To enter fully into the narrative of Holy Week and the Passion of Christ is to risk being swept up and swept under by the pain and brutality of it, along with the wonder. This is a gift: to enter in to Holy Week in a way that costs us something by demanding the full attention of our heart, mind, and spirit. Participating in the drama of Holy Week is, perhaps, one small way we stay awake and watch with Christ in the garden of our souls. We enter into the celebration of Palm Sunday, followed by the beauty of Jesus’ anointing at Bethany, then the deep wound of betrayal on Maundy Thursday, followed by the excruciating reality of being unjustly condemned to die by way of torture on Good Friday. But before the resurrection joy of Easter Sunday, there is Holy Saturday. And it is Holy Saturday where I get stuck, because Holy Saturday rings most true to the oh-so-human experience of in-betweenness—of wondering if God is asleep on the job or if we’ve been left behind. Is He ever coming back? . . .

I am excited to share that a piece I wrote for Missio Alliance was published this week. Missio Alliance exists to invite Christian leaders into a collaborative network of learning, conversation, and growth across cultural and denominational lines. I love that God knew this piece would be shared the week of Easter. Though this article was not written with Easter in mind, it is about living the resurrected life here and now. I suppose this article was written with Easter on God’s mind. God’s timing is good in all things, in all seasons, in all ways. May we trust the miraculous goodness of God’s timing ever-more-deeply this Easter.

When I was nine years old, my entire family came from Montana, Kentucky, Florida, and England to spend one magical week together on Captiva Island off the Florida coast. The memories from that week remain part of our family lore to this day, like when my 4-year-old cousin prayed extemporaneously for 25+ minutes in her tiny sweet British voice for her portion of the family talent show. I believe the prayer lasted this long because any time someone laughed or interrupted her, she would re-start her improvisational masterpiece with furrowed brown and renewed holy vigor. When it became apparent that decisive action was needed to end the prayer before we all went to bed that evening, salty tears of defeat were shed—but it is her prayer we remember when reflecting on the joy of that trip. . .

Last week, I smuggled my grandma across Montana state lines to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday. It brought my family and I such joy to carefully plot and plan in the weeks leading up to her birthday, texting one another updates without using the word “Grammy” or “surprise” lest my mom accidentally see the text. My biggest fear was that she would find out and the surprise would be ruined. The day my mom and dad were supposed to arrive back at their house where my sister, Drew, and grandma were waiting to surprise her, she sent a vague text that made it sound as if she knew about the whole plan. My heart absolutely dropped into my stomach when I read that text as my sister and I hovered around our phones looking for context clues in the preceding texts. At that point I despondently declared, “I’m done. I can’t.” I’d already blown up a dozen balloons but I was ready to pop them all. . .

May this poem serve as a small offering of warmth and light “in the bleak mid-winter.”

“I think I am Jesus-repressed,” I announced to Drew over waffles on Saturday morning.“I’m really comfortable with God the Father/Creator and the Spirit, but when it comes to Jesus, it is harder for me to relate.”

Drew sat blinking owlishly at me and I quickly assured him, “I know what I’m saying is heresy or something. It sounds bad. Maybe I’m less aware of Jesus because Jesus is most present to me—so present I hardly notice him. . .” My words trailed off as I failed to reassure us both of my orthodoxy while articulating a 10-year perplexity I’ve rarely acknowledged aloud: Who is the real Jesus? This question has been a constant, quiet ache in me since my 20’s, when it became apparent that the Jesus our American culture portrays—even the Jesus the American church conveys—does not tell the whole truth of who Jesus is. . .

The night before I lead a restorative writing workshop last week, I had a dream:

I was in a small wooden motorboat with my family, speeding across a wide and glassy lake. We were heading towards the side of the lake that narrowed into a creek. I began feeling worried that our boat would not fit through the narrow passageway.

I went to kneel towards the back of the boat and peered over the edge, watching the silky water pass by.

My sister knelt beside me and asked, “What are we looking for?” . . .

I’ve been talking with God this month about Joy and Peace—two gifts I have trouble receiving and keeping. Infuriatingly, Joy seems to be my “word for the year,” and I cannot escape it no matter how hard I’ve tried to choose a more nuanced word that leaves room for the full spectrum of emotions like “begin” “illumine” or “sojourn”—all worthy candidates lovingly shot down by the Spirit each time I get a text from someone that says “Joy!” (my dad sent this text to me yesterday, along with a picture of my smiling face), or the picture of a mug Drew sent me while on a ministry trip this week that also reads “Joy!” Neither my dad nor Drew know how deeply I’ve been wrestling with this word, wanting to live into any other word but joy this year. . .

I have been a dreamer since I could say the word, and often grow impatient when it seems like things are taking a bit too long in the Easy Bake Oven success factory I thought my life would be. Letting go of the surety of my dreams has been something to grieve and surrender, time and again. But something inside me (is it hope?) refuses to give up on the dreams God has planted in my heart. God is the source of all true and good desires, and I believe God plants seeds of eternity within us that are ours to discover and grow today. . .

For Christmas this year, we were given Jesus. Twice.

