“Cannon, stop please!”

He keeps running, hard and fast down the dirt row lined with blueberry bushes.

“Cannon,” I raise my voice, “stop now!”

His little legs pick up their pace, as if my words are sideline encouragement from a proud mama rather than the desperate plea of a weary one that I mean them to be. But I follow up with one last effort: “Cannon Lee, STOP!”

At this point, I realize the futility and start running after him, leaving my other two children behind with my mom and friend, and hoping I can catch him before I can’t see what row his little head turned down. As soon as I turn the corner there he is, totally still and turned to face me with a big smile on his face. He had stopped, just like I told him to. 

“Cannon, mommy needs you to stay near me while we pick blueberries, ok?”

He tilts his head with his precious grin still beaming, his acknowledgement of my words even though we both know they were not understood. He was playing a game: a clear dirt path signaled to him the freedom to make his way down it the only way he knows how—running. He grabbed my hand and walked back to the group with me.

We got in line to grab our fruit picking baskets, and as we waited our turn I held tightly to his little hand as he pulled and pulled, willing us both back to the dirt path. This is fairly standard in unfamiliar places; Cannon’s little body is overcome with the urge to explore and understand and run around in every inch of new territory, and his little ears seem deaf to anything his own little mind is not telling him to do.

When it was our turn for the farm’s director to tell us how to properly secure our blueberries from the bush, she looked down at Cannon, who was reaching down for handfuls of bark with his free hand.

“Is this the one who was running?”

“Yes, this is him,” I replied with a smile. “He gets excited.”

“Hmm. Well, he’s not a very good listener is he? Young man, don’t pick that up.”

Cannon grabbed another handful.

“Young man, don’t touch that. We don’t do that.”

He continues to look at the ground, spotting his next grab.

“Excuse me,” she responded with irritation in her voice, “do you need to go inside the farm and learn to be obedient, young man?”

In moments like these, I usually just focus on Cannon, try to distract him from the behavior that he shouldn’t be doing and give him a positive one instead. I was short on options for those in the moment, so I did something I rarely do.

“Ma’am, he is autistic. I am not sure how much sense this all makes to him. Don’t worry, I will watch him very closely out here.”

“Oh.” A pause. “There was an 18-year-old like that out here yesterday. Her mother couldn’t do anything with her.”

'Like that?' Deep breath, mama, deep breath. Adding this to the list of unhelpful things people tend to say without really thinking about them.

A year ago, that comment would have made me break out in a sob right then and there. Six months ago, I would have been frustrated, stomped my way through the rest of our time and then vented about it to a few trusted friends, toying with the idea of writing a pithy “open letter to the rude farm owner,” but my husband would have talked me down from that place. But last week, I just smiled back, emotionally numb to her insensitivity because that’s really all it was, an insensitive comment from someone who doesn’t understand.

But today, a week later, what I wish I would have said is this:

A mom came out here with her 18 year old autistic daughter? Wow, how cool! You know, she’s a brave mama. Autism is so unpredictable and all we want for our kids is to be able to participate in great things like this, like picking blueberries on a beautiful summer day, so the fact that she came out here and tried, that’s amazing, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy for her. Yes, brave mama indeed. If you see her or anyone like her again, you should tell her that. Sounds like she’s doing a great job.

I missed the chance to say that last week, but I won’t next time.

Cannon has a defender much great than me, and that’s God. But God made me his mama and therefore his advocate, and I think I am finally strong enough to be just that. I don’t plan on arguing and I certainly don’t plan on crying; most comments come from ignorance, not maliciousness, and they are simply part of the journey of special needs—I think in particular a special need that on the outside doesn’t look like a special need. But I am so very ready to tell the next person who just doesn’t understand what she is seeing one very true thing:  we, special needs mamas, are a brave, brave crew.

*****

We brought home almost 4 pounds of blueberries that day, and even though the owner told me not to I kept sneaking Cannon a few as we picked. I believe in that boy, and I believe in the story God is writing in all of us, because His stories are always heading toward what is good, toward our forever home. They are not always easy, but always good. Moments like that just remind to not be afraid to tell it. 

Oh dear reader, thank you. Thank you for being here, for meeting up in this little space and then being willing to come back for a visit. I do not tell you this enough, but it humbles me to no end that these simple words actually have an audience, and that by the grace of our good, good Father, they connect with some of you. Do you know I keep every email, every message, and every word of encouragement you all have sent? Yep, every single one. From South Africa and New Jersey and Texas, from the teacher at my daughter’s preschool, from the fellow special needs mamas, and the friends I do life with on a regular basis— when you tell me that something I offered on paper was even the slightest bit encouraging to you, I praise Jesus and then ask him to help me to show up again and write some more.

Because can I tell you the truth? This has been hard, at times harder than I have wanted to work through, and I cannot do it without him.

