Returning to Myself (Title credit: Brandi Carlile)

I've spent some time with modern prophets the last 2 days - Brandi Carlile and Brene Brown, specifically. I'm living a story right now that I never imagined would be mine and the part I'm willing to share at the moment is that my children turned 18 & 21, I turned 50 and I now have a cardiologist in the last 9 months. Another pertinent detail for this wee missive is that I'm practicing setting boundaries and realizing I can be brave. In my heart I'm a caretaker - Sister Brene helped me realize today the difference between empathy and enmeshment - turns out I've conflated the two on more than one occasion. And this whole enmeshment bit makes me tired - the way I understood her description in the June 18th podcast episode with Adam Grant on The Curiosity Shop: The Highest Performance Strategy is Caring About People (featuring Simon Sinek - also a prophet) is this: EMPATHY - someone calls you and they're in a hard place, empathy is hearing them, really seeing them and their hurt/distress, and walking alongside them in a supportive role whereas ENMESHMENT - someone calls you from a hard place and you crawl smack down in the middle of their hard place and take their hurt and distress into your own self and end up with both of you in a hard place. Yall - I was listening to this episode while driving and these words hit me so hard I almost had to pull over on I-85 and take a moment. I know I've jumped headlong into enmeshment before, straight up thinking it was empathy. IT WAS NOT! WHOA. This was the SECOND mindblowing realization Sister Brene had given me in less than 24 hours. The first stemmed from her conversation with Susan Cain who wrote Quiet, (which I LOVED and cannot recommend highly enough), and Susan has also written Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make us Whole [arriving soon from my friends at The Brown Dog Bookshop right in my back yard]. Their conversation spoke to the reality that joy is richer when we hold it in tension with brokenness [listen to Part 1 of their conversation from the Unlocking Us podcast HERE and be sure to listen to Part 2 as well]. Their conversation helped me understand myself, my affinity for music that reaches to the core of my heart and simultaneously breaks and heals it, and how looking for shards of light promises a bounty of gratitude. I immediately thought of the music of Jann Arden and Maura O'Connell, Brown and Cain spoke of the great Leonard Cohen, and my thoughts then turned to Sister Brandi.

Having experienced enough brain pyrotechnics through the podcast realm, it was time to lean into this sorrow and longing and wholeness - my newly adopted through line for 2026 so far. I needed musical wisdom, so I plugged "The Best of Brandi Carlile" into my Spotify search bar and hit shuffle. About 70 miles from the house, the most beautiful album cover appeared on the screen:

The shuffled song played and this image of Sister Brandi and the song (and album) title appeared: Returning to Myself. Just like that, three words captured the work I've been doing for a really long time now. The irony? The lyrics of Returning to Myself speak to this deeply personal work being possible only in community. What a powerful reality. Naturally, I got home and have been on a deep dive into the lyrics of all of the album's songs and I've found a little bit of myself in each and every one of them. This world is beautiful and brutal, full of great light and unfathomable shadows, deep pain and overwhelming joy. We're living in both/and times and somehow, I have to remember to make space for myself to accept and embrace everything on either side of the AND. Boundaries and openness, grief and gratitude, rest and adventure, hope and sorrow - the bittersweetness of it all is indeed what makes us whole. 

I spent last night with my mom and dad. Mama and I had lunch and explored a consignment store and mom and pop shops. My nephew and brother-in-law stopped by to drop off the headboard they'd been storing for Lydia's dorm room in the making. My cousin stopped by after he had visited his mom and then he spent the night, too. I woke up this morning and enjoyed leisurely coffee and summertime breakfast BLTs while visiting with mama about all that 2026 has already brought while anticipating the swirl of August on the horizon. Henry happened to call my parents to say hello and didn't even know I was there - we visited over speaker phone as he preps to leave for his ROTC camp in 3 days. Lydia called me to fill me in on all the Montreat fun she's having. Community. Family. 

There's been a lump in the back of my throat for over a week now - like tears want to come but aren't quite ready. I think they're confused about their purpose and aren't sure if they want to fall as grief or as gratitude. It's OK - I can wait. I know they're coming in their baptismal glory at some point and that they'll help me feel washed clean and allow me to rest deeply. I spent several years trying to keep tears at bay but now they feel like a balm - I think it's because I'm not trying to hide them. I've accepted their role in my both/and world and I've accepted that my humanity is richer when I show up completely. I'm working on accepting empathy and I'm working on being empathetic without being enmeshed. What a gift to walk in curiosity no matter my age. It took a half century, but it feels like some pearls of wisdom are beginning to take shape. I leave this post with the lyrics of Brandi Carlile's "Human" from her latest album - may we all feel...oh...feel. 

