When I take the time to reflect on my work, what I am grateful for every time are the relationships that have formed between two complete strangers. I would have had no way of meeting any of these families if it weren’t for my job, and there is no way I would be who I am today without them. 

In college I heard day after day that all change happens in the context of relationship. Change doesn’t happen when someone is lectured at, talked down to, or reads a handout. It happens in the long, slow work of relationship. I knew the significance of this concept in my personal life, but had little experience that allowed me to grasp both the beauty and vulnerability of walking alongside my clients. 

They find out they are pregnant, or they have their baby, and they let me come see them every single week. And life starts to happen. 

Their baby wakes up 8 times a night. They find out their parent has cancer. They feel the weight of depression and anxiety but don’t have insurance to access counseling. Their toddler starts having screaming tantrums on top of the forty other things they are stressed about. And they are brave enough to be vulnerable and share it! I get tears in my eyes thinking about how proud and grateful I am to know each of them. 

Each week my families open up their homes and their lives to me. It sounds cliché, but it really isn’t. Ask a parent—parenting is one of the most vulnerable and challenging jobs someone can take on. They consistently have people telling them what they should do, judging them for what they choose to do, and many times question whether they are doing the “right” thing for their child. 

I’m not sure they are aware of how much they have taught me over the last two years. They have shown me what it means to be resilient, to sacrifice for family, to find joy regardless of circumstance. I’m there on the mountain with them when they find success, and down in the depths when things seem like they won’t ever turn around. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it looks like to walk with the families I work with. Sometimes it looks like going to my car and crying for a Mom who feels like she has no parenting skills she can be proud of. Or feeling tears well up during a visit as a parent cries about a past abusive relationship. Sometimes it looks like coming home with fleas. Sometimes it looks like me ecstatically yelling “OH MY GOSH CONGRATULATIONS!” when a family tells me they are going to be living in a place of their own for the first time while clean and sober. 

I wonder who I would be, how I would act, if I never felt the full range of emotions that I have when I sit with my clients in the midst of their best and worst moments. I am a baby social worker, so I know I have so much to learn. There are days where the weight of this job feels so heavy, and yet there are more days where I am overcome with joy and gratitude that these families keep me around for all of it.  

I’ve heard it countless times. I’ve said it countless times! 

“I want to be a voice for the voiceless.” 

I would then think about how noble and amazing my cause was. *cue pride bubbling up to the surface in unhealthy quantities*

Before I get started, a disclaimer: I’m not intending to instigate conflict, or hurt feelings with the ideas I’m about to present. My hope is to provide an alternative way of thinking about that phrase and that become more intentional about when and how we use it.

When we talk about the “voiceless,” who are we most often talking about? Maybe people experiencing homelessness, children, people living in impoverished counties, refugees? We tend to describe people who are oppressed, vulnerable, and generally disregarded by a large portion of our society. 

Often they are people who feel unheard, unimportant, and powerless. 

Here’s the big scary question:

What if being ‘a voice for the voiceless’ isn’t actually helping them?

What if by being the one to tell their story, we are actually perpetuating a culture in which their stories are only taken seriously when told by a person of privilege, and they continue to be viewed as incapable, less than, etc.?

When someone feels unheard and a person with more resources, more education, more support, and so on steps in to be a ‘voice’ for them, the message they might receive is that they do not have the capability to speak for themselves. 

In conversations I have had with my clients I have learned that they know and can share their stories better than I ever could. I had a false sense of importance, like they needed me, like I needed to speak for them because they couldn’t. How prideful of me! 

Those experiences did the necessary work of knocking me down a peg or two (or 12), and elevating my clients to a place of competence and worthiness.

What if, though our intention is to empower them, or to help their experiences be taken seriously, we strip them of their power and autonomy?

Through speaking for them, we may be making the heartbreaking (and I would argue, false) assumption that they don’t have a voice. It’s a fallacy—by calling them the ‘voiceless,’ even when we don’t really mean to do so, we are communicating that they don’t have a voice. But that’s not the issue. They have a voice! It’s just that no one will listen to them. 

They likely don’t have the platform that we have; to speak and actually be listened to.

There is absolutely a place for advocacy, particularly in situations where it might not be appropriate or beneficial for someone to describe the trauma or struggle they have experienced. I know a lot of absolutely incredible people doing that work every day, and it is so beautiful. 

I also know a lot of people who want to tell their story, but have not been given the opportunity to do so. 

What have I learned from this process?

First, language is important. The words we use to describe someone, while well-meaning, can disempower and cause more damage in the long run. 

Second, that I have privilege. The kind of privilege where when I share something—a concern, a frustration—people listen and take the time to truly hear me. 

Third, that it may be more helpful to use the platform that my privilege provides me as a stage for vulnerable and oppressed people to stand on to bravely share their stories. Stories of hurt, of struggle, of injustice, of strengths, and of triumphs. 

I hope to always remember that though society may view some people as being voiceless, I have the opportunity to recognize their humanity, and in doing so empower them to use their voice and boldly tell their stories.

Disclaimer: this is me being super honest and vulnerable which is unbelievably terrifying, as I tend not to do things where I don't know the outcome. My hope in writing this is that someone might feel like they aren’t alone in choosing hope over apathy.

