Grace Across Borders: Biblical Lessons and Global Legends

Faith. Life. Culture. Grace.

Weekly reflections to read or listen to, wherever you are.

Author: Tameka Edwards Gooden

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Writer, educator, veteran, and ministry leader sharing faith, life, and the lessons found along the journey. Creator of Grace Across Borders, where grace meets us wherever we are.
  • GRACE IN THE LIMP

    GRACE IN THE LIMP

    🎧 Prefer to listen? Press play and let Grace in the Limp come alive.

    Hi I am Tameka and welcome to Grace Across Borders.

    It has been a long few days.

    There have been multiple emergency room visits, and surprisingly, this time they weren’t even for me. I had to be strong and healthy enough to take care of my family, and that was a lot. But by the grace of God, we are still here, still standing, and incredibly thankful.

    For the first time in what feels like a long time, I actually slept this morning. I woke up sometime before three feeling surprisingly refreshed and thought, Maybe I’ll just roll over and get a little more sleep.

    Then I remembered what day it was.

    Appointments. Responsibilities. Places to be. And what I hoped might be an easy day will probably end somewhere around 11 tonight when we finally make it back home.

    But you know what? I’m thankful that I’m able to do it.

    As I sat here wondering what I should write about today, I realized I didn’t have a thought. Nothing had come to me yet. So I said a simple prayer:

    “God, what do You want me to talk about today?”

    Almost immediately, my mind went back to a reflection I had started after one of my Genesis classes.

    Studying Genesis again has been such a blessing. It is amazing how easily we can rush through familiar stories—especially in the first book of the Bible—because we think we already know them. But when we slow down, suddenly we begin seeing themes, struggles, promises, and pieces of people’s lives that we may have passed over before.

    And this time, I found myself looking at Jacob—the man who would become Israel—and thinking:

    God, why does this sound so familiar?

    I started writing down my thoughts after class. I had actually fleshed out quite a bit of it, and then life got busy and I completely forgot I had written it.

    Until this morning.

    And thank God I did, because that little bit of rest gave me enough energy to plant some beautiful plants that my new friend, Ms. Mary, gave me. Thank you, Ms. Mary!

    So today, I am especially thankful that God still speaks—and that He is still teaching us how to listen.

    I pray this reflection blesses you as much as revisiting it blessed me.

    Scripture

    Genesis 32:24–31

    Jacob’s wrestling match at Peniel did not begin in Genesis 32.

    In many ways, Jacob had been wrestling his entire life.

    Before Jacob and Esau were even born, God had already spoken concerning their future. While Rebekah carried the twins, the Lord told her:

    “Two nations are in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels… and the elder shall serve the younger.”
    — Genesis 25:23

    Think about that for a moment.

    The promise existed before Jacob ever did anything to obtain it.

    Before he grasped Esau’s heel.

    Before he negotiated for the birthright.

    Before the deception surrounding Isaac’s blessing.

    Before he fled from Esau.

    Before Laban.

    Before the wives, the children, the livestock, the wealth, the fear, or the long journey home.

    God had already spoken.

    Yet Jacob’s life is filled with striving.

    Again and again, we see him trying to secure, negotiate, maneuver, protect, and position himself around things that ultimately rested in the hands of God.

    Then Genesis 32 brings Jacob to an extraordinary moment.

    He is returning home and preparing to face Esau—the brother he had fled years earlier. Jacob is afraid. He divides his household, sends gifts ahead, prays, and makes preparations.

    Then everyone crosses ahead of him.

    And Scripture says:

    “And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.”
    — Genesis 32:24

    Jacob was left alone.

    There is something about that sentence.

    No wives.

    No children.

    No servants.

    No possessions.

    No strategy.

    Just Jacob—and a man.

    And Scripture does something interesting here: it initially identifies Jacob’s opponent simply as “a man.”

    We are not told that Jacob immediately understood the full significance of the encounter.

    The wrestling continues through the night.

    Then the mysterious man touches the hollow of Jacob’s thigh, dislocating it. He tells Jacob to let him go because day is breaking.

    And Jacob responds:

    “I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.”
    — Genesis 32:26

    Somewhere in the encounter, Jacob’s understanding seems to deepen.

    This is no ordinary man.

    Jacob—the man who had spent so much of his life grasping—is once again holding on.

    But this time he isn’t grasping his brother’s heel.

    He is holding on for a blessing.

    Then comes a question:

    “What is thy name?”

    Of course, God did not need Jacob to supply information.

    But Jacob answered:

    “Jacob.”

    Before receiving a new name, he speaks the old one.

    The name attached to his history.

    His striving.

    His grasping.

    His failures.

    His victories.

    His entire story up until that moment.

    Then comes the declaration:

    “Thy name shall be called no more Jacob, but Israel: for as a prince hast thou power with God and with men, and hast prevailed.”
    — Genesis 32:28

    Jacob asks for the man’s name, but the man does not answer him directly. Instead, he blesses Jacob there.

    Only afterward does Jacob name the place Peniel, saying:

    “For I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.”
    — Genesis 32:30

    That detail matters.

    The text begins with Jacob wrestling with “a man.”

    By the end of the encounter, Jacob understands that he has encountered God.

    Something changed during the wrestling.

    But something else changed too.

    Jacob received the blessing he demanded—but he did not walk away untouched.

    “And as he passed over Penuel the sun rose upon him, and he halted upon his thigh.”
    — Genesis 32:31

    The sun rose.

    Jacob had a new name.

    He had received a blessing.

    He had survived the encounter.

    And Israel walked into the morning with a limp.

    What kind of victory leaves you limping?

    Perhaps the kind that changes you.

    Folklore

    There is an old story told in different forms about a young tree growing in a protected place.

    The gardener loved the tree and wanted it to flourish, so he sheltered it from everything that might harm it. When strong winds came, the tree was protected. When storms threatened, it was covered. The gardener made sure its young branches never had to struggle against the elements.

    Nearby stood another tree with no such protection.

    The wind pushed against it.

    Rain beat down upon it.

    Storms bent its branches until it seemed they might break.

    Season after season, it endured.

    Yet beneath the ground, something was happening that no one could see.

    Every time the wind pushed against the tree, its roots were forced to reach deeper. Every storm that moved its branches above the ground strengthened its hold beneath it.

    Then one day a powerful storm came.

    The sheltered tree, tall and beautiful though it appeared, could not withstand the force of the wind. Its roots had never needed to reach very deep.

    But the tree that had spent years being pushed, bent, and battered remained standing.

    It had been changed by everything it survived.

    There is an old saying that “smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.” I never actually went to sea during my time in the Navy—thank God!—but I have certainly seen some storms in this life.

    And perhaps that is why this story speaks to me.

    We naturally want God to shelter us from every difficult thing. We ask Him to stop the wind, calm the storm, remove the struggle, and make the road easier.

    Sometimes He does.

    But sometimes He allows us to discover that while the storm is moving everything we can see, He is strengthening something beneath the surface that we cannot.

    My Reflection

    When I sat with Jacob’s story, one question would not leave me:

    How many times have I exhausted myself chasing something God has already promised me?

    That question hit differently.

    Because I know what it feels like to believe God and still somehow feel as though I need to help Him work everything out.

    Maybe I need to do this.

    Maybe I need to make that happen.

    Maybe I need to push a little harder.

    Maybe if I can just figure this out…

    And before I know it, what started as faith has become striving.

    Jacob’s story made me look at some of the places in my own life where I have wrestled—not necessarily because God wasn’t present, but because things were not happening the way I thought they should.

    One of those places was the Navy.

    I never went to war. I never even went out to sea on a real ship—thank God! My Navy story doesn’t look like what people might picture when they hear the words “military service.”

    My wrestling happened differently.

    I went to boot camp in August expecting to complete my training, move forward into my Navy career, do my 20 years, and eventually retire.

    That was the plan.

    Instead, I injured my hip, and suddenly the timeline—and the future I had pictured—were no longer mine to control.

    My time in boot camp was delayed.

    I was away from my children longer than I had expected. Christmas came, and I was still there.

    And there is something you learn very early in boot camp:

    The fastest way out of boot camp is to graduate.

    Ironically, after all of that, I never actually had a graduation. There was no ceremony or milestone moment. We were essentially told, “You’ve completed your training. Bye.”

    But I still had to keep going.

    I couldn’t simply decide I had had enough and go home. Giving up wasn’t going to get me back to my children any faster. I couldn’t rush the process because I was tired of waiting, and I couldn’t make my body heal simply because I desperately wanted to move forward.

    For someone who likes to figure things out, find a solution, and keep moving, there was something incredibly humbling about being in a situation I could not control.

    And somewhere in that experience, I found God in a light I had never seen Him before.

    I remember going into a bathroom stall just to be alone with God.

    I would sing.

    I would worship.

    I would praise Him.

    I would talk to Him.

    There was no audience. No microphone. No worship team. No church service.

    Just me and God.

    And somehow, stripped of so many of the things that normally surrounded my life, my relationship with Him became deeply personal.

    My prayers weren’t polished.

    They were desperate.

    “God, I have no other hope but You.”

    God, You’ve got to bring me through.

    God, You’ve got to give me victory.

    God, I need You to make a way.

    Looking back now, I realize that I wasn’t simply asking God to change my circumstances.

    God was changing me in the middle of them.

    I wanted an exit.

    God gave me an encounter.

    I wanted to know when I could move forward.

    God was teaching me how to depend on Him while I stood still.

    I wanted the situation to change.

    And somewhere along the way, I changed.

    Maybe that is why Jacob’s limp speaks so deeply to me now.

    Not because our circumstances were the same. They weren’t.

    But I understand what it means to enter a season expecting one thing and walk out of it carrying something you never expected.

    For a long time, I think I measured God’s faithfulness by whether He brought me through.

    Did I make it?

    Did the door open?

    Did the prayer get answered?

    Did the situation finally change?

    But age, experience, and a few storms have taught me to ask another question:

    Who did I become while God was bringing me through?

    Because sometimes the miracle isn’t only that you survived the wrestling.

    Sometimes the miracle is that the person who walked into it is not the same person who walked out.

    I didn’t leave that season of my life knowing God the same way I knew Him before.

    I had known God. I had loved God. I had prayed to God.

    But there, when so much was outside of my control, I learned something about depending on Him.

    I don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt.

    I don’t have to pretend I wasn’t disappointed.

    And I don’t have to call every painful thing good in order to say that God was good to me in it.

    There is a difference.

    Jacob walked away from his encounter with God blessed, but he did not walk away untouched.

    Neither have I.

    And perhaps that isn’t evidence that something went wrong.

    Perhaps some of the marks we carry simply testify:

    I was there. God was there. And He brought me through.

    And that brings me back to the question that started all of this:

    How many times have I chased something God had already placed in His hands?

    I’m learning.

    I don’t have to force every door.

    I don’t have to understand every delay.

    I don’t have to control every outcome.

    I don’t have to convince God to be faithful.

    And I certainly don’t have to exhaust myself trying to do His job for Him.

    That doesn’t mean I stop praying.

    It doesn’t mean I stop working.

    And it doesn’t mean I stop holding on to God.

    Maybe it means I finally understand Who I am holding on to.

    The same God who met Jacob in the darkness is the God who met me in a bathroom stall when I felt isolated, delayed, homesick, and unsure of what came next.

    And He is the same God meeting me now.

    Maybe faith isn’t always learning how to fight harder for the promise.

    Sometimes faith is learning when to stop wrestling as though the promise depends on me.

    Some experiences leave scars.

    Some change the way we walk.

    Some change the way we pray.

    Some change the way we see God.