Human - Brandi Carlile

Baby, you're only gonna hurt your back
Looking down like that, cut yourself a little more slack
Baby, you're gonna have a heart attack
And they won't thank you, they don't make awards for that

We know by now that time does not take sides

We're only human
I don't need to see how to it ends

To tell you that we'll never be here again
We're only human
I just wanna feel my face in the sun
I never really wanted to hurt anyone
Forever only means we had a good run
We don't need to know to right now
It's hard enough being human

It's not like we're ever really gonna learn
And I'm no angel, I know we're gonna watch it burn
And, baby, there isn't anywhere to run
And I won't blame you for seeing all the beauty in a wildfire sun

Tomorrow isn't nothing but a game that we used to play

And we're only human
I don't need to see how it ends
To tell you that we'll never be here again
Babe, we're only human
I just wanna feel my face in the sun
I never really wanted to hurt anyone
Forever only means we had a good run
We don't need to know to right now
It's hard enough being human

We don't need to know right now
It's hard enough being human

Baby, when you wake up, and it wasn't a dream
And you're tired of crying, you're too broken to scream
Shake your fist at the city, let it rip at the seams
Be human
You're gonna hammer the street with your hands and your feet
Let the bitterness die, fall in time to the beat
When you look in the eyes of the strangers you meet
Be human

Feel
Oh
Feel

When in Rome...

 It's rather surreal to even type the words "When in Rome..." but to live them is even more absurd. I arrived in Italy five days ago and am convinced I'm meant to live here immediately. Someone please send my children and clothing to me - forwarding address TBD. I came here to write with a poet - I've never had a favourite poet before and now I'm galivanting in Tuscany and writing under the tutelage of my poet friend. This is real - I know it because I change clothes each day, take a shower, pick out which shoes to wear and have words down on paper I didn't have before. It's a good thing I have proof for otherwise I wouldn't believe myself. 

I flew into Rome 2 days prior to our writing meetup - partly because the flight was a lot cheaper and partly because I wanted a couple of days to adjust to the time change so I could be fully present for this writing retreat. In those 2 days I amassed 40,000 steps and seeing, in person, many a sight I'd only thought of seeing in movies. Rome is a LOT. A lot of people, a lot of cars, a lot of pasta, a lot of shops, a lot of steps. The little pieces of it blew me away. I walked in St. Peter's Square, took in the Sistine Chapel and the story of creation on its ceiling by a little artist names Michelangelo - I may have snuck a photo despite there being rules against it. I'm a rebel like that, I suppose. I ate gelato and had my breakfast delivered to my room each morning at my B&B (hello croissants with nutella!). I happened upon the Spanish Steps and ventured beside the Trevi Fountain (dear God, the CROWDS), en route to the Papal Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore - I had no idea it was the final resting place of the late Pope Francis. I sat in the worship space and let it wash over me. I worshiped and received communion at St. Andrew's Church of Scotland in Rome - the only PCUSA-ish church in Italy now - on World Communion Sunday. Perfecto! I worshiped alongside a South Sudanese Embassy worker, a Benedictine Anglican monk from England, a family from the Netherlands and a gentleman from London. I let the Spirit guide me and She didn't disappoint. I've eaten pasta and more pasta, enjoyed negronis and red wine, eaten Greek food (is that even legal in Rome?) and then traveled back to Fiumicino Airport to meeting up with my writing cohort. [pix on Facebook, but to be added here later]

It was nice after a few days of solo travel and centering to connect with others and abdicate the role of being "in charge". We boarded our vans and headed two hours north to Citta della Pieve on the Perugian/Umbrian border in Tuscany. We stopped at a roadside "convenience store" for lunch - where naturally they served fresh cooked pasta, beautiful salads and my choice - prosciutto, mozzarella and tomatoes. After an adventure in fork procurement and visiting the condiment station outfitted with olive oil and balsamic vinegar packets, my cohort and I enjoyed a lovely meal and some community building. [pix coming - it's getting late and I must sleep]

Arrival in Citta della Pieve was nothing short of supernatural. It's a medieval town laid out in the shape of an eagle and we were escorted to our lovely Italian villa turned hotel - the vistas are as breathtaking as TV made them out to be, the people lovely, the company a gift. We settled in, visited our writing studio for a bit and set off for a walking tour of the walled city - quaint, exquisite, storybook, fairytale, unreal. Our walking tour ended with a dinner at the hotel in the Michelin award restaurant onsite within an all glass dining room as the sun set. I've never dreamed this would be part of my story - honestly, I don't know if I knew how to dream this into life.