When I started just enough brave I was certain God was calling me to pioneer something big and bold in my city. I had grand visions of people all over my tiny pocket of the country being inspired to live bravely and fight for justice in their places. I was slowly but surely stepping in to an idea I knew—and still believe—was from God as an advocate for women in the sex industry. I wanted to tell a different story about them, and I wanted to help them see a way out. Well, God raised up a few like-minded women and we stumbled our way through something we had no idea how to actually do. But let me tell you something: all God needs is obedience, He’ll do the rest. And he has. He has sustained and grown something that is allowing women in a very dark place to see Jesus.

And he has done it not because of me, but in spite of me.

But two and half years ago, that was my brave. And I believed if I could find just enough of it, God would honor that. That ministry has grown in ways I would never have pictured. No website, no social media, only—much like this—vague descriptions of our end goal coupled with massive amounts of prayer and faith. We have a prayer team, consistent donors, and a support group far bigger than I had even thought to ask God to grow it. And yet with every month of growth or moment of ‘only-God’ praises, I have had less and less of a role. It has grown bigger, and I have gotten much, much smaller. I have had to.

It was just over a year ago that we started seeing signs of ‘something wrong’ in our little guy. So many of you have followed that journey since I started sharing it, but all roads seemed to point to autism from the beginning, and that is where we find ourselves today.

I wish you knew how many times I have asked God, “Why?”

“Lord, we were willing, we were ready to go anywhere! But what Cannon needs is here. Why are you keeping us here, why did you give us this? We were willing to go!”

Yet God is so patient with our myopathy, isn’t he? We can only see right here, right now. All of human history has been directed by his hands and we are so quick to grumble over the things we do not like in this moment. But over my months of protesting, he gently kept whispering this to me: ‘If I have asked you to do it, no matter what it is, you’re going to need to be brave.’

If he has asked me to be a special needs mama, I need to be brave.

If Cannon is angry and upset for reasons I cannot understand, I need to hold him tight so he doesn’t hurt himself, and I need to be brave.

If treatments and therapies and endless doctor appointments sweep away savings accounts and extra income, I need to trust that it is truly God’s money anyway, and I need to be brave.

If we cannot participate, or have to cancel plans, or if my little one is misunderstood by onlookers and people who do not know him, if we have to sit outside a birthday party while others walk in and silently wonder why we can't just yet, I need to offer a quick plea for patience and grace, and I need to be brave.

If we do not understand why, if there is no clear cause and no clear cure, if for all of our effort we cannot find a formula that guarantees a way through this, I need to trust the Author of every great story, and I need to be brave.

‘This is your brave, Katie. You only have to find just enough of it.’

If I could summarize our short time on this journey so far I would say this: God has grown bigger, and I have gotten much, much smaller. He’s always been big, I just haven’t always seen it.

And all along the way, I’ve done the only thing I know how to do: be honest about it. I have been honest with my grieving and honest with my hope. I have written from exactly where I am because there would be no possible way for me to pretend to write from some other place. I have thought a hundred times in this past year that I should quit, that these hours spent at the computer could be better spent researching methods and therapies and all manner of options for treating something that is so hard to wrap our hands around.

And almost every time, in the moments I am most ready to stop, there’s an email, or a text, or someone somewhere—maybe I know her but most often I don’t—telling me not to. Bob Goff said once that, “God doesn’t pass us messages as often as he passes us each other.” That, sweet readers, could not be more true for me.

A few months ago, as I was processing all of this with my friend Jen, she said something to me that I have been holding on to all this time. “Katie, I don’t think it is an accident that while your little guy has so much trouble finding his words, God has given you so many of them.”

God certainly does not struggle to see the whole picture, does He?

Today, I am just feeling… I don’t know, some combination of grateful and pensive, as I sit here thinking about how far God has taken me, and what he has done as I have so imperfectly shared the story. This space has kept growing. But I keep getting smaller. While I used to want to be a Writer, capital 'W', and a Leader, capital 'L', now I just want to be someone with unshakable faith, even if it is merely the size of a mustard seed.

If I did not see it two and half years ago, or even a year ago, when two very different journeys began for me, I see it so clearly now: He increases, we decrease. And as that happens, as the distance between God and us gets bigger and bigger, his glory fills in the space. It is so, so beautiful; I just had to get much lower to see it this well.

*****

So dear reader, that is the just enough brave story. My life looks so little like I thought it would when we began. But it looks exactly how God wants it to, and knowing that is all that I need to feel so incredibly grateful to be chosen for this work. I still think and pray all the time about how and when and why to share in words—when you are convicted to your core that God sees every single motive that governs your heart it quickly changes how you do everything. But for today, I think I will keep at it. These hours could be spent in a dozen different ways, but so far they have all added up to teach me about God, and they leave me more in awe of him with each passing one. Time well spent, I think.

I know now that brave is not always leading and not always grand and not even always something anyone but God will see. Being brave is doing exactly what God has asked you to do, and humbly pointing every bit of that work back to the One who sustains it. If you ask me, I think humility is the new brave.

So, what do you say we all keep getting smaller?

And a hundred times, thank you for letting me tell you everything. You are good friends to listen so well.  