There are not many situations that feel absolutely hopeless to me. Even when it is just the smallest sliver, it is enough for me to hold onto when things aren’t going well. Yet what I’m about to share has been an outlier—something that has felt devastatingly hopeless for years.

I remember hearing my Mom scream from across Old Navy; pushing my fork around my plate, but not really eating anything; sitting at the funeral hugging my younger cousin as she, and most of my family, cried. While my 11-year-old brain struggled to process the unexpected death of my uncle, I had no idea what I would spend the next 12 years trying to comprehend.

I’m not sure there was any way for me to predict I would spend more than half my life in the middle of conflict & pain. Grief broke up a family, and it seems to be unrecognizable at this point. I have so many wonderful memories before the accident of spending time with my family—playing dress up and putting on “shows” with my cousins, going to Christmas Eve service together, countless dinners and BBQs—united, and having a blast. Yet after that day in July, things weren’t the same. What I saw was relationship breakdown after relationship breakdown. I don’t have answers to explain it, other than when people get hurt and grieve there is also the tendency to lash out at those closest. Yet instead of repairing those relationships, the wounds grew deeper and deeper, and what I thought couldn’t get any worse continued to get worse.

Rather than talk on and on about how things seemed to go wrong, I want to talk about what God says about brokenness, relationships, and fighting to hold onto hope.

“for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God…” Romans 3:23

All. No one is more sinful than another. No one is “more right” than another. We are all broken, we are all unable to measure up against our ultimate measure—Christ. I don’t believe God wants our response to this to be shame, guilt, or perfectionism, but rather humility to recognize that we will fall short, and so will other people.

“And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:7

Pain and brokenness is a reality, especially when we are talking about humans in relationship. Yet through Christ we have the gift of peace. This isn’t calm after the storm or the deep exhale found in relief. This is calm as the waves are metaphorically crashing over you, a deep exhale when you feel like your lungs are being ripped from your chest. Peace from God isn’t logical; it isn’t for times when it makes sense for us to feel it. It is for when your back is against the wall, and all you want to do is self-protect to find reprieve from the pain. When I feel this kind of peace I know it isn’t based on my ability whatsoever, because I simply cannot pull myself together as well as God can pull me closer to Him.

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” 1 Peter 4:8

Fact of life: people make mistakes. Colossal ones. We are covered with grace through the work of Christ, and we are not expected to be perfect— we can’t be. God doesn’t call us to perfection, but he calls us to love, and to do so when most people wouldn’t expect us to. When someone hurts you? Love them. When someone accuses you? Love them. When someone ignores you? Love them. Same answer every time, regardless of the sin.

“Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?” Matthew 18:33

The ultimate story of mercy. We sin, we fall short, yet Christ took all of that sin upon himself because he loves His creation so intensely, and He wants us to love and forgive just as intensely. This doesn’t leave room for “well they did this, this, and this, so they don’t deserve my forgiveness or mercy.” When we hold everyone to this standard, but expect grace in our mistakes and shortcomings, how does that display the love conveyed through the gospel?

“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” 1 Corinthians 13:7

All things. Love bears, believes, hopes, & endures. Through all things. My flesh fights against it, because that is not my natural inclination. It is far easier to give up on hope and give in to apathy and anger. I have been there. Oh, how I have been there. I love my family more than almost anything, and it breaks my heart to know the hurt everyone has experienced. The lie that I believed for so long was that I didn’t care. For years my expectation had been that there is no possibility for healing in these relationships. They are too broken, the pain is too deep, and that kind of damage cannot possibly be undone. Right? Well, I’m wondering if that might not be the case.

Here’s the thing. I refuse to feel apathetic anymore, because when I am being completely vulnerable, I know I want to see reconciliation SO deeply. I have peace knowing that it is not up to me, and that I don’t have to rely on any person to make changes, because I can pray and cry out to the One who has the power to change hearts for His glory.

God is so much bigger than the limits I put on Him. And from this point forward I will be boldly praying to the God of limitless redemption, believing fully in His power to do the seemingly impossible. Thy will be done.

I love listening to stories about situations coming together in a way that could only be by the grace of God. When a season of waiting or doubt concludes and people can look back and say, “Finally! I get it now.”

I don’t play the waiting game patiently. When I am in the midst of uncertainty I just want answers, I want to see how in the world God is working through these events that don’t make sense from my perspective.

I don’t think I am alone in this experience.

I am slowly learning how to trust in the waiting. I wish I could say that is because my faith is just oh so strong, but it’s mostly because God has continued to meet me where I’m at and reveal the ways He is leading me according to His will.

I just finished reading a book called “Girl Meets Change,” by Kristen Strong. IT’S SO GOOD, if you need a book recommendation. Something that really hit me is this. She says, “God is not idle. I don’t need to resent the wait. I need to hold on to the belief that what I see around me may look slow to move, but in it God moves in perfect time.” Mic drop. 

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28

The best example of this that I have is a lovely little thing called social work.

At the age of 23, I am 2 years into a career I didn’t know existed 5 years ago. Alright, time for a story.

