for the future. 
We all wish for love and joy and happiness for our families. 
We all have dysfunction and struggles and secrets. 

When we look into the face of someone who is hurting or marginalized or oppressed, we are confronted with vulnerability. We’re confronted with our own hurts and pain. We’re confronted with our privilege. And it’s deeply uncomfortable.

In that moment, we have a choice:

Look away or see the human staring back at us. 

Ushering in the Sacred

It’s true, we can’t fully engage with every single person or story or injustice in this world. The news is a seemingly never ending parade of the day’s latest challenges. But we do have the capacity and the calling to love our neighbors—to step into vulnerability, to embrace them in their vulnerable state, and be embraced in our own vulnerability. 

When we do that, I believe we usher a little bit of the sacred into our hurting and splintered world. We bring a little bit of Jesus, a little bit of the holy and extraordinary. It doesn’t require traveling to a third world country or donating your life’s savings. Sometimes it simply means talking to the cashier at the grocery store, delivering cookies to your next door neighbor, making conversation with the person who comes alone to church. More times than not, it means looking someone in the eye and listening to her story. Isn’t that what Jesus did over and over again? 

So, may we resist the temptation to look away. May we have the courage to look our neighbor in the eye, and may we bring a little more of the sacred into our ordinary. 

The post Why We Need to have the Courage to Look our Neighbor in the Eye appeared first on Kate Berkey.

It was an honor.
It was a privilege. 
It was humbling. 

I made sure to take off my shoes before I walked into the friend of my friend’s home partly because of culture and partly because of that verse in Exodus. I still believe holy ground exists in things that seem completely mundane or simply different or quite possibly even extraordinary.  

On this night, my friends and I were completely and utterly stuffed after a dinner of curry and naan and rice pudding and sweet donuts soaked in syrup and oil. Each of us tried to stretch our pants a little before sitting on the floor around the family’s table. Kids seemed to come from out of nowhere in this Chicago one bedroom apartment. They crowded around the table with us, focusing on the cartoon playing on the iPad rather than the ragtag group in their living room. Their sweet mother and auntie disappeared into the kitchen despite our constant pleas. 

“Please come sit with us.”
“We don’t need any food.”
“Sit here.” 
“Oh, thank you for the noodles.”
“Please come sit with us.”
“We came to be with you.” 

It was hospitality at its finest, especially to our dear friends from Burma. They passed heaping plates of fried noodles and giant glasses of fruit punch around the table until we all had more than enough. We exhaled slowly, unsure of how another bite of food would fit into our bellies. But this family had given out of what they had, and we would try desperately to honor them. 

Only when we were all happily eating did the sweet mother sit with us—wrapping her beautifully colored skirt around her feet. We did not come to be served by her. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 

We came to be with this family. We came to be with this sweet mother.

As chatter swirled around the room, I saw her fidgeting beside me, fumbling on her phone. I saw the picture then—her son, brand new and beautiful. She passed the phone over me to the friend she knew more than the stranger next to her. 

It was a sacred moment of pride and sorrow like how I imagine Moses’ mother must have felt when she floated him in a basket that she prayed would save him from the river's current and the depths below. 

This boy—her brand new baby—did not come out crying. He did not come out breathing. This sweet mother pushed and cried through pain to give birth to a baby who wasn’t alive. They called him stillborn, but this was not his name. 

We did not come to be served. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 
We came to be with sweet mother. 

In that sterile hospital room just weeks before, there were tears. There were cries. But it didn’t come from her baby. It came from sweet mother and sweet father—refugees in this strange land trying to build a home and life for their family. And in the weeks since this story-defining moment, there would be more tears—from the pain of recovering from childbirth, from the replaying of that moment in her mind, from the moments she could almost feel her son’s body in her arms only to look down and see nothing and no one. 

Often, I write about brave living—how it turns up in the most unexpected places. I’m not going to pretend that I was brave in that moment. I was speechless; I could only reach over and put my hand on sweet mother’s knee. The chatter and the cartoon playing in the background faded. It was a moment for my friend and sweet mother and me—the random stranger who was lucky enough for an invitation to the table. 

Brave living—in that moment—belonged to this sweet mother. Because she did not continue to serve us. She did not stay busy. She did not hide in the kitchen. She sat with her friend and a stranger. And she pulled out one of the only pictures she will ever have of her baby called stillborn. She passed him to us, one of the greatest treasures and sorrows of her heart.