As soon as I heard the crying from my two-year-old’s room, I looked over at the clock. 4:38am: an hour of the day only redeemable by the fact that it is summer and the sun had just begun throwing gold over the tops of the hills I can see from my window. How beautiful, I thought briefly, and then stumbled my way to my crying boy.

Just ninety minutes before this I had nursed my six-month old back to sleep for the second time. And six hours before that, with an end-of-the-day mom tank blinking its caution light on “E,” I lost my patience with a bedtime-stalling three-year-old and shut the door on her without a prayer or a kiss; I simply could not muster either after she threw the Doc McStuffins radio at me when I told her sleeping with it was off the table. Toddlers, man. A strange species of loveable crazy-makers.

So after 15 minutes of rocking my two-year-old and praying that all too familiar mama prayer, Lord, you can do all things; please let this child go back to sleep, I realized that both the Lord and my child wanted something different from me, and our day was beginning far earlier than I was ready for it to, forcing a familiar sentiment forward in my mind: I don’t think I can do this.

Without question, being a mama is far harder than I ever imagined it would be. I don’t think I went in to this gig naïve, I just think motherhood is something we can only be, at best, marginally prepared for. I had my share of stay up late, get up early nights in college and graduate school—surviving on four to five hours of sleep is not a new thing. But surviving on four to five hours of (broken) sleep for three and half years? I’m just not sure one ever gets better at that; we simply learn to operate at 60 percent of full capacity. And really, being tired is just the beginning.

My three-year-old is in a constant state of “put your eyes on me, mom!” and stomping her feet in whiny distress when any answer I give her is not what she wants. The opportunities for heart training and teachable moments are not hard to find with her; we are in a spin cycle of precious obedience that we celebrate, and pulling-my-hair-out defiance that we agonize over. My two year-old, still searching for his words, needs something very different than her right now. His demeanor has been much easier to parent than his big sister so far, but his developmental needs are an emotional wringer. That, and he is also a two-year old boy. We all know what happens when you turn your back on them for too long: something, somewhere in the house will need a clean up. And then there’s the baby, and all I can say about him is praise to you, O Lord, for an easy baby whose greatest need is a full belly. Life with these beautiful three is all hands on deck, all the time.

Layered on top of exhaustion, discipline, speech therapy and cleaning up the latest spill, there’s the hardest part of motherhood: fear. Because every day there’s another story to remind me just how real and present evil is in this world: another life taken with a gun, another young girl’s dignity bought for pleasure, another diagnosis stealing the dream of a precious family.   

And far too often, I don’t think I can do this. I’m too tired. I don’t have enough strategies to discipline well and even if I did, my patience is gone and I fail to see through all the good advice I’ve been given. And mostly, I’m just flat scared of the world, and it is impossible to raise brave children when I’m not feeling brave at all.

But like God has so graciously done for me a thousand times in my life, he reminds me that the answer isn’t even found where I’ve been looking for it: in a good night’s rest or sound parenting advice or a gated community in a country with strict gun control. No. As much as I am a fan of all those things, there are no man-made structures big enough to keep out fear and keep in grace. I could raise my children in a bomb shelter and my own selfish and sinful nature would be enough to undo us all. But Jesus… every great turnaround of the heart begins with those two words, with that man.

As I poured a cup of cold brew coffee over ice, the clock crawling just past 5:00am and my toddler bringing me the remote control and rubbing his chest in his sign for “please,” I caught another glimpse of the sunrise; the beautiful warmth shining on the world thirty minutes before had only increased in intensity, and I knew in that moment that on my own, I can’t do this. I can no more raise my precious children with all the integrity that I want than I can make the sun rise again tomorrow morning.

But I’m not on my own. My hope is not in my ability to be a mama. My hope is in a Savior who covers my inability. He’s never once asked me to go it alone, and he walked this world two thousand years ago so I would know I don’t have to.  He knows what I need before I ask, whether that is patience or wisdom or faith. And he told me how to beg him for those things, summed up in this beautiful petition: Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. All our lives can be covered in those words, from the minutiae of spilled milk to the anxiety of a terror-filled world.

Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. Not mine. Yours, Lord.

I may not have all I want as a mama. I could use a lot more sleep, a bit more compliance and I’d sure love a world I felt a little bit safer in. But then I see the morning landscape painted in gold, and I think of a God who is right here, in the midst of all the scary and the pain and moments that leave us without words, and I know I have all I need, because I have a Savior.

Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness. Let’s walk in that peace today, friends. Our aim toward the glory of God and eternity with him is shaky, and on our own we will miss the mark completely. So let’s trust him to steady our hands, calm our hearts, and anchor our faith. He has, he will again.  

