Powerful Water

John's Mountain, GA

Keown Falls

Keown Falls

My family and I went on a hike yesterday. We chose to visit a waterfall close to the Georgia/Alabama border. I had taken Sunday off to enjoy a long holiday weekend, so we reverted back to our Vancouver "nature church" mode. I had today off too but it's been really hard to feel settled or like I'm on vacation. It wasn't lost on me that my children, Philip and I went in search of water while so many are searching the waters for loved ones. Water is powerful - homes are lit because of the force of water, cars are washed away, our bodies are mostly water - and water can be destructive. It hasn't a conscience or decision-making ability - it moves where is can and takes advantage of land's contours. My junior high experience is marked by Hurricane Hugo in SC - I still remember collecting canned food and seeing the scars of Hugo's assault on my home state's coastline even years afterward. Ask my friends in Western North Carolina about the indiscriminate way water wields its power, and you'll find empathic voices who are weeping with and for our sisters and brothers in Texas' hill country. 

Holding these natural disasters within and beside our faith beliefs can feel tricky. I'm a pastor who completed four years of formal theological education and I admit these occurrences make me ask God a lot of questions. And that's OK - God welcomes our questions and can handle them. What I believe makes God ache is when we respond to people thinking we know the heart of God and we get it all wrong. For example:

-Please don't tell ANYone who has lost a child or a loved one that God needed another angel. That's theologically bankrupt and completely makes it sound like God depends on us, God's children, to keep God happy. 

-Please don't tell someone who is raw with grief that everything happens for a reason. That's bollocks. We live in a broken world with crazy weather patterns and selfish people who drive drunk and sometimes people get hurt or killed. But I firmly believe there is no way the God I've come to know would EVER make one of God's children into an object lesson.

-Please don't say that tragedy is part of "God's plan". This is much like the previous point, but I guarantee the God who loves us enough to entrust the rest of creation into our care NEVER put into the blueprints hurting the ones God called "good".

Here's what I cling to in times like these. God weeps with us in these tragedies - God plants God's self beside us and promises to never leave us as we walk through the waves of grief as they come unexpectedly and sometimes as powerfully as the waters that raged through summer camps and mountains and beaches. And I follow the instructions of the great prophet, Mr. Rogers:

"My mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother's words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world." 

Mr. Rogers' words are a balm for my weary soul in times such as these. And they remind me that water can be as peaceful as it is powerful. So, I share these images with you of the waterfall we sought out yesterday. In the heat and humidity of Georgia's July, this water offered a shady spot to sit and cool off and reminded me that the creation entrusted to us is teeming with power that not only supports life but can take it. And I pray for the families whose houses feel unnaturally quiet or empty tonight. 

Loving and Tender-Hearted God, 
There really aren't words to capture how broken my heart feels while I watch the images of Camp Mystic and the rest of the Texas Hill Country. I'm leaning heavily on your promise that Spirit swoops in when our sighs are just too deep for words. I know that we, your children, are no strangers to tragedy and crisis - we read about it in the Bible, we hear it on the evening news, we bear witness to it in our own lives. But this moment lands differently - when the cries of your babies and their parents are so loud and in the forefront. And they remind me that there are countless babies and parents whose cries I don't hear because they fall to the background. 

Draw near to them all, O God. Comfort those who are mourning, help them be brave and feel all the feelings that come in times like these. Buoy them with people who surround them and speak your love and care into the broken spots; offer them support through the quiet ones who come and hold their hands without even trying to speak. Make me your helper, God, so that I may be your hands and feet in this broken and hurting world. Help me be brave and see people, really see them. Help me be brave and remember each person I meet teaches me just a little more about who You are. Help me not to say dumb things and to trust silence as a healer. Remind me I don't know the hurts of anyone I come across so that I choose to move through the world gently and kindly. For our world desperately needs gentleness and kindness and love, so please use me to help make it happen.
Amen.

When Gratitude Leaks out my Eyes

 

It's hard to focus today - partly because the skies are grey and there's a coolness to the air that makes me want to be outside, not in my office. It's also because the to do list is scattered and in my brain, not on paper, so choosing which thing to do next isn't coming naturally. However, it's MOSTLY because I talked with Henry before I came to work today (thank God for technology that makes miles seem smaller). He's in Florence, Italy, right now - he's a lone traveler, staying in a hostel, in charge of entertaining himself. This wasn't the original plan, and the plan shifted substantially after it was too late to change reservations for flights. I worried with (maybe with him?), and definitely for him. Since May 9th he's been outside the US, exploring the world and connecting with new people. He's done a yeoman's job leaning into independence, adventure and adulthood, and I've had to practice what I've long preached about holding loosely the apron strings that once were tied securely around my waist. 