    And sometimes, years later, we look back at the place where we thought we were simply trying to survive and realize:

    That was one of the places where God was transforming me.

    I thought I was fighting to get through.

    But God was teaching me how to hold on.

    And when I finally came through, I didn’t just have a testimony that God brought me out.

    I knew Him differently than I did when I went in.

    And if you’re in that wrestling space right now—still in the dark, still holding on—may you know that you are not abandoned.

    May you have the courage not to fight harder, but simply to keep holding on to the One who is already holding you.

    Even if all you can whisper is:

    “I won’t let go.”

    Keep holding on.

    Not because the promise depends on how tightly you can hold God, but because you can trust the God who has been holding you all along.

    Prayer

    Let us pray.

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God, we glorify Your name and we praise You.

    We thank You in sickness and in health. We thank You in every circumstance—even in the circumstances that cause us to wrestle with You. Thank You for being gracious, forgiving, patient, and understanding, even when we do not deserve Your blessing or Your grace.

    Thank You, Jesus.

    We place our loved ones, our friends, and even our enemies before You, Lord God. You are able to change hearts, transform lives, and work in every situation simply because of who You are.

    Lord, we may not always understand the struggle, the waiting, the wounds, or even the limp. But we know one thing for certain: You are God, and You are able.

    Thank You for loving us enough to send Your Son to Calvary’s cross to save us, and thank You for the Holy Spirit, our Guide and Comforter.

    When we are wrestling, teach us to trust You. When we are chasing what You have already promised, teach us to surrender. And when an encounter with You changes us, help us not to despise the evidence that we have been through something.

    Instead, let us remember:

    You met us there, and we did not leave the same.

    In Jesus’ name we pray,

    Amen.

    Grace Across Borders
    Tameka Edwards Gooden

  • THE COST OF THE OIL

    THE COST OF THE OIL

    Grace in the Pouring

    🎧 Prefer to listen? The recording is below.

    Originally, when I started writing this blog last week, my mind kept going to Jimmy Cliff’s Sitting in Limbo.

    That was exactly how I felt.

    Sitting in limbo.

    Waiting for my time to come. Waiting for other people to make decisions. Listening to everybody have their two cents about what I should do, what I shouldn’t do, and what should come next.

    Somewhere in all that waiting, I started feeling lost.

    I shut down a little.

    And in the middle of shutting down emotionally, I found myself dealing with more physical pain than I was used to.

    But somewhere around the middle of the week, something shifted in me.

    I remember thinking, You know what, God? Waiting for people to make decisions does not negate the calling You’ve placed on me or what You have called me to do.

    So let me get up.

    Let me make a video.

    Let me make a post.

    Let me remind somebody else who You are.

    I may be waiting, but my calling is not waiting.

    Then, toward the end of the week, I received a call about the mishandling of my last born, and it stirred everything up in me all over again.

    It felt like every time I tried to get back up, the enemy threw another dart trying to knock me back down. Yet every time, it seemed as though God sent a hand to pull me back up and remind me that I was not alone.

    And by the time I went to bed last night, I told my husband, “My plate is full. I have no idea what I’m even writing for the blog this week, when I’ll have time today to write it, or when I’m going to finish my assignments for class.”

    But I also told him, “I’m going to rest and trust God to speak.”

    And I think He did.

    Because here I am in the early hours of the morning, and somehow God has brought me back to the alabaster box.

    Back to why we serve.

    Why we pray.

    Why we keep pouring ourselves out before Him.

    And why we cannot allow anyone else to dictate the cost of the oil in our alabaster box.

    Scripture — Luke 7:36–50

    In Luke 7:36–50, Jesus is eating in the home of Simon, a Pharisee, when a woman from the city enters carrying an alabaster jar of perfume.

    Luke tells us that she was known as a sinner.

    She stands behind Jesus at His feet, weeping.

    Her tears begin falling on His feet, and she wipes them with her hair. She kisses His feet and pours the perfume she brought over them.

    Simon sees what is happening.

    But he does not see her worship first.

    He sees her reputation.

    He thinks to himself that if Jesus were truly a prophet, He would know what kind of woman was touching Him.

    And Jesus responds to the thought Simon never even says aloud.

    He tells him a story.

    Two people owed money to the same creditor. One owed five hundred denarii and the other fifty.

    Neither one could pay.

    So the creditor forgave them both.

    Jesus asks Simon which of the two would love the creditor more.

    Simon answers that he supposes it would be the one who had been forgiven more.

    Jesus tells him he has judged correctly.

    Then Jesus turns toward the woman.

    Simon had given Jesus no water for His feet.

    She had washed His feet with her tears.

    Simon had given Him no kiss.

    She had not stopped kissing His feet.

    Simon had not anointed His head with oil.

    She had anointed His feet with perfume.

    One person in Jesus’ story owed more.

    One owed less.

    But neither of them could pay.

    That part matters.

    This woman did not come into the room pretending she had nothing to be forgiven for.

    She knew what she carried.

    She also knew who Jesus was.

    Luke does not tell us the monetary value of what was in her alabaster jar. And we do not have to borrow the price of perfume from another Gospel account to make her offering costly.

    Because she did not just bring perfume.

    She brought herself.

    Her tears.

    Her shame.

    Her reputation.

    Her gratitude.

    Her love.

    And she poured it all at the feet of Jesus.

    Jesus did not treat her according to the whispers in the room.

    He told her, “Your sins are forgiven.”

    And then He told her, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

    She walked into the room carrying an alabaster jar.

    She walked out carrying peace.

    Folklore — The Boy and the Flute

    There is an old Hasidic story about a young boy who came with his father to worship on Yom Kippur.

    The boy could not read the prayers like everyone else could.

    He listened as the people around him prayed, but he did not have the words they had.

    What he did have was a flute.

    His father did not want him to play it during the service. But as the prayers continued, the boy became overwhelmed with the desire to express what was in his heart.

    Eventually, he could hold it in no longer.

    He took out his flute and played.

    The people around him were horrified.

    They heard an interruption.

    They saw something inappropriate.

    Something that did not belong in that moment.

    But the Baal Shem Tov understood the boy’s offering differently.

    He recognized a sincere heart trying to reach God with what it knew how to give.

    The boy did not worship the way everybody else worshiped.

    He gave what he had.

    People standing nearby may not understand what you are pouring out.

    They may even think you are doing too much.

    But they do not know what brought you to His feet.

    Reflection

    When I think about the alabaster box, I don’t just think about the woman in Luke 7.

    I think about Jamaica.

    I think about Oak Glades housing scheme in Kingston.

    I remember when my father sent me a portable CD player—a Discman—from the United States.

    Music was already a big part of my life. I listened to all kinds of music. I remember listening to Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun.

    Some of the CDs I listened to back then had been bought right on the streets of New York. I had Donnie McClurkin. I had CeCe Winans.

    And then I heard Alabaster Box.

    There was something about that song.

    I remember lying on the couch, looking up toward heaven, playing it over and over again.

    And singing along.

    And crying.

    Not cute little tears.

    Real tears.

    I was a teenager, and my heart was heavy.

    I was dealing with people not understanding me.

    People judging me.

    There were things happening inside of me that other people could not see, and at that age I probably did not even have all the words to explain what I was feeling.

    But somehow that song gave me words.

    So I would lie there and sing.

    And cry.

    And play it again.

    And sing some more.

    There is another memory from those years that has never left me.

    Pastor Garfield Palmer, his wife Aunty Dahlia, and their children were our neighbors.

    And honestly, they were and will forever be our neighbors, no matter who we eventually sell that house to.

    Our families shared more than adjoining property.

    We shared life.

    There were many conversations by that fence over the years.

    That particular day, my mother was standing by the fence talking with Pastor Garfield while I was inside singing.

    Apparently, I was getting louder and louder, and my mother mentioned it to him.

    And Pastor Garfield said something that I have carried with me ever since:

    “Leave her alone. Let her minister. She knows the cost of her oil.”

    I don’t know if he realized how deeply those words would stay with me.

    But somehow, he understood something.

    There was more happening inside that house than a teenager singing loudly.

    Something was being poured out.

    And years later, when I read about this woman at the feet of Jesus, I understand her differently.

    The people in the room saw her.

    But they did not know her.

    They knew what they had heard about her.

    They knew her reputation.

    They knew enough about her past to decide what they thought she was worth.

    Simon looked at her and judged her before she ever said a word.

    But Jesus knew what had brought her to His feet.

    Maybe that is why this story touches me so deeply.

    Because there is a difference between people knowing things about you and someone actually knowing you.

    There were people in my teenage years who did not understand me.

    There were people who judged me.

    My heart was heavy in ways they could not see.

    But lying on that couch, looking toward heaven with tears running down my face, God knew.

    He knew exactly what was behind every word I sang.

    He knew why that song touched me.

    He knew what hurt.

    He knew what I could not explain.

    He knew the cost of my oil.

    And sometimes I think we forget that when we watch other people worship.

    We see the raised hands.

    We hear the loud voice.

    We see the tears.

    We see someone fall to their knees.

    And perhaps, like Simon, we form an opinion about what we are watching.

    Why are they doing all that?

    Why are they so emotional?

    Why are they so loud?

    It doesn’t take all of that.

    But how do you know what it takes when you don’t know what it cost?

    You don’t know what they survived.

    You don’t know the prayers they prayed when nobody else was listening.

    You don’t know how many nights they cried.

    You don’t know what God brought them through.

    You don’t know what they had to surrender.

    You don’t know the cost of their oil.

    Simon saw a woman whose presence made him uncomfortable.

    Jesus saw her heart.

    Simon saw her past.

    Jesus saw her faith.

    The people in the room knew her reputation.

    Jesus knew her.

    And sometimes that has to be enough.

    Because even when nobody else understands what you are pouring out, God does.

    Even when people misunderstand your worship, God knows where it came from.

    Even when people judge your tears, He knows the story behind every one of them.

    So pour it out.

    If all you have are tears, pour them out.

    If all you have is a song, sing it.

    If your worship comes from a place nobody else understands, give it to Him anyway.

    They don’t have to know the cost of your oil.

    You know.

    And God knows.

    Prayer

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God,

    Thank You for loving us beyond measure, beyond our past, beyond our mistakes, and beyond the things that people judge us for.

    Your love is unmatched, unearned, and so pure.

    Help us to remember when life becomes a struggle that we have Your feet where we can lay it all down. We can come to You and cry. We can pour ourselves out before You, just as the woman did when she washed Jesus’ feet with her tears.

    Oh God, I just thank You.

    I thank You, Jesus, that beyond words, You understand tears.

    When we cannot explain what hurts, You know.

    When our hearts are too heavy to form the words, You still understand.

    You see every tear.

    And as I am lying here at 4 a.m. this morning finishing this blog—the blog that was due last week—I cannot help but reflect on how appropriate it is this week and how applicable it is to my own life.

    I was asked a question yesterday that I still have not answered.

    But You sent somebody else to remind me that they see You within me.

    And that, O Lord, is even more powerful than any mishandling of me.

    So I thank You, Jesus.

    Bring grace and bring mercy unto each and every one of us whose hearts have been broken over and over again because we have a genuine desire to serve You and to do Your will.

    When people misunderstand us, mistreat us, or mishandle us because we profess Christianity and because we desire to serve You and do Your will, help us not to allow their treatment of us to change who we are in You.

    Help us to come boldly before Your throne.

    Help us to keep serving.

    Help us to keep loving.

    Help us to keep doing Your will.

    Help us to keep pouring out our oil at Your feet, knowing that even when others do not understand the cost, You do.

    And when all we have left are tears, remind us that even our tears can become worship at Your feet.

    In Jesus’ name,

    Amen.