*Photo courtesy of Ashlee Gadd

It all feels overwhelming sometimes, doesn’t it?  The headlines, the statistics, the almost routine mention of another capsized boat or a small group of sojourners’ bodies found dead along the border of two countries.  We Americans are generally a people of short attention spans: rocked and saddened over Aylan’s little body one day, moving on to a celebrity’s fall from grace or our football team’s poor performance the next.  This mostly steady emotional barometer towards the plight of so much of the world tends to mark the cadence of our lives; we give a nod or acknowledgment to headlines and news stories that, while they should shock us, leave us with a mostly unmoving response.  Or far worse, no response at all.  And then, we carry on.

This cannot be.  It can’t.  I am begging you, friends, to respond.

But how?  How!?  What can I do about ISIS? President Al-Assad?  The Middle East?  I hear these questions, they resound in my mind, too.  And they are valid: most of us are not in any sort of position to speak to these loaded political and governmental concerns and we will likely never be. 

But let’s not do something: let’s not, as Christ-followers, put our God on the same level as our politicians, weighing the power of each with equal belief and confidence.  That’s not even a thing.  Scripture tells the story of a God who has never once wavered in authority over all kingdoms and governments and leaders*.  Never, not one time, has he not been in charge— and this is true in every generation, every pocket of history.  It remains true today.  So that is where I start, with a clear reminder to myself that the terror of my moment in history is not un-watched by the God of all history.

The next thing we can do is know.  Stop looking away.  Read the stories, as many of them as you can.  Know that more than 12 million innocent men, women, and children have been forced from their homes in Syria.  Sit with that number for a moment, will you?  Really think about how many people that is.  Or picture your hometown, the traffic and the grocery stores and the busyness of people moving from here to there; moms doing school drop-offs and parents heading to work, meeting friends for coffee and closing business deals… and now picture it silent.  No food on the store shelves.  No cars on the streets.  No access to hospitals.  Banks are closed.  The water is shut off.  Maybe the biggest buildings are bombed out or perhaps the terrorist group has forced everyone in to hiding.  But there is nothing left of your life, and you find yourself having to answer questions like this: “do we take grandma with us as we flee or will she not make it anyway?”  That’s not really a choice; it is a life-sentence to guilt no matter how one answers it. See this in your mind, friends, because it is real for millions of our global brothers and sisters right this moment.

Once you know, allow it to hurt.  It is ok for someone else’s pain to hurt.  I would argue that it is good.  That hurting is the birthplace of compassion—the kind of compassion Jesus felt when he saw the hungry crowd**, the kind of compassion that means to “suffer with,” and the kind of compassion that makes a space in our lives for the Holy Spirit to come in and inspire.  And that is where we respond with prayer. Just prayer.  So simple, isn’t it?  Oh, but so, so powerful, and perhaps the most important work we can do,  if we truly believe in it.  I think that it gives God the honor he is due when we tell him out loud that we trust him with all of this, and that we believe in him for justice. 

When we go to scripture as our guide, we see thousands of years of men and women petitioning God for help, for answers, and for peace.  We read the greatest writer of the new testament, the Apostle Paul, offering prayers for the hearers of his letters and begging for them for himself at the same time; praying for protection (2 Thessalonians 3:2), for grace (1 Corinthians 16:23), and for clarity and boldness in his words (Ephesians 6:19-20) so that the gospel might go forward and believers would multiply.  If you are wondering how to start praying for Syria (or any number of injustices, countries, or people groups), may I humbly suggest that is a good model to begin with: protection in the face of danger, grace in the midst of chaos, clarity for those sharing the gospel and understanding for those hearing it.  We do not know how our prayers will be answered but we know that they will be heard, and most assuredly, heard by the only One who is perfect and able to answer with flawless justice, impeccable timing, and eternal truth.         

While I believe to my toes that prayer is the most important thing we can do for others, my hope is that as far as we are able, it is not the only thing we do for others.  Let’s not scoff at sacrificial giving, either.  That old Christian alliteration for stewardship applies perfectly here, because between our time, talents, and treasures we can all do something: are you a lawyer who can advocate for asylum?  A doctor or nurse who can volunteer for a few weeks with any number of refugee agencies?  A stay-at-home mom who can make room in her home for a refugee family (or an orphan, a single mom, anyone) for a few months?  I promise if you want a role in helping—with one of the statistically greatest humanitarian crises of our time, or any number of equally heart-breaking injustices— start asking questions and you will find one.  And there is also giving our money, which often feels like the easy thing but it is no small thing.  Because maybe you know someone willing to go, he just needs someone else willing to give.  Or you read about the agencies doing great work but who are sorely under resourced and you give to meet a need and help spread the gospel.   There are great people on the front lines but they are out of resources, leaving them with little capacity to help stop the hemorrhaging of the refugee crisis. Last week I read that on the Greek border refugee camps built for 500 people are housing 5000.  Put this perspective in to our world: the house we comfortably live in with 5 people would all of a sudden have 50. Wouldn’t we all feel the sting and meaning of under resourced in a moment like that?         