What has impressed me most? This young man, who I'm pretty sure will return to Marietta as a full-grown man, was the only male who went on a trip designed for education majors (tho he's not an education major) and knew no one in the travel group. The pictures of him with children he met and worked with show joy and a spark in him that can only ignite by traveling to lands and interacting with new cultures. I haven't gotten pictures of him in Italy as much - partly due to solo travel and partly due to 3G internet speeds - but I am oh-so-eager to see his slide show when he comes home on Friday. He's hopping a train to Rome tomorrow, he's enjoyed family-style pasta dinners with Australians, Dutch, UK, Canadian and African travelers at his hostel, he's reveled in the hills of Tuscany and awakened to the view of olive groves each morning. He's navigated public transport, walked the 5 miles back from downtown Florence to said hostel just to experience the journey, and listened when his body told him to rest. 

Henry has verbalized life experiences in ways that demonstrate how deeply his still waters run...noting the abrupt shift from communal travel to solo travel, naming the overwhelm of a layover in Milan with train challenges, figuring out he's more into seeing countrysides than shopping. He's becoming who he is meant to be, and I have the extreme privilege to bear witness to the process. I am INSANELY proud of who he is and who he is becoming. I've felt tears prickle the backs of my eyes for the past three days and the only thing I can attribute them to is deep and abiding gratitude. I am so very grateful to be a mom - and I'm even more grateful that I'm mom to Henry and to Lydia.

They're both people whom I'd want to have in my life even if they weren't my own and I'm stupidly excited to continue to know them as adults. They have level heads, appreciate the small stuff but don't get hung up on it, know their worth is not in things but in how they live among people, want the world to be more just, and are confident in who they are and not swayed by the whims of the latest trends. When I wax nostalgic about my favorite memories of them as littles, it's not in the regret that they're not little anymore sort of way. The nostalgia is born from having felt time literally slip through my fingers far faster than I ever imagined possible. But the hope? The hope is in being here to walk alongside them as they become. My mama told me when we first shared the news that she and my dad would be grandparents that parenting would be the hardest job Philip and I would ever have, and it would also bring our greatest joy. Turns out, what I thought would be the hard part was not a function of surviving the "terrible twos" or the "teenage years" - instead, it's how to simultaneously hold all the love for these two while allowing them to experience the realities of life.

Today - May 27, 2025, I can honestly say we've done some of this parenting stuff pretty well. Our children, read young adults, are proof that in spite of our rookie errors and missteps along the way, they're doing alright. The tears still prickle the backs of my eyes, my heart is still swollen with love and gratitude, and my life is so much better because they're in it. And come Friday night, the world will feel righter because all four of us will be under the same roof for the first time since December and I am really, really excited.

When I first saw the waterfall statue, it looked like he was cliff diving - thankfully that was an optical illusion! Seeing him in a scarf in a market was cool - he wore a similar scarf when he rode a camel to protect from the sand!

I've rarely used Life 360 on the kids - honestly, they probably use it more to figure out where I am. BUT - check out where Henry stayed! It looked like a castle from Google Earth's lens. SO grateful for technology that lets me get a glimpse into this trip.

Henry literally got to ROCK THE KASBAH!

En route to Italy through the Alps!

Our girl and me at Easter

I'm biased, but she's a pretty glamourous golfer if I do say so myself!

Savannah Bananas - bananas pretty much sums up the reality of navigating this one, beautiful life we all get. Grateful beyond measure!

Joy comes in the morning!

I'm posting my Good Friday reflection below - I was one of seven preachers on Friday night at our church as we each reflected on the last seven phrases Jesus uttered from the cross before his death. There's power in sitting in the despair and hopelessness of Friday and its power lies in setting the scene for the joy and hope that come on Easter morning. Lent is finished; resurrection has occurred. Death has been defeated. May your day, and this season, be infused with the kind of hope that can't be dulled by the weight of the world!

Good Friday is Good Because Sunday is Coming...