  • Train Up a Child: The Grace of What We Pour In

    Train Up a Child: The Grace of What We Pour In

    🎧 Prefer to listen? Click play below to hear this week’s reflection and follow along.

    Hi, I’m Tameka, and thank you for being here at Grace Across Borders.

    I had a whole different blog written.

    A whole different idea.

    Last night, I sat in my car fine-tuning it while my daughter was taking her driving test. I even had my laptop with me because my whole plan was to get some work done.

    Which now reminds me that I left my laptop in the car.

    Anyway.

    Instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing, I got stuck watching videos.

    So that other blog?

    It may or may not still make an appearance for those who subscribe.

    Because while I was sitting there scrolling, a little girl came across my screen doing sign language to a praise song.

    And just like that, my whole blog changed.

    Immediately, I was taken back to my teenage years at Kingston Seventh Day Baptist Church in Jamaica.

    The older youths were teaching us younger ones how to sign Lord, I Lift Your Name on High.

    And all these years later, I remembered.

    My hands remembered.

    Something that had been poured into me as a teenager was still there.

    And the funny thing is, I protested at the time.

    I remember thinking, I’m not deaf or dumb. Why do I need to learn sign language? Why are we doing this?

    Teenage me could not understand why it was necessary.

    Adult me, sitting in a car decades later, understood.

    Something I did not understand the value of while it was being taught had stayed with me all these years.

    And immediately, one Scripture came to mind:

    “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Proverbs 22:6

    So apparently, we are not talking about what I had planned to talk about this week.

    Let’s dive into it.

    Scripture

    Proverbs is a book of wisdom.

    It teaches us how to live, how to make decisions, how to handle relationships, how to speak, how to work, and how to walk wisely before God.

    And tucked into that wisdom is this instruction:

    “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Proverbs 22:6

    That verse is familiar.

    Maybe too familiar.

    Because sometimes we hear a Scripture so often that we stop hearing what it is actually saying.

    Train up a child.

    Training is intentional.

    You do not accidentally train someone.

    Training requires teaching.

    Repetition.

    Correction.

    Modeling.

    And sometimes saying the same thing so many times that you begin to wonder whether anybody is listening.

    But Proverbs 22:6 should not be treated as a guarantee that if you do everything right, your child will never wander, question, struggle, or make choices you wish they would not make.

    Proverbs is wisdom literature.

    It teaches us something about formation.

    What we put into children matters.

    What they hear matters.

    What they see matters.

    What we model matters.

    And sometimes those things remain tucked away inside of them long after we think they have forgotten.

    Jesus also showed us how important children are to God.

    In Matthew 19, people brought children to Jesus so that He could place His hands on them and pray for them.

    The disciples tried to stop them.

    But Jesus said:

    “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 19:14

    That old word suffer simply means to allow them.

    Let them come.

    Do not stand in their way.

    Bring them near.

    There is something powerful about giving children access to God before they fully understand everything being poured into them.

    Understanding may come later.

    But the seed can be planted now.

    Folklore

    There is a Caribbean saying:

    “Plantain sucker follow de root.”

    If you have ever seen a plantain tree, you understand the picture.

    New suckers spring up around the older plant.

    They grow beside what came before them.

    And isn’t that how children learn so much of life?

    Before they understand our lectures, they are watching us.

    Before they can explain our values, they are observing them.

    Before they know all the words to our prayers, they hear us praying.

    Before they completely understand faith, they are watching what we do when life becomes difficult.

    The next generation is watching the one before it.

    Training a child is not only about what we tell them.

    It is also about what we show them.

    Reflection

    Growing up in Jamaica, it felt like we had a church every square mile.

    Whatever denomination your family belonged to, whatever day you worshipped, there was probably somewhere nearby for you to go.

    And one thing I remember about growing up was that even when some parents did not go to church themselves, they made sure the children went.

    Saturday or Sunday, you were going somewhere.

    There was something about putting children in the presence of God that people seemed to understand.

    There was no separation of church and state that I have come to know in the US.

    Church was not completely separate from the rest of community life either.

    The people teaching us during the week were often some of the same people we saw serving God.

    One of my teachers, Mrs. Chambers, was also the pastor’s wife at my church.

    Before that, I attended a basic school connected to a church that was run by the father of the man I am married to today. We called it Father Gooden Basic School.

    Then I went on to what I thought of as a regular government school, and even there, faith and music found their way into our lives.

    We had choirs in school.

    We had choirs in church.

    We sang.

    We learned.

    And the songs stayed.

    There was a principal at my primary school who taught us songs that I still remember today.

    She died before I even graduated from primary school.

    I never forgot her.

    And I never forgot the songs she taught us.

    Think about that.

    She left this earth before I even finished primary school, but something she poured into me as a child lived on.

    There is also a song I learned in children’s church that I can still sing today.

    It talked about loving other children, caring enough to know your neighbor, noticing when someone did not have enough to eat, helping meet another person’s needs, and refusing to let the color of someone’s skin determine how we love them.

    It imagined what the world might look like if children led with that kind of innocence and love instead of growing into adults who hurt one another.

    And there we were.

    Children.

    Singing a song.

    But somebody was teaching us theology.

    Somebody was teaching us that loving Jesus should affect how we love people.

    To see our neighbor.

    To notice hunger.

    To care about need.

    To look beyond skin color.

    To value peace.

    At the time, it was just a song.

    Now I understand that somebody was planting something.

    And it stayed.

    Were there times I did not want to go to church?

    Absolutely.

    Were there things they taught me that I did not understand the purpose of at the time?

    Clearly.

    I was the teenager asking why I needed to learn sign language when I could hear just fine.

    But somebody kept teaching anyway.

    An older youth.

    A teacher.

    A principal.

    A pastor’s wife.

    A church auntie.

    At the time, none of them knew which lesson would stick.

    Which Scripture would come back.

    Which song we would still be singing decades later.

    Which movement our hands would somehow remember while sitting alone in a car.

    But some of it stayed.

    And that means even more to me now because I struggle with brain fog.

    I have been very transparent with you all through this blog, and for me, brain fog is more than simply walking into a room and forgetting why I went in there.

    I can wake up at four in the morning and think, I need to call the doctor and make that appointment for my daughter today.

    I know I need to do it.

    And then six o’clock that evening comes, and suddenly I am thinking, Wasn’t there something I was supposed to do today?

    Gone.

    Completely wiped from my mind.

    I do not know exactly what causes that for me.

    I do not know whether it is medication, everything my body has been through, or something else.

    But here is what amazes me.

    I can forget something I needed to do this morning and remember a song somebody taught me when I was a child.

    I can struggle to hold on to something new, yet remember something that was poured into me decades ago.

    Maybe that is part of the reason God led me to start this blog.

    Maybe part of it is preservation.

    Preserving memories.

    Preserving lessons.

    Preserving the songs.

    Preserving the stories.

    Because what people poured into me mattered.

    And so much of it stayed.

    That is also one of the reasons I incorporated folklore into this blog.

    Before everybody had access to books, before everybody could read, and long before we could pull out a phone and search for whatever we wanted to know, people told stories.

    Families gathered.

    Communities gathered.

    Stories were passed down from one generation to the next.

    Some people say Anansi stories are foolishness.

    I don’t.

    How many times have we used an Anansi story right here and discovered that hidden inside that funny little story was a lesson about greed, pride, honesty, accountability, wisdom, patience, consequences, or grace?

    Our ancestors were geniuses.

    I don’t think we give them enough credit.

    They understood something about teaching.

    Sometimes a person may forget your lecture.

    But they remember the story.

    They remember the song.

    They remember what Grandma used to say.

    They remember the Scripture they learned as a child.

    And then one day, life happens.

    And it comes back.

    So much has changed since I was that child growing up in Jamaica.

    The world has changed.

    Schools have changed.

    Churches have changed.

    The way we communicate has changed.

    The way children learn has changed.

    Technology has changed almost everything about how we live.

    But the Word of God still stands.

    It has been our rock through the ages.

    And we cannot become so caught up in everything that is new that we forget to pass on what has sustained generations before us.

    Scripture says:

    “The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever.” Isaiah 40:8

    The world may change.

    God’s Word does not.

    And that is worth passing on.

    There is another song I learned as a child called Pass It On.

    Even the title means something different to me now.

    Pass it on.

    Do not let it stop with you.

    Somebody taught you.

    Somebody prayed for you.

    Somebody brought you to church.

    Somebody taught you Scripture.

    Somebody gave you a song.

    Somebody told you a story.

    Now it is our turn.

    Because if we do not teach our children these things, what exactly are we expecting them to grow up knowing?

    We cannot neglect to teach them love, compassion, generosity, faith, and concern for their neighbor, then be shocked when those things are missing later.

    Children eventually become adults.

    They become parents.

    Teachers.

    Pastors.

    Leaders.

    They become people making decisions that affect somebody else’s life.

    One day, they will be the ones running the world.

    So here is the question:

    Would we want a generation of children running the world after we never trained them how to love the people in it?

    We cannot expect them to value their neighbor if we never taught them to see their neighbor.

    We cannot expect them to care about the hungry if we never taught them to notice hunger.

    We cannot expect them to look beyond the color of someone’s skin if prejudice is what they watched being modeled.

    We cannot expect them to choose compassion if compassion was never poured into them.

    And we cannot expect them to know Jesus if nobody ever introduces them to Him.

    That is why train up a child is not just a cute little verse for a nursery wall.

    It is responsibility.

    It is stewardship.

    They are going to grow up.

    The question is:

    What are we sending into the world when they do?

    So teach them.

    Model it.

    Tell the stories.

    Sing the songs.

    Teach them to pray.

    Let them see you pray.

    Let them see you apologize.

    Let them see you forgive.

    Let them see you serve.

    Let them see what faith looks like when life is good.

    But please, let them also see what faith looks like when life hurts.

    Give them love.

    Give them compassion.

    Give them truth.

    And above all, give them Jesus.

    Recently, I told one of my mentors that I was getting ready to bring a message.

    His advice to me was simple:

    “Give them Jesus.”

    I never forgot it.

    Somebody poured those words into me.

    And now I am passing them on to you.

    Give your children Jesus.

    Give your grandchildren Jesus.

    Give your nieces and nephews Jesus.

    Give the children in your church Jesus.

    Give the next generation Jesus.

    You may not see the fruit immediately.

    You may even wonder whether anything you taught them stuck.

    But some lessons sit quietly for years before we realize they are still there.

    And by the way…

    My daughter passed her driving test.

    As happy as I was for her, I found myself thinking about everything I had just been writing.

    I pray that somewhere along the way I modeled enough good driving habits for her to stay safe when I am no longer sitting beside her telling her what to do.

    And isn’t that parenting in so many ways?

    Eventually, they have to take the wheel for themselves.

    We cannot steer for them forever.

    We teach.

    We correct.

    We model.

    We remind.

    We pray.

    We give them Jesus.

    And then one day, they take the wheel.

    We just pray that what we poured into them stays.

    Because long after they have forgotten where they first heard it…

    long after they have forgotten who taught the lesson…

    long after they have grown up and gone their own way…

    we might be surprised by what their hands, their mouths, their hearts, and their spirits still remember.

    Somebody passed it on to us.

    Now let’s make sure we pass it on to them.

    Prayer

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God, we just want to thank You.

    I want to thank You for Your presences here with us today.

    I want to present every single person who is reading or listening to this blog before You. Father God, we pray that You will continue to attend to their needs. Attend to the aches and pains, Father, and the situations they are dealing with, especially the unspoken requests, Lord God. We place them all before You.