_________________________

I had the great privilege of speaking to the Chief Catalyst at World Vision last week, and the stories he told me after a trip to Lebanon to the refugee camp in Beirut are, in the truest sense, unbelievable.  And I mean that.  They are hard to believe.  In his words, “Utterly beyond anyone’s capacity to take it in.” It’s crowded.  Abuse is rampant.  Food and water supplies are low, a thriving black market is gaining steam.  Children are drawing pictures of their homes and remembering details like grenades scattered on the floor.  For so many of the refugees, after three years away from everything they know and no real means to an end in sight, a catastrophic loss of hope has settled in.  Truly, there are few things with more devastating consequences than that.

So what will we do?  As some of the most resourced Christians on the planet, the answer simply cannot be nothing.  And every agency on the frontlines, every humanitarian worker who has been there, every Syrian, Iraqi, Afghan, or other beautiful refugee face will beg you to not let that be the answer.  We can do hard things, friends.  But most certainly, we can do these things: Remember. Learn. Feel. Pray. Act.

_________________________

Want to do something right now?!  My talented friend Margaret has created the adorable printable in the picture above to remind us to do the simple yet profound work of praying.  It’s yours for a donation of $5, $10, $25 or $50 dollars.  If you know me at all, you know that keeping your money will never be my style, and EVERY SINGLE PENNY of proceeds from these printables is going to World Vision.  And I think we could make a teensy, tiny little dent, friends.

Print out your reminder and then do the most important work: prayer. Pray for the refugees and their loss of hope in the world to be found in Christ.  Pray for the agencies and volunteers pouring themselves out.  Pray for President Al-Assad.  Pray for President Obama.  Pray for your own ideas to grow.  Pray for a small community of friends around you to encourage your creative passions and increase your capacity to give.  Pray to feel this.  Friends, let's talk to Jesus about it all and watch him work in our hearts and in the world.  This story, and so many others riddled with the most nefarious acts humanity is possible of, are not unseen by him.  In fact I believe his heart is broken over them.  There is not a believer on the planet who has not been invited to be a part of his work in the world in some way.  We can, y'all, and we must.   

{Printables available October 28-November 6: TEN DAYS, y'all.  Get yours.  Print it.  Share it.  Pray out loud.  Let's do something cool together}

*Because donators receive a printable, donations made through Just Enough Brave are NOT considered tax-deductible.  If you would like your donation to be tax-deductible, please visit one of the organizations linked in this essay and donate straight to them.

Scripture references (worth memorizing!)
*Daniel 2:21
**Mark 6:34

Is there a better place than the ocean to teach your babies about bravery?

When I first started dreaming up Just Enough Brave’s title around this time last year, I swear I felt like I was a pioneer.  Brave was the word God had put on my heart months before as I sat in a room full of women and told them about my very real ache for women working in the sex industry.  I told this crew with something I would call a false confidence (meaning I sounded more ready than I was) that one day, ONE DAY, I was going to do something about it.  I was finally going to be brave.  It was a liberating moment for me: putting my words out there to people other than my husband felt like instant accountability.

And it felt like I was on to something with my writing, too.  The wordsmith-ing geek that lives inside of me went to town with the semantics.  I loved the idea of being brave.  I am obsessed with the concept of biblical justice.  Just. Brave.  Well that sounded perfect.  Just Brave would have been the title but it was taken on the domain purchasing list, and then I added a qualifier and no one in internet land had thought of it before, and it became mine!  Just Enough Brave! I was going to pioneer a brave movement!  I am so creative with my words!  Everyone will want to be brave when they read them!  And everyone will love me!  And think I am brave myself!

{You are certainly free to start laughing here}.

And then this year, brave was everywhere.  It showed up in songs, on book titles, on my instagram feed and in Christian-women-blog-circles the world over.  I even saw a facebook status from a sweet writer whom I respect to no end and it said something along the lines of “this ‘brave’ trend is rubbing me the wrong way.”  And I realized, much to my dismay, I’m actually not the first person who has wanted to be brave.

Most of the months of March, April and May of this year are a blur of me laying on the couch with a bowl nearby.  Pregnancy just had its way with me.  But those months were hard for other reasons, too: I just had too much darn time and space to think about myself.  And so much thinking about yourself is simply not good.  My inner monologue was something like this: you should stop writing.  Who reads what you write, anyway?  Ok, maybe you should keep writing but at least change the title of the blog.  It is far from the original, creative namesake you thought it would be, anyway.  Actually, free yourself from this insecurity.  Hang up the words, girlfriend.  There are enough better ones out there.  On and on it went.  On and on it still goes, to be honest. 

Since last summer, my sweet friend and I have been visiting women working in a local strip club once a month and trying to show them just a tiny glimpse of care with coffee and trail mix and Swedish fish.  Last Saturday, as Jordan and I drove to our destination, I said to her, “You know, this still takes bravery for me.  Even though it has been almost a year, I have to remind myself God is here, that this is obedience, and that he loves those girls so much it is worth my fear to get out of the car and love them, too.”  Jordan agreed, and because she is just awesome, prayed a beautiful prayer and in we went.  An inner dialogue so similar to the one I have over writing usually happens as we walk to the club: who are you?  What are you even doing here, you can hardly relate to these girls at all.  You’ve been coming for months now and nothing has really changed for these girls yet, focus your time elsewhere.  On and on.