Do you find yourself trying to avoid picturing Golgotha? I try not to imagine the scene on the mountain where Jesus was crucified. The image of Jesus hanging on a cross, flanked on both sides by convicted criminals who’d been sentenced to death, makes me wince. It’s barbaric and unnatural – three men, stripped and humiliated, nailed to wood, suffocating under their own body weight. And the crowd that just stood there watching them die makes me mad. They were somehow convinced they were superior to the men hanging and dying in front of them. It should be part of a horror movie. Whenever I get to this part of the story, I prefer to focus only on Jesus. I prefer to focus on the way Jesus infuses tenderness into torture and they way he offers mercy even while he’s in terrible pain. Focusing on his tenderness and mercy offers my senses some relief. Jesus sanitizes the scene because in the midst of this supremely human experience, his response is divine.

I want to celebrate the criminal’s newfound faith as he asks Jesus to remember her when he comes into his kingdom. But what about the other criminal? I want to forget about the one who tried to put Jesus to the test and focus only on the one who was “right”. It’s easier for me to turn the criminal who was trying to save himself by trying to convince Jesus to display his power into an object lesson about trust and faithful living, but I don’t think that’s what Jesus did.

Instead, Jesus, in the middle of his suffering, prayed that God would forgive all the people who didn’t realize what they were doing. And then Jesus turned to a dying man begging Jesus to remember him and reassures him saying, “Truly I Tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” But what about the criminal who taunted Jesus? I wonder how his story ended. Did he get condemned for not begging to be remembered? Did God’s forgiveness stop short of the one who tried to test the reality that Jesus was the Messiah?

I’ve always clung to the idea that I certainly don’t have a place in this story. I would never do anything to put myself in the position of the criminals. I’m far too wise to land myself in that kind of hot water, aren’t I? Maybe you feel that way, too? The story I tell myself is this is a cautionary tale – make good choices, don’t break the law, don’t end up in court and lawyer up to avoid being sentenced to death. But, when I’m honest, I’ve been the criminal who begged Jesus to prove his power by saving me. I’ve prayed prayers that tested God’s providence, and I’ve made unrealistic promises to never mess up again if God would fix just one thing. That makes me no different that the criminal who tried to appeal to Jesus’ ego. While there have been times whenI’ve had the clarity of mind to beg for mercy, I am no less a sinner than the two convicted criminals hanging on either side of our Savior at Golgotha.

Every time we cling to a crowd who finds safety in numbers and assures each other the people around us dying and suffering have done something to secure their own fate, we’re no less sinners than the convicted criminals hanging on either side of Jesus. Every time we choose to remain silent because it’s more convenient than speaking out against injustice, we’re no less sinners than the convicted criminals hanging on either side of Jesus. Every time we turn a blind eye to those in need around us instead of seeing God’s image in each person we meet, we are no less sinners than the convicted criminals hanging on either side of Jesus. And no matter how many times we test our Savior and challenge him to prove his power, our Savior responds in his divinity, having already tenderly appealed to God to forgive us. When we beg to be remembered, Jesus replies lovingly saying, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Amen.

Prepping for Good Friday

It's a weird thing to think about preparing for Good Friday - which is decidedly not named to reflect the heartbreak and cosmic grief that day represents in the Christian tradition. Yet, it's my favourite service of the liturgical year in our church! I'm honored to be among the 7 preachers at the service again this year - it'll be my 4th year offering a 2-3 minute reflection on one of the seven last "words" (they're actually sentences - at the very least, phrases) of Jesus. This year, my assigned text comes from the Gospel of Luke - chapter 23, verse 43. This "word" is a response to a criminal's request to please remember him when they both get to heaven. 

Here's the scene - Jesus is hanging on a cross that's situated between two other crosses where 2 other people are hanging. The place they're hanging (literally - there are spikes in their hands and their feet, they're suffocating, people are beating them and watching them slowly die as if it's a spectator sport) is called "The Skull". It's a horror movie - there's blood, there's gasping, there are people who can't look away despite being scarred by what they're seeing. And the two men hanging on either side of Jesus (who is a true, historical figure AND the Messiah) are in rather a pissing match. One is taunting Jesus - "So you're the Son of Man, eh? Prove it - save us and save yourself!" (v. 39) The other is in the midst of a deathbed reckoning and is coming to faith - "DUDE - how can you be such a dolt? Can't you see this man did nothing wrong? I mean, you and I are guilty as charged, but this guy in the middle is innocent. Jesus - please remember me when you come into your kingdom." (v. 40-42) And Jesus looks at the man who's contrite in his last minutes of life and says, "Don't worry, you'll join me in paradise today." (v. 43)