    Lord, we pray that You will continue to minister unto them in a special way. Let Your will be done in their lives, Lord God. If they have not already come to know You as Lord and Savior, we pray that they will come to know You for themselves.

    Help them to recognize You, Father, in the different areas of their lives. Let this be a season of celebrating You and acknowledging You, for what You are doing, both in secret and in the open.

    We thank You, Jesus. We cherish You, and we give You all of us, today and always.

    In Jesus’ name, we pray, amen.

    Bonus on the recording

  • Remembering

    Grace Across Heaven’s Borders: A Child’s Lasting Legacy

  • When the Excuse Sounds Better Than the Truth

    When the Excuse Sounds Better Than the Truth

    🎧 Want to listen instead?
    Press play below and journey through this week’s reflection with me.

    Hi I am Tameka and welcome to Grace Across Borders

    By 10:30 last night, I was done.

    I had been trying to take a nap since about 5 p.m. Between picking up my daughter, taking her back, picking her up again, and everything else the day demanded, these old bones of mine never got the rest they were promised.

    So when I finally started dozing off and my phone rang at 10:30, everything in me should have said, Ignore it.

    The TV was set to turn itself off. I was comfortable. I didn’t even realize I still had my glasses on.

    Then I saw the name.

    It was an old friend, and because he doesn’t normally call me that late, I thought something might be wrong.

    Nothing was wrong.

    He was calling, among other things, about my blog.

    He told me about a woman he knew and said, “Every time you send me your blog, I send it to her. She’s your faith. She’s Seventh-day Adventist.”

    Of course, I interrupted him.

    “I’m not Adventist, though.”

    I don’t even remember whether he acknowledged the correction.

    What I do remember is him telling me he was going to give me her number because he wanted me to start sending the blog directly to her.

    And there I was, half asleep, thinking I was going to wake up to Tuesday morning—because Monday was a holiday and apparently my internal calendar was still there.

    The blog was the furthest thing from my mind.

    Until that phone call reminded me:

    Tomorrow is Wednesday.

    Blog day.

    And somewhere between going back to sleep and waking up this morning, I had plenty on my mind.

    I was disappointed.

    There were some situations—and some people—I had been thinking about, and if I’m being truthful, I had already decided where the problem was.

    With them.

    I was looking at their choices, their actions, and the things I believed they should know better than to do.

    Then that old saying from growing up came back to me:

    When you point one finger at somebody else, three fingers are pointing back at you.

    Well…

    Apparently, God wasn’t interested in talking to me about them this morning.

    He wanted to talk to me about me.

    And apparently, He had a Wednesday blog after all.

    Scripture

    “And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

    And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.

    And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.”

    — Genesis 3:11–13

    Genesis 3 begins with something that had never happened before.

    Human beings had been given a command by God, and they broke it.

    The serpent approached the woman and questioned what God had said. The woman saw that the fruit was good for food, pleasing to the eye, and desirable for gaining wisdom. She ate it and gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate too.

    Immediately, something changed.

    The man and woman who had previously been described as naked and unashamed suddenly recognized their nakedness. They covered themselves. And when they heard God walking in the garden, they hid.

    Then God began asking questions.

    “Where are you?”

    “Who told you that you were naked?”

    “Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?”

    Adam had an opportunity to answer for Adam.

    Instead:

    “The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.”

    There is something easy to miss in his answer.

    Adam eventually admitted that he ate.

    But before he got to “I did eat,” he made sure God knew about the woman.

    And not simply the woman.

    “The woman whom thou gavest to be with me…”

    In one sentence, Adam managed to point toward Eve—and even toward the God who gave her to him.

    Then God turned to the woman.

    “What is this that thou hast done?”

    And Eve answered:

    “The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.”

    Again, the confession eventually came.

    I did eat.

    But first came the explanation.

    The serpent deceived me.

    And here is what makes the scene so powerful:

    They weren’t making everything up.

    Eve had given Adam the fruit.

    The serpent had deceived Eve.

    Those things were true.

    Yet Adam still ate.

    And Eve still ate.

    God asked each of them about what they had done, and each answered by first telling Him what somebody else had done.

    Maybe that’s why this moment in scripture still feels so familiar.

    Sometimes an excuse doesn’t have to be a lie.

    Sometimes it is simply the part of the truth that makes it easier not to look at our own.

    Folklore

    Long ago, in a folktale from Namaqualand in southern Africa, a tailor named Itkler discovered that his clothes had been torn.

    He knew who had done it.

    Mouse.

    So Itkler confronted Mouse.

    But Mouse wasn’t having it.

    Mouse said Cat did it.

    So the question moved to Cat.

    Cat protested.

    Not me.

    Dog did it.

    Dog wasn’t accepting that either.

    Dog said Wood was responsible.

    Wood pointed to Fire.

    Fire pointed to Water.

    Water pointed to Elephant.

    And Elephant?

    Elephant pointed all the way down to Ant.

    By the time everybody finished explaining themselves, Itkler still had torn clothes, but somehow nobody was responsible for tearing them.

    So the tailor took the matter to Baboon.

    He told Baboon what had happened and asked him to gather everybody together and settle the dispute.

    Baboon did.

    Mouse came.

    Cat came.

    Dog came.

    Wood, Fire, Water, Elephant and Ant were all called to answer.

    Surely, with everybody standing together, somebody would finally take responsibility.

    No.

    Mouse still denied it.

    Cat still denied it.

    Dog still denied it.

    One after another, each gave the same explanation as before.

    The blame simply kept moving.

    Baboon listened until he finally decided that if everybody was going to pass responsibility to somebody else, then everybody could experience what happened when the consequences started passing too.

    He told Cat to bite Mouse.

    Dog was told to bite Cat.

    Wood would beat Dog.

    Fire would burn Wood.

    Water would quench Fire.

    Elephant would drink Water.

    And Ant would bite Elephant in his most tender places.

    And according to the old tale, they did.

    The consequences travelled right back down the same chain the blame had travelled through.

    Cat bites Mouse.

    Dog bites Cat.

    Wood beats Dog.

    Fire consumes Wood.

    Water quenches Fire.

    Elephant drinks Water.

    And Ant bites Elephant.

    The tailor was satisfied.

    His complaint had finally been answered.

    But the story doesn’t quite allow Baboon to walk away looking like the wise judge who solved everything.

    According to the tale, from that day forward those creatures could no longer live peaceably with one another.

    And Baboon?

    The old story says that after delivering what it calls his “foolish judgment,” Baboon lost the privilege of walking upright.

    And from then on, Baboon walked on all fours.

    One torn garment.

    Eight explanations.

    Nobody willing to say:

    This part is mine.

    Reflection

    Before I go any further, I want to give you a little grace here too.

    The story I’m about to share touches on an attempted sexual assault from when I was a teenager. I won’t go into graphic detail, but I know that even the mention of something like this can take people back to places they weren’t expecting to visit today.

    So if that’s part of your story too, read this next part in whatever way is kindest to you. Skip ahead if you need to. Come back another day if you need to.

    The lesson will still be here.

    And so will the grace.

    For me, though, this is where those three fingers pointing back took me.

    I was back in high school.

    My parents had given me a curfew. I knew I was supposed to go home, but I was hanging out with friends and having fun. One of them suggested that we go to another friend’s house to chill.

    Everything in me said, Go home.

    Did I listen?

    No.

    There were about three of us, still in our school uniforms, and somehow we got into a cab.

    Looking back now, I have to laugh at that part. Where were we getting cab money from? We were high-school kids! We normally took the bus, probably hanging off the side of it. Yet there we were, pulling up in a cab—three girls in uniform who probably should have been home doing dishes.

    We walked inside.

    There were grown men in that house.

    And I had to fight one of them to keep him from molesting me.

    I fought physically. I fought mentally.

    I fought for myself.

    But strangely, through all the years that followed, he wasn’t the person I thought about.

    She was.

    The friend who suggested we go.

    I hated her.

    I blamed her.

    She took me there. She knew where we were going. She put me in that situation.

    More than 25 years later, I still couldn’t tell you what that man looked like. I don’t know what happened to the other girls. I don’t even remember one of their faces.

    But I remembered hers.

    Recently, her picture appeared on my screen as one of those social-media suggestions asking whether I knew this person.

    I recognized her and kept scrolling.

    Not because I hadn’t forgiven her.

    I had.

    But this morning I realized:

    I had forgiven her, but I had never stopped blaming her.

    And maybe some blame belongs there. I don’t know what she knew or what happened to her that day.

    But I know what belonged to me.

    My parents told me to come home.

    I didn’t.

    Everything inside me told me to go home.

    I didn’t.

    I never even asked whose house we were going to. I assumed “friend” meant somebody our age.

    And let me be clear:

    Taking responsibility for my choices does not absolve a grown man of his.

    What he attempted belonged to him.

    Whatever my friend knew and chose belonged to her.

    And what I chose belonged to me.

    Accountability isn’t saying, “Everything was my fault.”

    Sometimes it’s simply having the courage to say:

    “This part was mine.”

    And yes, this is coming from the same woman who is always telling you to give yourself grace.

    I still mean it.

    Ecclesiastes reminds us:

    “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

    — Ecclesiastes 3:1

    There is a time to give yourself grace.

    And there is a time to sit quietly before God and ask, “What was my part?”

    Maybe we need both.

    Maybe that’s something our children need to understand too.

    Sometimes when a parent says, “Don’t go,” “Come home,” “Be careful,” there is a story behind the warning that we’ve never told you.

    Sometimes “Don’t” comes from a place called “I did.”

    Some experiences are too painful to explain, so we give you the warning without showing you the scar that produced it.

    Maybe that’s part of why I’m sharing this dark piece of my past now.

    Not to reopen it. Not to expose anybody. Not to take responsibility for something that wasn’t mine.

    But after more than 25 years of knowing exactly who I blamed, God finally got me to ask:

    What part was mine?

    Another Scripture came to mind:

    “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

    — 1 Corinthians 13:11

    When I was a child, I thought like a child.

    I did childish things.

    Now I’m grown.

    But am I really?

    I don’t think I’m grown yet. I think I’m growing.

    And I’m thankful that God is still working on me.

    Which brings me right back to where I started this morning.

    Those people I was so disappointed in.

    If God is still working on me, I have to remember that He is still working on them too.

    That doesn’t make wrong right. It doesn’t remove accountability.

    But maybe disappointment doesn’t have to become condemnation.

    The enemy will use whatever opening he can find to distract us, divide us, and derail us from what God has called us to do.

    And maybe that’s something God has been showing me—not just this morning, but throughout this whole journey of writing Grace Across Borders.

    Give grace.
    Tell the truth.
    Take accountability.
    Forgive.
    Keep growing.

    Funny.

    I went to sleep thinking I didn’t even have a blog to write.

    I woke up ready to write about them.

    And God gave me a story about me.

    Maybe that’s grace too.

    A God who doesn’t excuse everything I do, but loves me enough to show me where I still need to grow—and gives me enough grace to grow there.

    So I’ll leave you with the question God left with me this morning:

    What is He trying to show you about you?

    Prayer

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God,

    We just want to give You thanks this morning.

    Thank You for where You take us and for reminding us that the journey of a thousand miles begins with just one step—one step of obedience, one step toward doing what You have told us to do and becoming who You have called us to be.

    Thank You for that phone call last night. Lord, I don’t remember 95 percent of what we talked about, but I thank You that You allowed me to pick up the phone. What seemed like an interruption became a reminder, and somehow You used even that to bring us here.

    I give You all the glory and thanks for the way You are allowing Your people to mature in You, learn more about You, and seek You more deeply.

    Lord, for every eye reading this blog and every ear listening to these words, I pray a special blessing today.