When I get inside my own head too much, I can convince myself of a whole lot of things.  That brave is too trendy.  That writing is not worth it.  That my personal brave is doing very little for the world so it doesn’t even count.  But you know, God has been so sweet to teach me something as I emerged from my feel sorry for me I’m so sick weeks, and that is there is never going to be too much brave going around.  Not in words.  Not in deeds.  Just look around, do you think the world needs a few less brave people?  No.  Having too many brave people around is not our problem.

Our problem is that it is just flat out hard to be brave.  It’s hard to share vulnerable words with the world. It’s hard to tell a story about women working in the sex industry that is quite opposite from the one much of the Christian church believes.  It’s hard to volunteer to raise babies who are not biologically yours and may join your family with a whole host of scars from their own.  It’s hard to move your family to a brand new place.  It’s hard to give away your time, money, and possessions.  It is hard to do a lot of things that God asks us to do.

But here’s what I know: he does ask something brave of all of us.  And this brave is a lot of things: it’s challenging and it’s scary, but it just must come with the sweetest feeling of grace once it has done its work in us—I don’t know, because I’m not there yet myself.  But there are also a few things it’s not: it’s not a competition, it’s not a judgment, it’s not a show, and it is certainly not the same thing for everyone.  Brave is between me and Jesus, and between you and Jesus.  He simply will not ask me about anyone else when my life ends and I get to meet him.  Such a beautifully freeing truth. 

So I don’t know, but maybe brave feels trendy because we are finally catching on to this idea, that God really has a brave thing for us.  And we’re talking about it, trying it on and doing our best to make it real.  Many of us are fumbling our way there (can you see my hand raised over here?), but gosh, we are trying.  Perhaps this is a time and place in history when we really see that playing it safe and building only a life of comfort is just not working. 

Could it be that it feels like brave is everywhere because, well, it is supposed to be?

Let brave be trendy. In fact, jump unabashedly on the band wagon.  Because if you be brave, then I will be brave, too. 

The women of the IF:Gathering have left me with words that are game changers; too much to process in one sitting or one day.  This is part five of a week long look back at the ways that I don’t want to stay the same. 
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It’s 4:40am on Friday morning after a very full week.  We’ve had everything from small group, bible study, workouts, and class to croup, timeouts for a two year old, bad days on the job, and taxes.  In six days, all these things and a hundred more. My jobs are to be a wife and a mom, and then I get paid by teaching and I get filled by writing.  And some days I feel like I have a better handle on it all than others, but really, that’s just life, isn’t it? 

On Sunday after the IF:Gathering last weekend, I committed to spending time each morning diving a little bit deeper in to the moments and words that were most impactful to me.  With a little help from the kids who slept past 6:00am some days and from Daniel Tiger on in the background on the other days, I’ve been able to do it.  But honestly, Monday was easy.  Today is not.  The words are coming slowly and incoherently at times.  I’m feeling tired and out of creativity, and we ran out of TJ’s cold brew—a small tragedy in itself.

But maybe, just maybe I’m supposed to be a little spent.  Because the last phrase I had picked out to write about last weekend is much more important today than it would have been on Monday.  From Bianca Olthoff’s closing lesson, a reminder for all of us: show up everyday.

Not just when I am full and rested.

Not just when I see results.

And not just when it’s easy.  Or because people will like me. 

I want to show up everyday because God can use me everyday.  He can use all of us. Giving my best is enough.  Giving my brave is enough.  God does the hard part when I show up.  Our lives have the amazing gift of knowing where this story ends, so I’m going to start at that place— with a kingdom that cannot be shaken*— and live from there.  Everyday.  Many days I will stumble or even crawl through, unsure of everything except this: God is not done, and he is writing our stories into a beautiful ending.  But we have to show up.    

P.S. Thanks to everyone for sticking with me this week.
#letsdothis

Grammar gets such a bad rap, sending people back to their middle school classrooms with images of strict English teachers and red marks all over returned papers.  I will never need to know this! and when will I ever use the term subordinate clause again in my life? have rung through countless young minds as sincere teachers do their best to make them believe you will, I promise, you will need this!

I don’t know why exactly, but I believed my teachers.  And although most of my writing today makes its own rules up as I go, I return to my love for good old fashion proper grammar often.  And today, I want to tell you a little bit about the adverb.

Adverbs do just what their name implies: they add to the verb (do I need to remind you that a verb is an action word?)  Adverbs usually answer the questions such as how? or  in what way?  If you walked (verb) to lunch, how did you do so?  I walked quickly (adverb) to lunch.  You get it, yes?