OK - here's the curveball! Just a few verses prior to this whole exchange Jesus prays to God, "Father forgive them, they don't know what they're doing." (v. 34-35) This is the "word" immediately preceding the one I'm assigned and if I hold this word alongside Jesus' promise to the contrite criminal, I don't know that I actually believe Jesus is lifting up the one who sees him as Messiah any higher than the one he's asked God to forgive just a few verses prior. I've often heard this passage preached in such a way that made me think the taunting criminal was going straight to hell, and the one who saw Jesus as blameless and wanted to be with him was going straight to heaven. However, I'm really not all that sure... Jesus knows the condition of humanity and has appealed to God in heaven on our behalf to forgive us, offering not only his physical body as a sacrifice but also asking God directly to forgive our inability to see the truth. So, really, what I hear in this story when I hold the words together is that Jesus is making space for all of us to be with him in Paradise. Maybe that sounds heretical? 

It also makes me feel some level of comfort because I am 100% confident I've been the taunting criminal before - trying to test God as a means of protecting myself. I wish I could honestly say that I have always identified with the contrite criminal, but I KNOW that's a lie. When I consider the number of times I've been blind to the presence of Jesus right beside me, I'm a little embarrassed. I'm probably unaware of the times I've responded to Jesus right beside me with snark and disbelief. I'm going to be pondering on this awhile and reading up on commentaries to see what scholars think about the whole exchange. I wonder what you might think? Did Jesus admit one criminal to heaven and kick the other one out? When Jesus asked God to forgive the people because they didn't know what they were doing, did that forgiveness extend to these criminals too? Does it extend to me when my vision is clouded and I'm being sassy? 

3 Weeks Since Ash Wednesday

Three weeks ago tonight I stood with friends in church, smearing ashes on their heads, reminding them they were dust and would one day return to dust. It was powerful and heavy and somehow it was three entire weeks ago. Simultaneously it feels like it was 3 years ago and yesterday - that seems to be happening more and more often as I grow older. Time seems to collapse - my hair turning more silver than brunette and the little crow's feet that have appeared around my eyes seem the only giveaway that years have passed in what seems only minutes. I'm glad time's not linear when it comes to living - I find its 3-D nature does more justice to the textured layers of experiences that become swells of memories with the power to lift us up and lay us flat.

And today I read in one of the writing blogs I subscribed to the words:

"even in the dark, we are alive"

Perhaps that's why beginning the season of Lent remembering our mortality is the best way to start this season of pensive reflection. We're preparing for the literal ground shaking events that culminate in resurrection. Spending time in the reality that we're finite and will return to dust is dark. Yet even in the darkness of that truth, we are alive. Spending a semester in a hospital chaplain setting made me see how different being alive is from living. On this side of the grave, I intend to be about the work and joy and 3D layers of living because I am from dust and to dust, I will return. I want to travel a full 360-degree journey between my dusty beginning and end. I want to squeeze every ounce out of this life as a catapult into the next. Twenty-one days into this 40-day journey and I'm realizing that stripping down to basics as a means of communion with creation is really a wakeup call for all the senses. There's more to see and hear and taste and touch and smell in this world which I was dreamed into than I'll ever be able to absorb - so I better get to it. I want to slide into my eternal dust with flair - knowing I've felt deeply, loved authentically, lived intentionally, and noticed every little detail set before me. If we are fully alive in the darkness, imagine what the light will bring.

Lent - Week 3; Official Post 5ish...but there's more to the story

Sunday (two days ago) was Children's and Youth Sunday at our church. It was GLORIOUS and watching preschoolers and elementary kiddos and youth lead worship reminded me of how quickly time passes.

Y'all - this was on vacation at least 15 years ago but I swear it was 15 minutes ago...