    I’ve been writing this blog for over a year now, and somehow You keep calling me toward something more than I ever imagined it could become.

    And Lord, I’m here for it.

    I’m here for wherever You want us to go, however You want us to grow, and whatever You want this journey to become. Give us the grace we need to endure all that comes with following where You lead.

    Continue to speak to us.

    Continue to lead us.

    And please keep us humble enough to listen.

    Help us to self-reflect when we need to. Teach us that acknowledging our own part does not absolve anyone else of what they have done. Their actions remain theirs, our actions remain ours, and ultimately, You are the Judge.

    Your Word reminds us:

    “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

    — Romans 12:19

    Lord, there was a reason those words stayed with me from the first time I heard them. Because if I’m telling the truth, there have been times when I had enough vengeance stored up for everybody and their mama.

    But You keep reminding me:

    Vengeance belongs to You.

    And then, Lord, You do something else to us.

    Sometimes after we’ve asked You for justice, when we see the person facing consequences, we find ourselves asking You to have mercy on them too.

    Maybe that’s another place where You’re growing us.

    Help us understand the kind of love You continually pour over us so that we can learn to extend grace without pretending wrong is right.

    You want us safe. You want us whole. You want us walking in the purpose You have for our lives. Yet we live in a world where the enemy looks for every opening he can find to distract us, divide us, and pull us away from what You have called us to do.

    So keep us close to You.

    Help us seek You in every area of our lives—even the places where we don’t think we need You, the places we think we understand, and especially the places we think we can handle on our own.

    Put Yourself in the center of it all.

    And when we’re busy pointing one finger outward, give us the humility to notice the three pointing back.

    Keep speaking.

    Keep correcting.

    Keep giving grace.

    And keep growing us.

    In Jesus’ name,

    Amen.

  • Grace in the Pause: Learning to Love the Sabbath

    Grace in the Pause: Learning to Love the Sabbath

    🎧 Prefer to listen? Click play below to hear this week’s reflection and follow along.

    Hi, I’m Tameka, and welcome to Grace Across Borders.

    This eight-week term, one of my classes has me deep in the book of Genesis, and revisiting the foundations of how it all began has been an eye-opener. Creation. Humanity. Sin. Promise. So many familiar stories, but somehow I’m seeing some of them with fresh eyes.

    Then this morning on our prayer line, we started talking about the Sabbath, and the conversation stayed with me all day. Maybe Genesis is the reason it hit a little differently this time.

    So, after finally finishing a paper that was already way overdue, exhausted and running on whatever little bit I have left, I decided to squeeze this blog out tonight.

    And all I can say is, I really wish today was Friday so I could look forward to my Sabbath day’s rest tomorrow.

    But it’s not.

    So here goes. Enjoy.

    Scripture: And Then God Rested

    Genesis 1:1–2:3

    “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.” — Genesis 1:1, KJV

    That is where the Bible begins.

    Before there was a Moses, an Abraham, an Israel, or even an Adam and Eve, there was God.

    Genesis tells us that God began to bring order to what was “without form, and void.” He spoke light into the darkness and separated the light from the darkness. That was the first day.

    Then came the heavens and the waters.

    Then dry land appeared, and God covered the earth with grass, plants, and trees.

    He placed lights in the heavens, the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night.

    He filled the waters with living creatures and the sky with birds.

    Then came the animals that would inhabit the land.

    And finally, on the sixth day, God created humanity in His own image.

    “And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.” — Genesis 1:31, KJV

    Creation was complete.

    But there was still one more day.

    “Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.

    And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.” — Genesis 2:1-3, KJV

    God rested.

    Not because God had run out of strength. Scripture describes Him as the everlasting God who “fainteth not, neither is weary” (Isaiah 40:28).

    He stopped because the work was complete.

    And notice what Genesis says about that seventh day: God blessed it and sanctified it. He set it apart.

    That happened long before Moses stood on Mount Sinai and received the words, “Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy” (Exodus 20:8).

    The rhythm was already there.

    Six days of creation.

    Then the seventh.

    Rest.

    Maybe that is why the word remember matters so much when we eventually get to Exodus. God was calling His people back to something He had already woven into the beginning.

    Work has its place.

    But so does stopping.

    And perhaps that is something we still need to remember.

    Folklore: Loosen the Bow

    There is an old fable about Aesop that I don’t remember hearing as a child, but it caught my attention as I thought about rest.

    The story says that Aesop, already an older man, was once playing with marbles among a group of boys. Another man saw him and laughed at him. Perhaps he thought a man of Aesop’s age and wisdom had better things to do than spend his time playing with children.

    Aesop didn’t argue with him.

    Instead, he placed an unstrung bow before the man and asked him if he understood why the bow had been left that way.

    The man looked at it but couldn’t explain.

    So Aesop told him.

    A bow cannot remain tightly strung all the time. If it is kept constantly under tension, eventually it will weaken or break. But when the tension is released, the bow remains useful and ready for the next time it is needed.

    The lesson was simple: even the strongest bow needs to be loosened.

    And perhaps we do too.

    Reflection: The Sabbath Was Never the Problem

    Growing up in Jamaica, I cannot tell you that I always loved the Sabbath.

    In fact, as a child, sometimes it felt like Sabbath came at the worst possible time.

    The best cartoons seemed to come on Sabbath morning. The games the other children were playing, the things you wanted to do, the fun you thought you were missing, somehow it all seemed to wait until Saturday. And going to church was not a question in our house. We were going.

    Then Sunday would come, and suddenly there were no good cartoons to watch. Many of the friends you wanted to play with were now getting dressed to go to their churches. I remember thinking how unfair the whole arrangement seemed.

    But something happened once we actually got to church.

    I was happy to be there.

    Sabbath School began in the morning, and church could easily become an all-day affair. We brought lunch, or the church provided it. We brought snacks for the children. We worshiped, ate, talked, laughed, and simply spent time together.

    There was a warmth about worshiping on the Sabbath that is difficult to explain unless you have experienced it.

    I remember friends telling me about going to church for an hour or an hour and a half and then going straight home. That was so different from what I knew. At our church, nobody seemed to be in a hurry to get away from everybody else.

    At the end of the service, the ushers would escort us out, and we looked forward to greeting whoever had brought the message that day. You shook their hand. You told them, “God bless you.” You might tell them how much you enjoyed the sermon.

    And if you didn’t enjoy it quite as much, well, you found something kind to say and kept moving.

    But you greeted one another. You hugged. You talked. You caught up. You lingered.

    That was Sabbath.

    Even getting home became part of the memory. I especially remember Brother Steer’s van, God rest his soul. Before we were grown and had vehicles of our own, so many of us would pile into the back of that van. We made room for one another because we knew it was a long walk to the bus stop, and nobody wanted somebody else to have to make that walk if there was room for one more.

    Brother Steer would drive along dropping people off. He would leave us where we lived off Spanish Town Road and keep going, taking somebody else closer to home.

    It is funny what you remember when you get older.

    As a child, I remember thinking about the cartoons I was missing. As an adult, I remember Brother Steer’s van.

    I remember the lunches.

    I remember the hugs.

    I remember shaking hands at the church door.

    I remember people making room for one another.

    I remember community.

    Maybe Sabbath was giving me something even while I was complaining about what it was taking away.

    Maybe that is what I missed as a child. Genesis tells us that after six days of creating, God rested on the seventh. He blessed that day and set it apart. The Sabbath was a gift before I ever understood it as one.

    People sometimes ask, “If you spend all day at church, how is that rest?”

    Maybe Aesop’s bow helps me understand that a little better now. The bow did not have to be thrown away to rest. The tension simply had to be released.

    Perhaps that is what Sabbath has become for me. It is the day when I can loosen the bow.

    But somewhere along the way, I learned that rest does not always mean sleep.

    Sometimes rest is simply putting down what occupies you for the other six days. It is stepping away from work, responsibilities, deadlines, errands, assignments, and all the things that convince us everything needs our attention right now.

    Sometimes Sabbath rest looks like spending an entire day at church, surrounded by people you love, without thinking, I need to hurry home so I can get something done.

    And sometimes, in this season of my life, it looks very different.

    Since moving here, I have not been physically inside a church building on Sabbath as often as I would like. There are Sabbaths when I worship online from the comfort of my own bed. I listen to the service, worship with everyone from a distance, and when the service is finished, sometimes I simply roll over and go to sleep.

    And you know what?

    There is something beautiful about that too.

    There is no guilt telling me I should get up and be productive. There is no list calling my name. I can simply rest.

    When I am physically at church, I may spend the whole day there and never feel the need to sleep. When I am home, I may worship and then sleep for hours. Both have taught me something important:

    Sabbath rest cannot be reduced to sleep.

    Rest can be found in worship.

    Rest can be found in fellowship.

    Rest can be found around a table.

    Rest can be found in laughter.

    Rest can be found in making room in the back of a van for one more person.

    And yes, sometimes rest can be found by rolling over after church and taking a really good Sabbath nap.

    The Sabbath was never supposed to be a curse.

    It was a blessing.

    I did not understand that when I was the little girl wondering why all the good cartoons had to come on Saturday. Back then, I knew the commandment, but I don’t think I fully understood the gift.

    And perhaps that is something we need to remember when we teach the next generation about Sabbath. Yes, teach them that God said, “Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy.” Teach them what it means to honor God with the seventh day.

    But please, teach them the blessing too.

    Because if all our children hear is what they cannot do, where they cannot go, what they cannot watch, and what they have to give up, we should not be surprised if they begin to see Sabbath as something they need to escape.

    Help them see what God is giving them.

    It took that little girl in Jamaica some growing up to see it. Genesis showed me that from the beginning, God made room for rest. Aesop’s little bow reminded me what happens when we never release the tension. And life has taught me that Sabbath is not something God was taking from me.

    Sabbath was never stealing a day from me. God was setting one aside for me.

    And maybe He has been setting one aside for you too.

    If Sabbath has only ever sounded like a list of things you cannot do, I invite you to experience the gift for yourself.

    Come, taste and see that the Lord is good.

    There is worship here. There is community here. There is rest here.

    There is grace in the pause.

  • Grace To Use What You Already Have

    Grace To Use What You Already Have

    🎧 Prefer to listen? Hear this week’s reflection below.

    Hi I am Tameka and welcome to Grace Across Borders.

    It’s Thursday.

    This blog is already late.

    I’m supposed to be preparing for class right now as I write,

    But this morning, my heart was heavy.

    Not necessarily sad. Just full.

    I’m still recovering from surgery, lying here with plenty of other things I should probably be doing, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to write this first on my phone while it is fresh in my mind.

    Maybe that’s because what God placed on my heart didn’t seem concerned with my schedule.

    And maybe this blog isn’t late after all. Maybe I’m writing it exactly when I needed to.

    Because this morning, I keep hearing one question:

    What do you have in your hand?

    So class prep will have to wait a little while

    But before I dive in, I want to say thank you so much for your prayers and well wishes during this season of my life. I am so grateful for all of my family and friends who have checked on me, prayed for me, and encouraged me. I am especially thankful for my husband and our children for everything they did to keep me grounded, cared for, and supported through the procedure and now through recovery.

    I don’t take any of it for granted.

    Thank you. ❤️

    Scripture

    Exodus 4:2 – “Then the LORD said to him, ‘What is that in your hand?’ ‘A staff,’ he replied.”

    Before we get to the staff, let’s back up just a little.

    Moses was born during a dangerous time for the Israelites in Egypt, because Pharaoh had ordered the death of Hebrew baby boys. His life was spared, and through some extraordinary series of events, he was raised in Pharaoh’s household by his own mom hired as the nanny.

