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.

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.

Lenten Musings

I've decided my Lenten practice is an addition, not an abstention this year. There have been years I've given up meat, alcohol and such, but I realized that this year I would do well to add writing to my daily practice. Not only is writing my passion, it's also my sanity, often my therapy. When I think about how my faith is strengthened, it's by spending time with my head and my heart and trying to marry the two on paper. Note - it's Friday. Lent started on Wednesday. This is my first entry. It's 11:23pm, and so it's almost Saturday. The start is not auspicious, but it's a start, nonetheless. 

It seems natural that this first entry is happening from my room in Assembly Inn, in Montreat, NC. This place grounds my faith - it's where I first began to sense a call to ministry, it's where I formed my deepest friendships, it's where I cross paths with people who've shaped and encouraged me. And this weekend, I'm here as part of a working retreat. Our church has come to try and help a bit with Hurricane Helene recovery. It's an honor, really, and I'm humbled to even be part of the process. Lydia and I drove around today and were sad to see so much of this place we both love damaged, gone, littered, unfamiliar. The physical experience of seeing downed trees, empty stores, houses torn apart is heavy - and we're seeing the five months later, sanitized version of the story.

My heart is heavy tonight. It's heavy because this place and her people are suffering. It's heavy because people I want to respect are behaving badly. It's heavy because I worked really, really hard to make this weekend happen and it feels somewhat invisible. But in the heaviness, I am overjoyed to have had 2 days of driving with my daughter. I'm buoyed by the way her heart sees the hurt around us and that her sensibilities are so keen. She knows that we bore witness to sacred storytelling tonight as people who have lived this nightmare day in and day out shared their experience. She holds those tales tenderly and doesn't take the trust with which they were shared lightly.

Tonight is my first to practice this 40 day writing thing. And strangely I don't have a lot of words. There's tension in my thoughts and feelings and today feels super complicated. But I'm in the greatest of company - my girl and me. For her and for this time I'm grateful. For the work tomorrow holds I'm eager. For the lessons I'll carry home with me I'm curious. And for the sleep that awaits me I'm glad.

Lent Day 9; Post #3

I worked with a pastor once who said there was someone who sat on God's shoulder whose job it was to record every time we say "I will never..." or "I will definitely...". The natural response often seemed to be, "Heh - watch this!" Hence the lack of my surprise when after proclaiming I'd be writing daily, I had to leave work early yesterday not feeling well. Bless it. Writing yesterday was thwarted. Today I've been in Decatur in a full-day meeting as part of a Lilly Foundation grant committee. I'm back on my seminary's campus - a year ago I was finishing capstone classes, projects and papers. Today I'm an alumnus. What a difference a year makes! Nonetheless, it's well after 9pm (thanks to a 6am wakeup and the 1.5-hour drive to get the 25 miles from my house to campus - Atlanta traffic, how I loathe thee). But words are happening.

Today was lovely - we explored how the invitation to dream of ways to better include children in worship has grown into reality within our team and among partner churches throughout the world. We dreamed about how we might facilitate more learning and exploration with even more churches! And we got to be creative in thinking about ways to make it happen. [I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Eli Lilly Foundation for their generosity and support of this project (no speed-talking about potential side effects needed for this work)]. In a moment of unexpected grace, the very work we were called to do today gave birth to a sermon I will preach in 10 days for Children's & Youth Sunday.

There's so much I love about working with children, and I've gotten more comfortable working with youth. Teenagers used to scare me, but now that we've almost made it to our own two having gotten to their 20s, I feel a tad more confident. Suffice it to say, today reminded me of how much richer my life is when I pay attention to the people far younger than me in it. I remembered today that I need to do my best to resist the urge to develop thick skin and fall into the trap of cynicism. I remembered today that life is fuller when I cultivate the eyes and heart of a child who sees wonder in so much more than my 48-year-old self does. It seems this season of remembering we're dust and to dust we'll return can feel more trap than liberation if I focus on what I've outgrown instead of remembering how much more growth I have to do.

Here's to reclaiming wonder and here's to the bit of a spoiler alert for the sermon I'll preach next week. I'm still surprised when people call me reverend or pastor - some days I feel like an imposter and some days I'm just deeply grateful. Today's a grateful day and I celebrate it.

Lent Day 7; Post #2

It's quite something to speak into the cosmos an intention to add a daily practice of writing as my Lenten spiritual discipline. So far, I'm crushing being sub-par in terms of practicing what I declared. I'm not a fan of mediocrity and admitting aloud (and to myself) that I'm falling squarely into that category when I'm the one who named the commitment is hard. Remembering that it's about progress not perfection is my new mantra, but it still leaves me feeling inadequate and slack. 

What's so hard about holding fast to something I know gives me life and keeps me grounded? 

Is it the tyrannical to-do lists that always wait for me to return to them in the morning? Is it my drive to finish allthethings allatonce? Whatever the reason, there's something that holds me back from closing my door, turning off noise, and entering into sacred territory where I am alone with my thoughts and feelings in the presence of my Creator. 

It's after 9pm - if this is the discipline I've chosen for these 40 days, I'm deciding now that I must schedule time for it earlier in the day. This (and the morning walk I often promise myself I'll take tomorrow) is how I intend to make this practice more regular - perhaps even to make it stick. 