I record this fact because, while I didn't write a blog post daily, I DID write daily - and the writing consisted of liturgy and approximately 6 drafts of the sermon I gave at 8:30 worship, and a 7th draft that made its debut at 11am worship. Publicly confessing this feels like a mea culpa, but when I got to feeling really slack about keeping up with my proclaimed Lenten practice, it dawned on me that writing doesn't have to look the same way every day. Then I felt better acknowledging I'd engaged in quiet reflection and spent time grounded in God's presence despite not having a daily 'product'. Isn't that a sign of the times - thinking we have to produce something to "get credit" for following through? What a silly half-truth I told myself for the entirety of last week! Presence is the more important part of this practice notion, I've decided. Taking time to slow down, be fully present in the moment, savoring each word that appears on the page and wondering if it's just the right one, that's the practice. The product, perhaps, comes after we've practiced enough to feel like we've approximated capturing exactly the image/feeling/thought springing up from within.

Yesterday I wrote a newsletter for parents of children and in it I suggested a few ways to help make Lent more concrete for minds that aren't quite ready to deal with abstractions. Funny enough, the concrete suggestions are what jolted me into realizing the power that comes from practice. It reminded me that the earth gives us clues about how to move through liturgical seasons and what a privilege it was to bear witness to some of them on Saturday when I played in our yard and cleared out flower beds. I discovered the bare winter ground that had just months before let go of last year's growth and taken time to shed its old skin was making space for this year's springtime blooms. Seeing little stalks of Hosta peeking through the soil made me slow down and walk more carefully, so as not to step on them. Clearing out leaves from a flower bed revealed the lilies we planted two years ago had multiplied and made me slow down and use the rake a little gentler. I also discovered the harsh freezes we had this winter killed seven hydrangeas we planted last year, so I pulled them up and slowed down to grieve their loss a little.

Being outside in the sunshine, amid the new growth, clearing out the old growth, was a reminder that I have to do those same things internally, too. The world is harsh, just like those winter freezes, and it's taken some beauty away in the past year. AND - the world is surprising and beautiful and resilient, with miracles to celebrate all around us. This Sunday's Children's/Youth Sunday was the perfect reminder of miracles during this season of pruning and preparation. The new life that buzzed in our worship space was a tangible experience of the renewal we are preparing for at Easter. The practice of pruning and preparation, while laden with hard emotions and experiences, makes the new growth, blooms, and resurrections all the more meaningful. As a diehard preschool teacher to my core - last week reminded me it's so much more about the process than the product - as a worship leader, a mama, a yard lady, and a human. My prayer is that I do better at slowing down, remembering that truth and giving myself, and other people, more space to lean into the process. May it be so.

Lent Day Something; Post #4 or #5?

We're in the messy middle of a season - the space where I lose track of what day it is or whether I ate lunch. But I was stopped dead in my tracks by the subject of an email from one of those writers' blogs I joined a few weeks back for inspiration and accountability:

How do you deal with being seen?

It's a question that came from one of the author's subscribers who'd just gotten a piece accepted for publication (cue my envy...and the realization I must submit entries for consideration to be accepted for publication). Their excitement about having achieved a goal was tempered by the anxiety that lives on the flip side of excitement's coin - anxiety fueled by self-doubt and imposter syndrome. It's a coin I know well as someone who still kinda chokes on the words, "I'm one of the pastors at our church..." I put off for YEARS embracing this call - you'd think that by now I'd be able to stand tall and confidently claim what my diplomas and the certificate from the denomination affirm (in calligraphy, no less). And yet - I find myself feeling really vulnerable when I consider being seen as a pastor.

How can I call myself a pastor when I lost my marbles after scrubbing the same person's crumbs off the kitchen counter for the 975th time in 24 hours? How can I call myself a pastor when, if I'm being completely honest, I cuss with some regularity? How can I call myself a pastor when I just want to turn off all the sounds and hibernate away from people?

It turns out this email paired well with a podcast I just started listening to - I started it from the very beginning even though it has almost 300 episodes. It's called The Bible for Normal People and I LOVE IT (only one episode in) - 10 out of 10, highly recommend! Because we're all just normal people, no? And Rob Bell was their first guest - I like him a lot, too. He lifted up that when Jesus self-identifies, he most readily refers to himself as the Son of Man, not the Son of God - Jesus himself leaned into his own humanity. I suppose if it's good enough for Jesus, then Meri Kate should take a lesson from him, eh?

How do you deal with being seen? 

That's a question that's going to stick to my ribs for a while. I need to let it soak into my bones and take up space in me because I believe in its profundity. Tonight, my prayer is that I seek to truly see people I encounter, to see myself honestly, and to practice responding well when I feel seen by others.