My husband and I have become collectors of pottery over the years—bowls, mugs, pitchers, chalices, and patens.
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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.
There are seasons when God invites us not just to move forward, but to prepare—to loosen our grip on what has been and to open our hearts to what is becoming.