Today we spent the morning in studio - stretching our minds and hearts and finding our voices. We toured two churches - one featuring art of Pietro Vannucci (namesake of our hotel and teacher of the one and only Raphael - yes, THAT Raphael). And one that was more sombre - it had served as a hospital (more like a modern-day hospice) for patients who were dying so they did not die alone. There were some creepy Jesus statues - not to make light of their artistry, but indeed they are creepy. And we had lunch at this lovely little cafe in this even lovelier, private room where my bufala salad arrived with so great a ball of mozzarella I was convinced it was meant for me to share it with my traveling group. The afternoon found us back in studio writing a bit before being sent on what our poet-leader calls "free range chicken writing expeditions". I landed in a park under a persimmon tree at the edge of the city's walls, overlooking the convent and the Tuscan countryside. Perhaps I'll get brave enough to share what the site inspired me to write at some point - for inspiration was in no short supply. 

Lunch - this is a bufala salad - FOR ONE...

Post-lunch caffe - DO NOT order cappucino after lunch - the sun may fall down.

We traveled down the rocky Via Romea - a pilgrimage path that runs from Germany to Rome - to a church from the year 1000. It was built during the lifetime of St. Francis and still has original frescoes intact. It was a stop for pilgrims who would take 3-4 years to travel the 1500km from Germany to Rome to worship and pay homage to God. The locals rang the church bells as we walked down the gravel road to the church. Interestingly, this particular church, which opens 2 days a year (unless a group of ne'erdowell writers get the privilege of visiting), celebrates the gift of maternity. It features frescoes detailing the Anunciation, a pregnant Madonna, and multiple frescoes of Madonna and Bambino. One fresco was commissioned by a grateful father for the arrival of a healthy baby, one featured a miniature Christ-child - conjecture suggests it may have been commissioned by a family who lost a child who hoped the Christ would intercede on their behalf that they may have a healthy baby. One fresco featured Mary nursing Jesus and one featured St. Christopher carrying Jesus on his shoulder across some water. I'm without words to properly articulate the impact of the experience on my soul. As if that weren't enough - our visit to the holy space was followed by an al fresco dining experience alongside the olive groves, prepared by a nonna and her family. Roasted eggplant, roasted peppers, pecorino with spicy jam, local sausages and homemade wine. I can't make this up. It was utterly divine. 

As our poet-leader repeats - we are not only here to write, but to be written upon. I'm simply smitten with the notion and with the Italian countryside. Time, please slow down, I want to savour every second and assuredly will not be ready for this to come to completion.

Dinner - under the Tuscan sun - GLORIOUS!

Chisea Santa Maria degli Angeli

Dinner! Pretty sure I've died and am actually in heaven.

Olive groves at sunset

Way marker on an oak tree that has to be older than my grandmother for the Via Romea

Homemade biscotti with some sort of marmalade and pine nut filling - they called them "little bricks"

Dinner - homemade wine, pecorino w/ jam, local sausage, bread, roasted peppers and eggplant - DIVINE!

St. Christopher carrying the Christ-child safely across water

Madonna and child - the little outcropping at the bottom depicts the man who commissioned the work - likely out of gratitude for the safe arrival of his own child.

Madonna and child (left - Mary nursing Jesus, then a saint whose name I've already forgotten, then the Annunciation)

View from inside the church to our dinner table

Above the altar - a depiction of the nativity - you can see the animals, Mary, Joseph and Jesus

Altar further away

Where we can fill our water bottles - that's spring water and the fountains are outside the building!

Ceiling of the more somber church - creepy Jesus is behind the glass. He comes out once a year on Easter.

Another creepy Jesus - in the first church - note the columns - there is no marble in the church. It's all stucco'd brick painted to look like marble! It's a FEAT!

Ruins (Roman) over which the first cathedral we visited is built. There may even be Etruscan ruins under these!

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.