    Years later, after killing an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew, Moses fled Egypt and settled in Midian. The man who had once lived in Pharaoh’s household was now tending sheep in the wilderness.

    That’s where God met him.

    At the burning bush in Exodus 3, God told Moses that He had seen the suffering of His people, heard their cries, and was going to deliver them from Egypt. And then came the part Moses wasn’t expecting:

    God was sending him.

    Moses had questions.

    Who am I to go to Pharaoh? What should I tell the Israelites? What if they don’t believe me? What if they don’t listen?

    Moses could see plenty of reasons why he wasn’t equipped for what God was asking him to do.

    And in the middle of that conversation, God asked a remarkably simple question:

    “What is that in your hand?”

    A staff.

    It was an ordinary shepherd’s tool, probably something Moses carried every day without giving it much thought. God instructed him to throw it down, and it became one of the signs through which God demonstrated His power and assured Moses that He would be with him.

    And that’s important, because the power was never in the staff.

    The larger story makes that clear. Moses still worried about his ability to speak and even asked God to send someone else. God provided Aaron to help him, but He did not withdraw Moses’ calling.

    That ordinary staff would later appear throughout Israel’s deliverance from Egypt, but it wasn’t Moses or the staff performing the miracle.

    It was God working through what Moses surrendered to Him.

    Maybe that’s why this question has been sitting with me differently:

    What is in your hand?

    Folklore

    Across the world in Chinese folklore is the story of Ma Liang and the Magic Paintbrush.

    Ma Liang was a poor boy who loved to draw and dreamed of becoming a painter. There was only one problem:

    He couldn’t afford a paintbrush.

    Still, Ma Liang drew.

    He practiced wherever and however he could, using what was available to him rather than allowing what he lacked to keep him from developing his gift.

    One night, Ma Liang dreamed that an old man gave him a magical paintbrush. When he awoke, the brush was there, and Ma Liang soon discovered that whatever he painted with it came to life.

    But Ma Liang didn’t use the brush simply to make himself rich. He used it to help those in need, painting things that could make their lives better. And when a greedy emperor learned of the brush and wanted its power for himself, Ma Liang refused to allow his gift to become merely a tool for someone else’s greed.

    The boy who once didn’t even own a paintbrush eventually found himself responsible for deciding how he would use the one placed in his hand.

    Of course, there is an important difference between folklore and Scripture. Moses’ staff wasn’t magical, and the biblical story isn’t teaching us to believe in the power of objects.

    Moses’ power came from God.

    But this old Chinese tale gives me a beautiful picture of something I needed to remember:

    Sometimes what matters isn’t everything you don’t have. Sometimes what matters is what you do with what has been placed in your hand.

    Reflection

    This week, that lesson became very personal.

    A friend has been encouraging me for some time to make motivational videos, and I’ve had every reason in the world why I wasn’t ready.

    What am I going to say that hasn’t already been said?

    Maybe when I feel better.

    Maybe when I have the right equipment.

    Maybe when the setup looks right.

    Maybe later.

    Then, while recovering from surgery, with my medication kicking in and sleep calling my name, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to make the video.

    Just do it.

    So I did.

    Then I went to sleep.

    Around 3 a.m., I woke up and looked at my phone.

    I was overwhelmed.

    There were messages across Instagram, Facebook, WhatsApp, Snapchat, and other places. Family, friends, and even strangers were reaching out personally to tell me how something I said had encouraged them or met them exactly where they were.

    Then yesterday, still tired and recovering, I recorded a podcast for my Genesis class.

    I didn’t even have to wait an hour for the grade.

    100%.

    My professor wrote:

    “There is nothing that I could change about this podcast.”

    His response gave me the push to make the second video.

    And again, people responded.

    That’s when I started paying attention.

    Because this wasn’t just about one video or one podcast.

    A teacher once took Grace Across Borders, which began as a class assignment, saw something in it, and encouraged me to keep writing.

    A friend kept encouraging me to make videos when I wasn’t convinced I had anything worth saying.

    People responded when I finally did.

    My professor affirmed something in my voice when I was physically at one of my lowest points.

    Then today, with this blog already written and me still wondering whether this was really what I should be talking about, I joined our 11 a.m. PUSH prayer time.

    And what did we spend time discussing?

    Matthew 25.

    A servant had been entrusted with something, but fear led him to bury it instead of using it.

    At that point, I almost had to laugh.

    Okay, Lord. I’m listening.

    There’s a Jamaican saying I’ve known practically all my life:

    “Tun yuh hand mek fashion.”

    Use what you have. Work with what’s available.

    Apparently, I could understand that wisdom for everybody except myself.

    But I also realized my hesitation wasn’t only about equipment or timing.

    There was a time when I talked openly about what God was doing in my life. If He answered a prayer, I talked about it. If He opened a door, I talked about it. I loved giving praise reports because I wanted people to know:

    Look what God did!

    Somewhere along the way, though, I became quieter.

    I heard comments like, “You don’t have to talk about everything.”

    It wasn’t one person, one comment, or one experience. I’ve talked before about other things that contributed to me losing pieces of my voice. It happened gradually.

    My praise reports became safer.

    Smaller.

    More generic.

    I never stopped seeing God move.

    I just stopped talking about it the same way.

    And perhaps that’s what God is doing in me right now.

    I’m not simply learning how to make videos.

    I’m finding my voice again.

    Jesus said that people don’t light a lamp and then put it under a bowl. They put it on a stand so it can give light to the house (Matthew 5:15).

    For too long, I worried about whether the people around me would understand, approve, or even want to hear what I had to say.

    But maybe they’re not always the audience.

    Maybe somebody I’ll never meet personally will hear something at exactly the moment they need it.

    And if God gives me something to say that could encourage that person, why am I letting somebody else’s opinion decide whether I say it?

    So I looked at my own hands.

    I have a phone.

    I have a voice.

    I have a story.

    I have Scripture.

    I have an education.

    I have experiences I didn’t ask for but survived.

    I have praise reports I stopped telling.

    I have a testimony.

    And before you think this is only about me, look at your own hands.

    What do you have?

    Maybe you can cook, teach, sing, write, fix things, organize, listen, or encourage.

    Maybe you’ve survived something that could help someone else survive it too.

    Maybe people keep recognizing something in you that you keep brushing aside.

    Maybe you’ve been praying for God to give you something while He’s been saying:

    Look at what I’ve already given you.

    Pay attention.

    Not every gift needs to become a business.

    Not every talent needs a platform.

    Not every open door means you have to walk through it.

    But what God has entrusted to you deserves more than being buried because you’re afraid, insecure, waiting for perfection, or worried about what somebody might say.

    And as if I needed one more reminder, before I finished putting this blog together, my sister-in-law sent me information about a Seventh Day Baptist media and communications internship.

    The deadline is August 31.

    So apparently, I have a few more days to decide whether I’m still young enough to be somebody’s intern. 😂

    I don’t know what I’ll decide.

    But I noticed the door.

    And then I discovered something else.

    Remember the class I was worried about preparing for when I started writing this?

    It’s tomorrow.

    Not today.

    And there I was worrying that following what was on my heart was putting me behind.

    I had to smile.

    I don’t know where all of this leads, but I don’t think I need to know yet.

    I’m grateful that I’m finding my voice again.

    And as long as God puts words in my mouth, I want the courage to say them.

    So maybe the question isn’t, When will I finally have everything I need?

    Maybe it’s the question God asked Moses:

    “What is that in your hand?”

    And once you’ve answered that, perhaps there’s one more:

    What are you going to do with it?

    Prayer

    Let us pray.

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God, we give You all the glory and honor that is due unto You. Thank You for being an on-time God and for never being too tired to hear from us.

    Lord, You deserve to be recognized, worshiped, and adored in this space simply because of who You are.

    Sometimes we look at what You’ve placed in our hands and decide it isn’t enough. Sometimes we even look at ourselves and decide we aren’t enough.

    Help us to see differently.

    Help us recognize the gifts, experiences, talents, testimonies, and opportunities You have entrusted to us. Give us wisdom to know how to use them and courage not to bury them because of fear or the opinions of others.

    Lord, whatever You’ve placed in our hands, we surrender it back to You.

    If You can use our words, use them.

    If You can use our stories, use them.

    If You can use even the painful chapters we would never have chosen, use them too.

    And whatever comes from it, You get the glory.

    Help us to stand on Your promises and step out in faith, trusting that You are able to do far more with what we surrender than we could ever do on our own.

    In Jesus’ name,

    Amen.

    Thank you for being here and for sharing this space with me. If this reflection spoke to you, please don’t forget to like, share, comment, and/or subscribe. And as always, feel free to share what God is placing in your hands. ❤️

    Fediverse reactions
  • Grace to See the Angel Selling Cigarettes

    Grace to See the Angel Selling Cigarettes

    Hi I am Tameka and welcome to this week’s Grace Across Borders. Before we begin I want to give a big shout out to my little big brother Jerry! Continue to enjoy the blessings of God on your life. I used a photo showing less gray hair to give you a little bliss.

    Let’s dive in…

    My husband often tells me something his grandmother taught him growing up. If someone is preaching and then offers to pray for you, no matter how they look, bow your head and receive the prayer. You never know who God may be using.

    There is wisdom in that which goes far beyond prayer.

    We have a way of deciding what someone being used by God should look like. We expect the pastor, the preacher, the church mother, the person carrying the Bible, the one with the title, the testimony, or the reputation. We expect God’s messenger to look like somebody God would use.

    But what if they don’t?

    Hebrews 13:2 says:

    “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

    That word unawares has been sitting with me.

    They did not know.

    Encounters like these may not be as rare as we think. Maybe we just need the grace to pay attention.

    And that reminds me of an old lady who used to sell me cigarettes.

    But before let’s look at the scripture.

    Scripture: Before Samson – Judges 13

    Judges 13 opens during another dark period in Israel’s history.

    “And the children of Israel did evil again in the sight of the LORD; and the LORD delivered them into the hand of the Philistines forty years.”
    — Judges 13:1

    If you have been following the book of Judges, you know the pattern. Israel turns away from God. Oppression comes. Eventually the people cry out, and God raises up a deliverer.

    But something is different in Judges 13.

    There is no recorded cry.

    Israel is under Philistine oppression for forty years, but the chapter never tells us that the people asked God for deliverance.

    God moves anyway.

    Before Israel asks for a deliverer, God is already preparing one.

    We are introduced to Manoah and his unnamed wife, a woman the text tells us is barren. Yet she is the first person the angel of the LORD approaches.

    “And the angel of the LORD appeared unto the woman, and said unto her, Behold now, thou art barren, and bearest not: but thou shalt conceive, and bear a son.”
    — Judges 13:3

    That son would become Samson.

    But before Samson’s story begins, his mother has an encounter she does not fully understand.

    She goes to her husband and tells him that a “man of God” came to her. She says his appearance was like that of an angel of God, but she does not know where he came from and does not know his name.

    Manoah prays for the man to return.

    God answers.

    Interestingly, the messenger appears to the woman again while Manoah is not with her. She runs to get her husband, and Manoah comes and begins talking with him.

    He asks questions.

    He receives instructions.

    He offers hospitality.

    And still, he does not know.

    Scripture makes sure we don’t miss that detail:

    “For Manoah knew not that he was an angel of the LORD.”
    — Judges 13:16

    Manoah was already in the encounter before he understood the encounter.

    It is only later, after Manoah prepares an offering and the angel of the LORD ascends in the flame from the altar, that Scripture says:

    “Then Manoah knew that he was an angel of the LORD.”
    — Judges 13:21

    Then.

    Recognition came afterward.