I owe a great deal of inspiration to the function of the adverb, as it has inspired the latest (and my favorite!) addition to the Giving Shop: the bravely necklace.  My sweet friends and mentors at As You Wish design helped me come up with this piece, and I don’t think I could love it more because yes, it is beautiful, but more than that, it reminds me how and in what way I want to do the things God has put on my heart: be a loyal wife, a committed mama, a helpful advocate for women in the sex industry, and a consistent friend… and I want to do all those things bravely. 

What about you?

Are you fighting for your marriage…

Thinking about adoption…

Raising difficult children…

Facing infertility…

Fighting injustice…

Loving the people in your neighborhood…

Moving out into the mission field of the world…

Working toward a big dream…

Do those things bravely.  Because our families, our cities, the world needs our bravery, friends.  Spend two minutes looking at the headlines and you know it; spend two minutes in God’s word and you are inspired for it!  And “we are not of those who shrink back” (Hebrews 10:39a), so let’s not live that way.

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These sweet reminders to live, go, do bravely make the perfect gifts of encouragement to our people.  {Hey, no shame in buying one for yourself, either!}  Each necklace comes with a brand new design brave card and the short story behind the adverb bravely.  And as always, every penny of profit is given away to charity—for the next three weeks (through February 8th) , that charity is Wellspring Living.     

*If you purchase a bravely necklace this week (January 19-23), use the code BRAVELY to take 10% off your order.  The initial love and support of this piece mean more than I could ever tell you.

Live bravely, y’all. 

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Want to help spread the bravely movement?  Purchasing a necklace or the brave cards is one way, but simply sharing them on social media is another—and it is no small thing.  Use #bravely to share this post, a link to the Giving Shop, or photos of your necklaces and cards.  Remember, brave begets brave—if you be brave, I will be brave, too. 

Whatever you are fighting for, it is worth it.

This piece is in honor of Human Trafficking Awareness month

This is the post I have always wanted to write. 

Not because I think it will get a million likes or comments, not because I have pretty pictures to go with it, and not because it’s a topic that flows easily from my heart and mind to my fingers on the keyboard.  A few years ago when I first heard the question, “What breaks your heart?” I didn’t know how to answer it, until I heard this gal named Christine Caine speaking at a leadership conference.  She was just starting an organization called A21, dedicated to fighting this big, big thing called sex trafficking.  Sure, I knew what a brothel was, what prostitutes were, and what words like rape and slavery meant.  I must have heard at some point in my life that women were actually kidnapped and sold as physical goods, but I didn’t really know what a big, big thing it was. Four and a half years, lots of books and documentaries and stories later, I know the answer to the question, because this thing, sex trafficking, it is the thing that absolutely breaks my heart.

Statistics never paint the whole picture, but because they do give a context for the stories of the individual women and men being used every hour of the day as sexual slaves, they are important here:

International consensus estimates that 27 million people are enslaved in some sort of forced labor globally.  The international Labor Organization conservatively estimates that approximately 20 million of these women and men are trapped in forced sexual exploitation globally. (Polaris Project)

The average age of a trafficking victim is 12-13 years old.  A seventh-grader. (A21)

1-2% of victims are ever rescued.  And around the world, it is estimated that 80-90% of rescued victims eventually are lured back to their trafficker.

In the United States, the average pimp can make $150,000-$200,000 a year per prostitute.  And the average pimp has 4-6 girls working for him.  (There are female pimps, but the role is overwhelmingly played by men). (The Covering House)

And this quote, a fact that I think needs to be shouted from the rooftops in this fight against sexual exploitation:  “Legalization and regulation have been promoted as the answer to abuse, health problems and violence in the sex industry.  It has been argued that legalization and decriminalization of the entire industry will decrease the illegal sector and help stem the tide of sex trafficking.  There is evidence that contradicts this claim.  The consequences of legalization in Australia, and a similar legally-sanctioned explosion of the sex industry in the Netherlands, has increased trafficking into both countries.  Eighty percent of women in prostitution in the Netherlands have been trafficked into the country.” (source)

Legalizing prostitution makes the problem of trafficking and exploitation overwhelmingly worse.  All of the data supports this.  I think this knowledge is so, so important, especially for those of us with a misunderstanding of the issue.  So many of us see prostitutes every single day outside our offices or on our way through the cities we live in.  And we think they are choosing it.  I have actually heard this phrase in my presence: “Make that money girl.”  I cannot even write that without a pit in my stomach.  Because close to 100% of women working the streets for sex are not working for themselves, they are not making any money.  They are meeting a daily quota of $500-$1000 with fear of a beating, at best, if they don’t hand that cash to a pimp by morning.  This is true around the world in Thailand and India and Germany and it is true in San Francisco and Houston and Atlanta and even my hometown of Spokane. 

So what can we do?  Oh this question.  It hovers on my mind every day.  I am a wife and a mom.  I have a two year old and an eight month old.  My day is Dora and Daniel Tiger, sippy cups and diapers, timeouts and tantrums and please eat your potatoes requests.  Even this morning I woke up at 4:00am with a burning desire to write this piece, and would you believe that Harper woke up at 4:30am, telling me stories about taking her baby doll to the doctor for a shot.  True story.  She never wakes up at 4:30am.  Just to get through writing this I had to stop for juice and yogurt and four tickle fights.  How on earth do I do this, be an abolitionist and a mama? 