As do seemingly all youth group-going teenagers, I went to Mexico every summer to build houses. Each year I came back and described it as “impacting” among several other Jesus-y adjectives, but so often I would come home and life would carry on. Same old routine, no lasting transformation.

The last year I went God did what he has a habit of doing, and broke my heart in ways that would potentially impact the entire course of my life. Driving through Tijuana to our campsite I watched out the bus window as we passed miles and miles of poverty and oppression while a rowdy game of Catchphrase went on behind me. I couldn’t understand why I felt so angry, so heartbroken, and so different than how I had felt in years past. 

Recently I found a journal I had written from that day, and one of the things 18 year old Courtney had written was this: “I realize now I was complacent with confronting poverty on a slightly occasional time frame. But I really can’t do that anymore. Seeing these people as people- not just a stereotype or a number- has made me realize I can’t live the rest of my life not doing something.”

And this dear friends, is the day social work came into my life.

No, I still had no idea social work existed, but I can see now that God used my anger over injustice and watching people not notice any of it to begin to orient my heart to noticing marginalization and brokenness, and the inherent worth of every person.

The theme from that trip was so beautifully fitting, “Truth breaks the hold fear has on us and love is our reaction. Let grace displace complacency and move our souls to action.”

That fall I went to George Fox as a psychology major. Shortly after starting I learned about this program that focused on addressing significant social issues, advocacy, restoration—all of these things that had so suddenly filled my heart earlier that summer.

This is the next “Holy cow God knew what He wanted to do and He orchestrated it without my even knowing it” moment.

Back up just for a minute. During my senior year I made the seemingly questionable choice to only apply to two schools— George Fox and Azusa Pacific. Spoiler alert, accredited social work programs aren’t super prolific, yet both of those schools had them. What?! What are the chances of that? Mic drop number 2.

The three years I spent getting that degree were wonderful, stressful, and shaping. And now that I am doing the work I feel so at peace with what I’m doing and where I’m at.

There’s something about finally ending up in the place God put as a call on your heart that just makes you want to give Him a fist bump. Like, “Nice work man, I’m glad you’re in charge of this whole thing and not me, because who knows where I would have ended up on my own.”

It seems like I am in a season of waiting with about half a dozen different situations on a fairly consistent basis. So often my prayer is for trust without answers, discernment & guidance without knowing the end to the story.

It’s easy to trust when you’re looking in hindsight. You see significance in moments that a few years ago held little importance, or were so devastating that you couldn’t imagine a time in which they could be viewed as for your good.

Yet God is there through every moment, doing the slow work of transformation to prepare our hearts for what He knows lies ahead.

“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD, be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” Psalm 27:13-14

Trust me— I know those days where it feels nearly impossible to see God working. Those days and I are dear friends. Whether it be the realization that you can’t fix your friend’s problem, you are deep in heartbreak, or are in a season of unwanted transition, you keep looking for some explanation—the why—but come up with nothing. And if you are feeling particularly brave you might muster up the courage to turn on NPR, or read about the refugee crisis, or walk through the “bad part of town.”

You brave soul, you. If you’re anything like me you go down one of two paths—your eyes start to glaze over and you begin to feel numb. Or you feel the hurt, and you feel it deeply.

Disengagement or engagement. One is certainly simpler than the other, and is also the one our culture tends to promote. To be engaged is to be vulnerable, to be open to brokenness and heartache, and to make space for confusion and questioning. I promise one thing—life is far more straightforward when I live in the black and white, cut and dry, and just do my own thing.

But as I allow myself to feel the immensity of the world’s pain, not ignoring it but engaging in the messiness of it, I feel myself taking steps closer and closer to the heart of God. Sometimes those steps feel more like an army crawl through some blackberry bushes, but they are steps nonetheless. If I am brought to tears by stories of trauma, loss, and brokenness, how much more grieved is the God who loves and cares for His creation infinitely more than I am able to?

I think often it can feel like you are alone in witnessing struggle. That’s the thing about hurt—it is so, so isolating. Yet I believe in a God who is ever-present, who knows more intimately about the pain of others than I am ever able to see. God is in the business of giving me more than I can handle. I promise this isn’t blasphemy, hear me out. It seems like the Church often believes “God will never give you more than you can handle” means he will never overwhelm us with the weight of this world. I wonder if it might mean that He gives us Christ and the Holy Spirit to take the burden on our behalf, while we step forward in obedience intentionally choosing not to ignore the darkness.

I know the hopelessness that can accompany opening your eyes to hurt. But like Psalm 27 states, I choose to remain confident that I will see His goodness in the midst of it, not in spite of it.

I see a mom who after being with two partners who physically and emotionally abused her—at times in front of her child—is in a healthy, supportive marriage with a man who loves her babies like his own. I see a woman in recovery after years of addiction, all because her love for her little one is stronger. I see parents who despite years of trauma are giving their son the childhood they didn’t have.

For all the horror stories, I could tell you just as many stories of moments where I sat in someone else’s living room and experienced the goodness of God in the last place I expected it. While I can’t be confident that these huge problems will be solved any time soon, I can rest in complete confidence that I will see His goodness today.