    Only after the conversation. Only after the instructions. Only after the encounter unfolded did Manoah understand who had been standing in front of him.

    Sometimes we recognize an encounter only after it is over.

    The Woman at the Stall

    My first experience with cigarettes actually goes back to childhood.

    My grandmother was a chain smoker. She could go through a carton of cigarettes in a day, although she rarely smoked an entire cigarette. She would smoke half or three-quarters of it and flick the rest out the back door.

    And we, her grandchildren, would lie in wait.

    Yes. We were doing exactly what we had no business doing.

    We would take turns retrieving those discarded cigarettes and experimenting with them. Thankfully, these were summer visits, and smoking never became a habit for most of us. When the summer ended, so did our foolishness.

    Years later, after graduating from high school, I moved to Hanover and enrolled in Hospitality Management at a HEART Institute boarding school. The program was supposed to last a year, but it was unexpectedly cut short after six months. I graduated at the top of my class and decided I wasn’t going back home.

    After a series of crazy events, life eventually took me to Montego Bay. I found a little studio apartment above a business and began working at the beautiful Ritz-Carlton Hotel & Golf Course when it first opened.

    I quickly discovered that my personality worked well on the golf course, and the tips weren’t bad either. Before long, I was promoted to supervisor.

    The promotion also meant long hours.

    By the time I finished work, there were nights when I couldn’t get a taxi from the square to my apartment. At eighteen or nineteen years old, I was apparently young enough to think walking home alone late at night was perfectly reasonable.

    Along my route, I passed a housing area. Outside was an elderly woman sitting at a little stall.

    She was there no matter how late I passed.

    She didn’t have much to sell. I remember mints and the only two brands of cigarettes I knew: Craven A and Matterhorn.

    I felt bad for her.

    Here was this elderly woman sitting outside so late at night trying to sell these few little things. I wanted to patronize her.

    So every night, I bought one Matterhorn, the milder of the two cigarettes, and continued my walk home smoking my one cigarette.

    I wasn’t craving it.

    I wasn’t buying a pack.

    I was buying one cigarette because I wanted to put a few coins into Grandma’s hands.

    We developed our own little routine. We greeted each other warmly each night. I bought my Matterhorn, and I continued on my journey home.

    This went on for several nights.

    Then one night, Grandma looked at me and said:

    “Little girl, you too pretty to be smoking.”

    I paused.

    And if I’m telling the truth, I was upset on the inside.

    Why would she say that?

    I was saving those coins to patronize her. I wasn’t a smoker. I hadn’t smoked since those foolish childhood experiments around my grandmother’s back door. I was doing this because I felt bad seeing her sitting there every night.

    I thought I was helping her.

    But when I looked at her face, I saw sincerity.

    And all I could say was:

    “OK, Grandma. No more smoking for me. Thank you.”

    And I walked away.

    I never saw her again.

    At first, I became concerned that maybe she had stopped selling. I was fully prepared to continue giving her the cigarette money and simply stop taking the cigarette.

    But she never returned.

    I had a friend who lived in the very housing complex where she had been selling. When I described her to him, he told me my description didn’t match anyone he knew.

    Even stranger, he sometimes came home late himself.

    He had never seen her.

    Yet night after night, Grandma and I had greeted each other warmly on my journey home.

    Who was she?

    I don’t know.

    Reflection: Who Gets to Be the Messenger?

    I have carried that story with me for years.

    Was Grandma an angel?

    I cannot tell you that.

    And yes, I recognize the irony of wondering whether an angel was sitting at a stall selling cigarettes.

    But perhaps that is part of the point.

    The Hebrew word often translated “angel,” mal’akh, carries the basic meaning of a messenger. The focus is not always on wings, halos, or the images we have learned to associate with angels. A messenger is one who is sent with a message.

    I cannot tell you who Grandma was.

    But I can tell you that night, she was a messenger to me.

    What strikes me now is that I thought I was the one helping her.

    I saw an elderly woman sitting outside late at night with very little to sell. I had a job. I had a few coins. So I decided to patronize her.

    In my mind, I was the giver and she was the recipient.

    Until she gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

    A message.

    And I almost rejected it because I misunderstood our roles.

    Maybe that is something we still do.

    We look at status. We look at appearance. We look at education, position, denomination, age, finances, reputation, and sometimes even someone’s past, and decide who is qualified to speak into our lives.

    We can become so busy examining the messenger that we never receive the message.

    Sometimes we are even afraid of the message itself, because receiving a message may require something from us.

    It may require change.

    It may require surrender.

    It may require admitting that the person we thought needed something from us actually has something God intends for us to receive.

    Manoah spoke with the angel of the LORD without knowing who was standing before him.

    Hebrews reminds us that some have entertained angels unaware.

    And an eighteen-year-old girl walking home late at night in Montego Bay once thought she was helping an elderly woman by buying one cigarette at a time.

    I thought I was there to bless her.

    Maybe she was there for me.

    This story had been coming back to me all week. Yesterday, during an appointment, I was asked about my faith, what guides me, and whether I believe in angels. Grandma came to mind. I shared the story and let it go.

    Then this morning, it came back again.

    While listening to the early morning prayerline, I heard reminders that it isn’t status that determines who can carry the gospel and that sometimes we are afraid of the message.

    And I knew I needed to write this.

    Not because I can prove Grandma was an angel.

    I can’t.

    But because someone may need the reminder that God is not limited to the messenger you were expecting.

    Your messenger may not have a title.

    They may not have a platform.

    They may not look particularly spiritual.

    They may not even realize themselves that God is using what they are saying.

    And sometimes, you may not understand the significance of an encounter until long after it is over.

    Maybe the question isn’t always, “Was that an angel?”

    Maybe the better questions are:

    Did I hear the message?

    Did I receive it?

    And what did I do with it afterward?

    I made Grandma a promise that night.

    “No more smoking for me.”

    I honored her message.

    All these years later, I still don’t know who she was.

    But I am grateful I had the grace to listen.

    And maybe that is the grace we need: not the ability to identify every angel, but the humility to recognize that God can send a message through someone we never would have chosen.

    So the next time God sends something your way, don’t be so quick to dismiss the messenger because of how they look, where they come from, what they have, or what they don’t have.

    Pay attention.

    You never know who God is using.

    And you never know when you might be entertaining an angel unaware.

    Prayer

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God, we just want to give You all the glory and honor that is due unto You. Thank You for waking us up this morning, keeping us in our right minds, and for the many blessings You continue to give us.

    Lord, we are humbled by the messages and messengers You have sent throughout our lives. Thank You for loving us enough to speak, warn, redirect, encourage, and sometimes send someone to confirm what You have already been telling us.

    I thank You personally for the messenger You sent me this week. While she was praying, Lord, I did not understand everything she was saying, but Your Spirit was confirming something in me. When she later explained the message, I may not have responded the way she expected because I was honestly in shock, watching how intentionally You have been working in my life. Lord, I am grateful.

    Today, I commit my family, my church family, my friends, and everyone connected to us through prayer, conversation, love, and support into Your hands. You know what each one is facing.

    Lord, send the messengers they need, but also prepare their hearts to receive the message.

    Sometimes we ask, “Why wouldn’t God just tell me Himself?” when You have been speaking all along and we simply haven’t wanted to hear. Sometimes we need another messenger to confirm what You have already been saying.

    Thank You for every person brave enough to speak when You call them, because it will not always be an angel You send. And when You choose to use us as the messenger, give us the courage to obey.

    Continue to guide us and help us recognize Your voice however You choose to send the message.

    In Jesus’ name, Amen.

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  • Grace is in the Neighborhood

    Grace is in the Neighborhood

    Hi I am Tameka and welcome to this week’s grace across borders.

    For years, whenever I read the story of Abraham preparing to sacrifice Isaac, I somehow read “thine only son Isaac” and pictured Abraham with his only child.

    Then recently I stopped and thought, Wait. What about Ishmael?

    I knew Ishmael was Abraham’s son. I knew his story. Yet somehow, in this particular passage, I had completely forgotten about him.

    That little discovery sent me digging deeper into what “only son” meant. But it also started another thought: How often do we look at what God is doing in someone else’s life and wonder, “What about me?”

    And that question led me straight to another story Jesus told, about some workers in a vineyard.

    Scripture: Matthew 20:1–16

    Jesus tells the story of a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed with them on a day’s wage and sent them to work.

    Throughout the day, he went back and hired more workers. Some came in the morning, some around midday, some later in the afternoon, and some when there was barely any working day left.

    When evening came, the landowner began paying the workers, starting with those who had been hired last.

    And he gave them a full day’s wage.

    When the workers who had been there since morning saw this, they assumed they would receive more.

    But they didn’t.

    They received exactly what they had agreed to.

    And they were upset.

    “These last have wrought but one hour, and thou hast made them equal unto us, which have borne the burden and heat of the day.”
    Matthew 20:12 (KJV)

    That verse catches my attention because their complaint wasn’t that they received nothing.

    They received exactly what had been promised.

    Their problem was that somebody who hadn’t worked as long, hadn’t carried the same burden, and hadn’t endured the same heat received the same thing.

    Suddenly, what had once been enough didn’t feel like enough anymore.

    Folklore: The Envious Neighbor

    There is an old fable told in different forms about two neighbors and an unusual offer.

    One could ask for whatever he desired, with one condition: whatever he received, his neighbor would receive twice as much.

    It sounded like an incredible opportunity.

    Until comparison entered the picture.

    Knowing that someone else would receive more made his own blessing difficult to enjoy. In one version of the story, envy becomes so consuming that the man asks to lose one eye, knowing his neighbor will lose both.

    Imagine that.

    He was willing to lose something just so someone else could have less.

    His problem wasn’t that he hadn’t received anything.

    His problem was that he couldn’t enjoy his portion after seeing somebody else’s.

    Reflection: He’s in the Neighborhood

    What makes the workers in the vineyard so relatable is that they weren’t unpaid.

    They were tired.

    They had carried the burden and heat of the day, only to watch people who worked one hour receive the same wage.

    Sometimes that’s where comparison catches us too.

    It’s not always, “God, why did they get it and I didn’t?”

    Sometimes it’s:

    “God, why did it take me ten years to get what they received in ten months?”

    I prayed. I waited. I cried. I knocked on doors. I stayed faithful. And then somebody else seemed to walk right into the very thing I fought so hard to reach.

    We can be grateful for our blessing and still wonder why our road had to be so hard.

    But the workers’ wages didn’t become less valuable because someone else received the same amount more quickly. What changed was how they saw what was already in their hands.

    And that brings me back to Ishmael.

    Isaac had a unique place in God’s covenant promise, but Ishmael wasn’t forgotten. God heard him in the wilderness. God provided for him. God was with him, and God kept His promise to make a great nation from him.

    Isaac’s portion was different from Ishmael’s, but different did not mean forgotten.

    Maybe that’s something we need to remember when we look at what God is doing for someone else.

    A few years ago, a sister named Sandy gave a testimony and said something I have never forgotten:

    “If God is blessing your friends, it means He’s in the neighborhood.” — Sandy

    I love that because it changes the way I look at someone else’s blessing.

    It doesn’t mean that whatever God gave them is automatically coming to me next. It means I don’t have to interpret God’s goodness to them as His neglect of me.

    And maybe that’s the real challenge.

    Can I rejoice when you receive quickly what took me years?

    Can I celebrate your open door without needing to explain how many doors were slammed in my face?

    Can I hear your testimony without comparing it to mine?

    Because grace was never meant to become a competition.

    My longer journey doesn’t make me more deserving, and your shorter journey doesn’t make your blessing less meaningful.

    And perhaps there were things God did in me along the long road that I wouldn’t trade now, even if I could have reached the destination sooner.