Well I’m going to start by talking about it.  I’m going to tell you that the sex industry is making billions of dollars and it is ruining lives, marriages and families.  It is stealing the innocence of precious souls every day. 

I’m going to tell you that innocently buying porn is part of the problem: the sex industry and sexual exploitation run on supply and demand.  As long as there is a demand, there will be a supply. 

I’m going to beg you to read more about human trafficking, to talk to your daughters about it, and to absolutely talk to your sons about it because their sweet young minds are bombarded from the youngest age with images that entice them to be the buyers in this dark world.   

I’m going to keep inviting you to purse parties and asking if you want to buy from the Giving Shop because our money does make a difference in this fight, a huge difference.

I’m going to keep putting brave organizations like A21, Wellspring Living, IJM, Exodus Cry and hundreds of others in front of you. 

I’m going to ask you to pray as you drive by strip clubs and massage parlors, asking God to be so near the souls inside of them.  And I’m also going to ask you to never give them your business, please, it is not innocent fun.  It is costing those women inside a lot. 

And in a few years I’m going back to school so I can speak in an even more educated manner about human trafficking and sexual exploitation. Someday soon I may even lobby for political reforms that do a better job of protecting young lives from this grave injustice.

I'm going to believe that if enough of us know about this, understand the causes, the complexities, the supply and demand, and if we all say "No, no more" we can end this.

And I'm going to be brave. 

What can we do with the things that break our hearts?  These are my answers for now.  I am going to honor this sweet season of motherhood that I am in right now, where my babies need me for everything and can't even put their own shoes on yet, because I love it, and I am confident of the work God is doing and what it will look like for me to fight this in 5, 10, 20, 30, 50 years- you better believe I am going home to heaven as an abolitionist.  About a year ago I told this to a few of my close friends, and I really believe it is the truth— at the end of my life I think I know the five questions God is going to ask of me:

Were you a faithful, bold follower of Christ? 

Did you love your husband and value your marriage above any relationship on earth? 

Did your children get your very best, your sincerest effort to point them to the only place they will find the answers to life’s questions: Jesus. 

Did you love God’s word and live in manner that reflected that in your friendships and community? 

And, Katie, did you speak up for these girls? 

Actually answering the question of what breaks my heart has changed everything, just everything.  And this is the best I can answer it right now.  Have you asked yourself this question yet?  Don’t wait, really ask it.  The answer will direct the purpose of your life in the most profound ways you can imagine. 

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It is 6:50am now, and I just rocked Harper back to sleep for what I hope is a good power nap before the day begins again.  As we rocked, we sang one of our favorite songs:

This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine
This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine
This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine
Let it shine
Let it shine
Let is shine

And I don't know, it just seemed fitting.
 

*There is some discrepancy regarding the data on human trafficking.  I have done my best here to represent reliable sources. 

Shayla, my talented designing friend, and I sat at Starbucks this week, talking about the Giving Shop and dreaming up ideas for what could, should, might come next.  Just a month ago, I put an idea out there in the world that I hoped would do two things: raise awareness and money for a cause I believe in with all of my heart, and encourage people to be brave.  Friends, I think both of those things are starting.  In the short four weeks that the Giving Shop has been open, we have raised enough money for two years worth of school supplies to support a young women who has gotten out of sex trafficking and is learning a new, dignifying trade.  And, there are well over a hundred brave cards out there in the world, which I pray are encouraging people in perfect, God-ordained moments, putting scripture in front of eyes that need to remember our bravery really comes from there, from God’s beautiful word.

This morning, I had the sweet privilege of sharing about bravery and the idea of the Giving Shop at a local Mom’s Morning Out group.  I was unbelievably humbled by the response and encouragement of this crew of women- it affirmed what I believe so strongly: if you will be brave, I will be brave, too.  We share so many of the same fears, but I know a brave soul lies deep in all of us, longing to live out a faith that believes in a God who is able.      

And now, we’ve got fun dreams and plans for the Giving Shop in 2015: a few changes to the current card sets, more card designs, coffee mugs, and journals (because these are a few of my favorite things).  And like always, you give twice when you buy them, as all profits will always be given away.

The thing that makes me smile and feel the most excited about all of this is that we are doing something together, something that I couldn’t do alone.  You are giving your support and it is adding up to much more than I could simply give.  You are encouraging your people and spreading bravery in ways only you can do.  This is small, this little dream, but it’s something, and I’m so grateful that in a teensy tiny way, we get to do something together. 

Brave begets brave, as Annie Downs would say.  So let’s keep spreading the brave, friends.  We’ve got kingdom work to do and a Holy Spirit all too willing and ready to do it with us.

From now until Christmas Eve, as we celebrate the God who came to be with us, use the discount code IMMANUEL for 10% off your order of Brave cards.