I'm subscribed to 3 writers' blogs who offer me a prompt once a week. I thought they would help me make this practice of writing regular. Ironically, though not surprising, those emails are still unread in my inbox - signs that "I'll do it later" clearly doesn't work for me. I realize now where our daughter gets her pet phrase of "in just a moment" - I'm modeling it quite well. 

Tonight, I'm resetting my intention - it is about progress over perfection after all. I will walk AND write tomorrow morning...at least, I'll try. Walking the dog after work seems a fair plan too. I started this practice on the day I received ashes on my forehead to remind me of my own mortality. Turns out the to-do lists will one day be put on permanent hold, and I'm reminded I tend to give them too much power. But my words will remain - perhaps to pile up and gather dust themselves, or maybe...just maybe...they'll one day be a balm to my children as they grow old. 

I don't mean to wax on morbidly, but Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of this journey - appropriately so, I suppose. I'm dusting off these writing muscles that keep me sane in the midst of chaos. God knows sanity in the world of 2025 feels like a pipe dream so leaning into muscle memory as a pathway out of chaos gives me hope. 

I may have only written words twice in the last seven days, but it has felt really good both times. The first writing feels too raw to share so I'm cocooning those words until they're ready to reveal their metamorphosized selves. Tonight, however, I'm releasing these cobbled together thoughts as a practice of accountability to myself and to this art. May tomorrow hold more wonder and awe and clarity, and may this practice become a thin space of dancing with the Spirit.

Upside Down and Backwards

Five months post-storm on Flat Creek Road, Black Mountain, NC

Supplies still available to hand out at Black Mountain Presbyterian Church

 It's October 3rd - the weather in Marietta, GA, is cooling off - well, sort of - I'm pretending it's really fall wearing a poncho and turning down the air conditioner to complete the imaginary reality. I turned in the last of my ordination exams online yesterday and now wait for the results. Lydia is celebrating the end of her swim bootcamp tonight and is taking queso and chips to share at their party. She's taking the SAT on Saturday. Henry just got a new job in Bozeman and continues to lean into his becoming. This weekend is homecoming at his school. Philip is working on contracts for projects in FL, AZ, OR and other places I don't always remember. I ran the dishwasher and washing machine yesterday and need to remember to fold laundry this afternoon. We went out to dinner because I was just too tired to cook last night.

Two hours away my nephews are still out of school, my parents got power back on Monday after a four-day stint without, my sister and brother-in-law are driving back from NC after checking on his family's mountain cabin. They're cobbling their way back home around washed-out streets and non-functioning traffic lights.

Four hours away, in one of my personal holy places, friends and framily are rejoicing at spotty cell service, cheering for U-Haul trucks promising to have water, and being lulled to sleep by helicopters because absolutely none of their reality is "normal" like my own. Mules are hiking supplies up crumbled mountain roads, meals are being prepared in church parking lots, calls are going out for folks certified in recovery missions. Water won't run through faucets for months we're told, electricity is coming back very slowly and unpredictably, grief is raw as people come face to face with death - of people they love and of strangers. 

And yet - my faith in humanity has been restored. Those nighttime helicopter sounds signal supplies making their way to people, babies are getting formula for the first time in days, drinkable water is being delivered to distribution sites so it can be handed out to whomever needs it. The boundary between stranger and friend is being blurred and neighbor has taken on its biblical meaning - we really are all neighbors.

I'm having this weird feeling being an outsider looking in at the destruction that people and places who mean the world to me are waking up to every morning as their new normal. I want so badly to go there but I know emergency responders need the roads and the gas far more than I. I feel helpless. I've donated money but my heart longs to be in that space while also being terrified to see what I've known for more than half my life ripped to pieces. I haven't cried yet, that feels kind of weird - but I think I haven't really absorbed the situation because I have the luxury of turning down my air conditioner to pretend it's really fall in the south. Surely, I can't live so close to this chaos and my life still be this regular.

Today I'm more aware than perhaps I ever have been about how privileged I am to have been born into my reality - it's nothing I did of my own volition;

I'm just one of the ones who drew a long straw. My children have never gone to bed hungry, when we see things exploding in the sky, we oooh and ahhh because we're watching fireworks, we've never encountered dead people on our streets or seen water wash away our home. It's a heavy thing to look straight into the face of what I enjoy just because of where I was born or because the storm jogged east and spared my neck of the woods. Today, though, I'm choosing to acknowledge my privilege and allow it to make me do better. I'm still learning what that means - it's not the first time I've wrestled with my own privilege and how I'm called to respond. But today, there are a lot of people who had a very similar pot of privilege as mine a week ago who've had it ripped away by a storm. I'm reminded that it's fleeting so using it for the good of others is imperative. Those who were born with shorter straws, they've had it harder their whole life than me, and it's gotten even harder, their straw has gotten even shorter. 

Today, I'm going to do what I can to help even the playing field - even if just barely. And if I'm being completely honest - it's not that I'm being noble and benevolent. It's that I am trying to internalize why I got the good luck and absolve some of my own guilt by trying to share it with other people. I wish I could say I'm 100% intrinsically motivated to care for others - I like to think I am, but there have been a lot of days where I was aware of the inequities in the world and didn't feel compelled to act. Maybe those days were preparation for today? But what I do know now on a visceral level is that Maya Angelou's words, "Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better," ring true in a new way. I'm committing to doing better today. And I'll commit to do that again tomorrow. And next month. And next year. I don't want to forget what I've learned this week, and I don't want to be desensitized to these lessons. May it be so.