    And let us not become like the neighbors in the folklore, so consumed by comparison that we would rather hurt ourselves if it means the person next to us will suffer even more.

    That’s what envy can do when we allow it to grow. It can take “Why do they have more than me?” and turn it into “I’d rather neither of us have it.”

    What a terrible way to live.

    I don’t want to lose an eye just because my neighbor has two.

    I don’t want somebody else’s blessing reduced so that I can feel better about mine.

    I want to learn how to thank God for what is in my hands and still clap when He puts something beautiful in yours.

    I may have arrived tired. You may have arrived quickly. But we both arrived by God’s grace.

    And when I see God blessing someone around me, I want to remember Sandy’s words:

    He’s in the neighborhood.

    A Question to Sit With

    Can I celebrate God’s goodness when it shows up at someone else’s address, especially when their road there seem easier than mine?

    Prayer

    Holy, righteous, and eternal Father God, we come before You giving You all the thanks, honor, and praise that is due unto Your holy name. We thank You because, as You declared in Exodus 34:6, You are the LORD: merciful and gracious, longsuffering, and abundant in goodness and truth.

    Knowing who You are gives us confidence as we come before You today. Lord, as we continue to wrestling with this concept throughout the week, we pray that Your Holy Spirit will guide us, strengthen us, and keep us. Teach us how to respond when others are being blessed, even while we are walking through our own trials and tribulations. Help us to remain faithful, humble, and content in every season.

    Thank You for reminding us that even when our road seems longer than someone else’s, You have never left us, nor have You ever promised us an easy journey. Instead, You have promised to be with us every step of the way. Help us to trust You completely and to genuinely rejoice when we see Your goodness and grace at work in the lives of others.

    Keep us sheltered in Your loving hands and covered under Your tender mercies. Continue to mold us into people who reflect Your mercy, grace, and love.

    In the precious name of Jesus, we pray. Amen. 🙏🏾

    Thank you for being here. Take a minute to let me know if you are enjoying these. Don’t forget to check on your family, neighbors, and friends.

    This has been Grace Across Borders where we see God’s grace in everything.

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  • Grace, Grace, God’s Grace

    Grace, Grace, God’s Grace

    Hi, I’m Tameka, and welcome to Grace Across Borders!

    If you’re joining me for the first time, thank you for being here. Almost two years ago, I started this blog as part of a class assignment. As I wrote, I found myself returning again and again to the stories of the Bible and discovering how many of their timeless truths are echoed in folklore. What began as an assignment soon became a passion.

    Each week, I pair a biblical account, a piece of folklore, and a personal reflection, hoping to encourage others through God’s amazing grace.

    Before we begin, I’d also like to take a moment to honor my parents as they celebrate 44 years of marriage. Mom and Dad, congratulations! Thank you for your example of love, perseverance, and God’s faithfulness. May the Lord continue to bless you with many more years together. It is also my father’s birthday this weekend as well.

    Over the last few weeks, I have found myself in conversations with both my conference and my church about what comes next. Not before I finish school, but after. We’ve been discussing the path toward ordination and chaplaincy, and it has been an interesting whirlwind of information, prayer, and reflection.

    Through it all, I have been humbled by the way God has been leading me. Every conversation has helped me see the road ahead a little more clearly. One of the recommendations I received was to begin preparing my Statement of Belief.

    In full transparency, I have not yet heard back from my church, so I cannot speak to that process. But as my mentor began explaining what a Statement of Belief should include, I realized it was far more than a theological document. It is the story of how God has revealed Himself in your life. It is your testimony woven together with the truths of Scripture.

    As I listened, I realized something.

    God has been preparing me for this assignment long before anyone ever asked me to write it.

    Scripture: Grace That Silences Stones

    John 8:1-11

    Early one morning, while Jesus was teaching in the temple, the scribes and Pharisees interrupted Him by dragging before Him a woman caught in adultery. They placed her in the center of the crowd, not because they cared about her soul, but because they wanted to trap Jesus. According to the Law of Moses, she deserved to be stoned. If Jesus condemned her, they believed they had trapped Him. If He released her, they believed He would be ignoring the Law.

    Instead of answering immediately, Jesus stooped down and wrote on the ground.

    Then He stood and spoke words that have echoed through history:

    “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” (John 8:7)

    One by one, beginning with the oldest, every accuser walked away.

    When no one remained, Jesus asked,

    “Woman, where are those thine accusers? hath no man condemned thee?”

    She answered,

    “No man, Lord.”

    Then Jesus replied,

    “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.”

    Jesus never excused her sin.

    Neither did He allow condemnation to have the final word.

    That is grace.

    Jamaican Folklore: Anansi and the Magic Pot

    One day Anansi came into possession of a magical pot that produced whatever food he desired. Instead of sharing the blessing with his family and neighbors, he hid it high in a tree where only he could reach it. Convinced that the gift was safest when no one else knew about it, he climbed the tree day after day, protecting what he believed belonged only to him.

    As he struggled to climb with the pot tied awkwardly in front of him, his young son called out that it would be much easier if he carried it on his back instead. Embarrassed that a child had seen what he had not, Anansi became angry. In his frustration, he lost his grip. The pot fell, shattered, and the gift was gone forever.

    The blessing he tried so desperately to keep for himself was the very blessing he lost.

    Grace is different.

    God’s grace is never meant to be hidden away. The more we receive it, the more we are called to extend it to others.

    Reflection

    As I prepare to write my Statement of Belief, I realize I am not simply listing doctrines. Every sentence has been written by the grace of God long before I ever type it.

    When my mentor began explaining what a Statement of Belief should include, I realized it was much more than a theological exercise. He asked me to think about my salvation, my journey, and the experiences that have shaped what I believe. He reminded me that I could be as transparent as I chose to be, but that I should also be prepared to answer questions.

    As I sat with those words, I realized something.

    God has been preparing me for this long before anyone ever asked me to write it.

    Then, at about 2:30 Tuesday morning, before this blog was even due, I woke with one verse repeating over and over in my mind:

    “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.” (John 8:7)

    Immediately, I was no longer thinking about ordination or chaplaincy.

    I was back in my childhood church.

    I was old enough to understand what was happening. A young woman in our church had become pregnant. She was asked to stand before the congregation and publicly apologize. I remember watching her carry a burden that seemed far heavier than anyone should have to bear alone. I do not know what became of the young man involved. I do not know what consequences he faced, if any. I only remember her.

    I remember how deeply it hurt me.

    I remember silently asking, “He that is without sin, cast the first stone.”

    That moment has stayed with me for years.

    Recently, I saw a picture of the child she carried all those years ago. I smiled. That baby is now grown. Yet seeing that picture carried me right back to that sanctuary.

    Then another thought crossed my mind.

    How many young people, fearing public shame more than anything else, have chosen abortion because they feared church hurt? How many believed that hiding their sin was safer than bringing it into the light?

    My heart broke.

    Jesus never asked anyone to destroy a life in order to preserve a reputation. When the woman caught in adultery was dragged before Him, guilty and exposed, He did not throw a stone, nor did He hand one to anyone else. He extended both truth and grace:

    “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.” (John 8:11)

    May God have mercy on us all.

    Today, I cannot judge the people who were there. I do not know what they believed. I do not know whether they thought they were protecting the church or simply following what they understood to be right. Only God knows their hearts.

    But I do know what God was doing in mine.

    Looking back now, I realize He was already preparing me.

    Preparing me to understand grace.

    Preparing me to wrestle with truth.

    Preparing me to wrestle with my own story.

    Because there are chapters of my life that I have wrestled with for years. There are failures, painful decisions, broken places, and seasons that almost convinced me I was no longer worthy of serving God.

    I remember when I married my now ex-husband the first time. Our marriage was shattered by infidelity. Another woman became pregnant, and the situation escalated to the point where my life was threatened because she was determined to have my husband.

    In the midst of that pain, I turned to the church for guidance. I was told I was too young to divorce and that if I left, I would spend the rest of my life alone. I believed them.

    Then someone quietly opened the Scriptures with me and showed me what God’s Word said. For the first time, I realized there was a difference between God’s voice and the voices of well-meaning people.

    When my life was falling apart, I discovered that my final authority had to be God’s Word, not simply the most confident voice in the room.

    I chose to forgive and reconcile, but reconciliation requires two willing hearts. My husband eventually walked away, carrying burdens that were not mine to bear.

    The irony is that all of this was unfolding while I was answering God’s call to ministry. I had just begun studying Pastoral Ministry and High School Counseling at Jamaica Theological Seminary. On the outside, it looked as though I was stepping into God’s purpose. Yet behind the scenes, my personal life was falling apart.

    For a long time, I struggled to reconcile those two realities. How could God be calling me while my world seemed to be unraveling? I wondered if my circumstances had disqualified me from the very ministry He had placed on my heart.

    For years, I questioned myself. I questioned my worth. I questioned my calling. More than I questioned God, I questioned whether people would ever see me the way God did.

    Looking back now, I can see what I could not see then. God’s calling was never dependent on a life without hardship. His grace was already at work, not only preparing me for ministry, but sustaining me through the very seasons that made me question whether I belonged there at all.

    Yet every step of the way, grace met me when I didn’t deserve it.

    Grace carried me through seasons I never thought I would survive.

    Grace corrected me when I wandered.

    Grace opened doors I could never have opened myself.

    Grace closed doors that would not have been good for me.

    Grace has never promised me an easy road, but it has promised that I would never walk it alone.

    As conversations about ordination and chaplaincy continue, I am reminded that a title does not define my calling. A degree does not establish my worth. Even a Statement of Belief does not create my faith. It simply gives words to what God’s grace has already been writing on my heart for years.

    There are still parts of my story that I have not shared. Not because I doubt God’s grace, but because I still remember that young woman standing before a congregation, vulnerable in ways that could never have been taken back.

    Sometimes we say we want transparency, but we are not always prepared to receive it with grace.

    Perhaps that is why God has spent years healing me before asking me to tell my story.

    So today, my prayer is not simply for courage to tell my story.

    It is for wisdom.

    Wisdom to know what to share.

    Wisdom to know what to hold until God says, “Now.”

    And wisdom to remember that before anyone else speaks over my life, God already has.

    Before I ever write my Statement of Belief, God had already written His statement over my life:

    “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9, KJV)

    Perhaps that has been my statement of belief all along.

    Grace, grace, God’s grace.

    Grace that is greater than all my sin.

    Prayer

    Gracious loving Father,

    Thank You for Your amazing grace.

    Thank You for never giving up on us, even when we are ready to give up on ourselves. Thank You for meeting us in our brokenness, our questions, our failures, and our fears. Thank You for reminding us that Your grace is always greater than our sin.

    Lord, if there is anything I have learned through this journey, it is that Your voice must always be louder than every other voice. Help us to know Your Word for ourselves, so that when life falls apart, we will stand on what You have said and not simply on what others have told us.

    Forgive us for the times we have judged instead of loved, condemned instead of restored, or forgotten that we all stand in need of the same grace.

    Help us to become people who reflect the heart of Jesus. May our churches be places where truth is spoken in love, where repentance is met with restoration, and where broken people find hope instead of shame.

    Lord, as I continue to write the story You have been writing in my life for so many years, give me wisdom. Wisdom to know what to share. Wisdom to know what to hold close. And above all, help me to always point people to You and not to myself.

    Today, I also thank You for my parents. Thank You for blessing them with forty-four years of marriage and for another birthday for my father. Continue to strengthen them, bless them, and let their lives continue to be a testimony of Your faithfulness.

    May we never stop marveling at Your grace.

    In Jesus’ name,

    Amen.

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