And all we could say was, “He is so beautiful. He is cúndoijja.” 

We made sweet mother smile at the sound of our terrible pronunciation of this beautiful Rohingya word. Her smile, another act of bravery. 

I had no business being in this room, in this space with such a sweet mother—the kind who comforts her crying children, who finds refuge in a new country for their safety, who tries to teach them parts of their culture in a brand new place so different from the old. I had been invited to holy ground that was found in the sacred ordinary. I was surrounded by bravery and humbled by my place at the table. 

We did not come to be served. We did not come for another meal. We did not come to take. 

We came to be with sweet mother—the bravest one in the room. 

The post Stumbling into Holy Ground Moments Around the Table of Refugees appeared first on Kate Berkey.

This week I stepped into a room filled with people who were there to hear from Kristy and me, ask questions, and see for themselves the work we’ve poured ourselves into. Nothing felt more vulnerable than stepping into that space, prying our hands open to let others see the dream we have cultivated for so long. We had one hour to explain it all, and for the sake of our translator, we had to simplify our words while still sharing the most important and complex details. We had to speak about things that are deeply personal to us, ready to hear any critiques the group had. 

This is living brave. 

On the back wall of Braverly, our mantra is painted in big, bold letters. 

Live brave. Dream bravely. Influence bravery.

It’s actually the inspiration for the book we’re writing, the heartbeat of it all. It’s a challenge we give to our women all the time. Daily, they are put in situations that force them to either face their fears and insecurities or run away. Over the years, our women have conquered so much— like the fear of trying something new, like the fear of looking silly, like the fear of failing. 

And here’s the beautiful thing: they are at their best when they choose to live brave every day.

This challenge to live brave, dream bravely, and influence bravery isn’t just for our women. It’s a charge for us. It’s a charge for me. It’s a charge for you.

I have a friend in the States who tries to do something that scares her every day, and she’s my hero. She refuses to let fears or insecurities control her. Instead, she leans into them, knowing that the place she feels the most fear is the place the Father longs to use her the most. 

Sometimes I need to sit with that truth, cling to it, and remind my heart of it. The place I feel the most fear is the place the Father longs to use me the most. 

I remember first hearing that on a podcast by Jonathon David and Melissa Helser, and it continues to rock my world. I can’t fully describe the fear that comes with writing a book, knowing it will get rejected by some agents and publishers. I can’t explain the fear that comes with vulnerably telling some of my story on the pages of said book. I can’t describe the fear that comes when I simply allow people to see the book writing process, people who have the power to question it all. 

We all have these kinds of fears, right? It surrounds our work, our relationships, our place in this world, and for me so much of this fear comes from the feeling of vulnerability. 

Sharing my ideas, opening myself up to criticism, trying something new, sharing my story—all of these things invite vulnerability into my life. It’s so much easier to write in my journal than on my blog. It’s so much easier to keep certain ideas to myself than honestly share them in a meeting. It’s so much easier to gloss over my story than share the really messy parts. 

It’s much harder to step into a room, to take a seat at the table, and share my heart, my work, my ideas, and my story with a group of people. It’s much harder to invest time and effort and energy when there is uncertainty or risk at the end of the conversation. 

But brave living calls us to show up and be seen. It calls us to say yes when our entire body screams no! Brave living is an everyday choice. Sometimes it’s a moment by moment choice. It doesn’t always mean getting on an airplane and moving across the world. Please hear the truth of that, because sometimes brave living is simply looking at the person across the table and saying, “I love you.” Sometimes it’s taking a new job. Sometimes it’s being vulnerable with others. Sometimes it’s going to the small group that seems like it might never click. Sometimes it’s sending that email or text that may never get a response. 

And sometimes it’s learning to sew a bag you don’t know if people will buy. Sometimes it’s figuring out how to make a bagel from scratch. Sometimes it’s making a home in a new country and culture because that’s what’s best your family’s future generations.

If there’s one thing these last nine months have taught me, it’s that living brave is such a daily choice that transcends culture. Our stories are littered with the big and little decisions to live brave, but they are just that—decisions. 

This week, Kristy and I decided to show up and be seen. We shared our dreams, our hearts, and our vision uncertain of how they would be received. We decided to live brave. 

And tomorrow and next week and the week after, we will show up and be seen again. We will share our dreams, our hearts, our vision without knowing the outcome. 

We will choose to live brave. 

What does it look like for you to live brave today? 

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