My husband and I have become collectors of pottery over the years—bowls, mugs, pitchers, chalices, and patens.
My first pastoral appointment out of seminary was a tiny church tucked deep in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
I live with an artist. Which means I also live with canvases in various stages of becoming—brushstrokes that look like riddles, sketches taped to walls, color palettes smudged on every available surface.
The other day in a checkout line, I noticed a stranger—nothing special, just a person waiting with the rest of us.
Every year for about a decade now, one of my Epiphany traditions has been offering every member of the congregation a single word—a “star gift.”
There are so many ways to start a story. “Once upon a time…” “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”
Isn’t it remarkable how kind we can be to strangers? We bump into someone at the grocery store and immediately say, “Excuse me.”
When I think of “the body of Christ,” my mind naturally goes to my local congregation—the people I worship with each Sunday, serve alongside in ministry, and gather with for prayer.
Sometimes I look at my life and see a quilt still in the making—threads of joy and sorrow, triumph and trial, all woven together in ways I don’t fully understand.