The first is Flat Jesus, who is the Christian gift store version of Flat Stanley. For the un-enlightened, Flat Stanley is an elementary school literary experiment that many children across America have endured—including myself. Flat Stanley is a character in a book who is roughly 6 inches tall, 3 millimeters deep after getting squashed by a bulletin board in his sleep. His flatness enables him to easily slip into the pocket of world travelers and thereby experience many adventures. Children are meant to give Flat Stanley to a traveling friend or family member who then takes pictures with Flat Stanley in front of the Pyramids or the Tower of London. The problem arises when your friend or family member is only traveling to Cleveland for a dental hygienist conference. . .

Anna’s hands were waiting hands, empty and stiffened by the long ache of years—full of memory and loss, forever cupped in the shape of her lover’s face. . .

The song came to me on a dark evening last December as I was driving home, turning my radio dial every seven seconds to find a Christmas music station that wasn’t playing Mariah Carey. I finally chose the classical station, hoping they would keep their Christmas music. . .classic. It was then that I heard a choir of the sweetest most angelic German children singing a Christmas lullaby I’d never encountered before, the beauty of which stunned me. . .

An “Atmospheric River” is a real weather condition that occurs in the greater Seattle area. The first time I saw it on my weather app I giggled a bit, thinking “This can’t be true. It sounds like a Disneyland ride.” But it is true, it is real, and this week the Atmospheric River struck again. The official definition of an atmospheric river is this:

“Atmospheric rivers are relatively long, narrow regions in the atmosphere – like rivers in the sky – that transport most of the water vapor outside of the tropics. . .When the atmospheric rivers make landfall, they often release this water vapor in the form of rain or snow.”

According to an article I read, these sky rivers carry roughly the volume of the Mississippi River headwaters in vapor form. Sadly, this week’s atmospheric river has caused a good deal of flooding in our area, and I do not wish to trivialize that. But the concept of a river in the sky has been tugging at my imagination, asking me to wade into deeper waters and wonder in what ways atmospheric rivers might point us to the Kingdom of God. . .

This month I have the privilege of sharing a piece on joy for The Redbud Post, a monthly publication created by the members of my writer’s guild. I encourage you to read the other articles, too! They’re written by wise, gracious, and beautiful sisters in Christ. What a gift it is to write in and for community, surrounded by “the love of thousands,” as Chickasaw poet Linda Hogan describes the communion of saints—that great cloud of witnesses cheering us on, bearing witness to our many-foibled yet grace-laced lives—all the way to Glory, our first and final Home.

I’ve been searching for this color’s name like a word on the tip of my tongue—as if in finding its true name, I would uncover my own. I finally found it nestled among the lines of Jesuit priest and poet Gerard Manley Hopkin’s poem The Windhover, and now I profess it wholeheartedly with the joy of discovery: my favorite color is vermilion. . .

I took a morning walk this week in search of freedom from the ever-narrowing confines of my anxious mind. Breathing in deeply, my lungs remembered what they are for as I strode through streets that were shining with the alchemy of late night rain and early morning light. I paused and knelt every so often to take pictures of leaves and reflections in puddles, of late autumn roses clinging to life despite the evidence. I thought of the late Catholic monk Thomas Merton, of how it was on a morning much like this, perhaps, that his walk through the streets of Louisville, Kentucky was arrested by the sudden realization that the world was his to love—given, broken, blessed. . .

Has God ever given you the opposite of what you asked for, but you discovered it was good—very good?

The first time it happened, I was standing on the upper level of a hospital in Houston, looking down at the scene below. Hospital visitors wove in and out of food court lines, security guards changed shifts, and nurses sat down wearily at tables in out-of-the-way corners for a much-needed break. Though all had the appearance of being normal, there is nothing normal about being in a hospital—it feels like a place outside of time, a space between questions and answers, sickness and healing, life and death. I was standing on the other side of death, having lost Drew’s mother to COPD only minutes before. She looked so sweet and peaceful in her passing that it was hard to believe this was goodbye. Drew and I were ready to head downstairs to leave when the chaplain who’d accompanied Drew’s family in his mother’s final moments walked through the heavy swinging doors and began to engage us, helping us know what to expect next. When she found out Drew was a pastor, her face lit up. . .

I wrote the following piece to accompany my conversation with Nathan Foster on an episode of the Renovaré Life With God Podcast. It was an honor to be invited to share how writing has been a significant part of my healing journey. Being part of the Renovaré community has been a profound joy for me and Drew over the past few years. I believe their mission statement will tell you why: We imagine a world in which people’s lives flourish as they increasingly become like Jesus. If you’re curious about the work they do and want to get involved, I encourage you to check them out! Click the button below to read the article on the Renovaré website and listen to the podcast episode, which can be found at the bottom of the article. Many thanks!

During my training in counseling and psychology, I learned about the power of memory to both heal and harm us. We all contain powerful core memories from our early years that shape and inform how we respond to circumstances as adults, often without our realizing that our reaction stems from both the past and the present. The memories don’t have to be dramatic; often, it doesn’t make sense why a certain memory sticks with us in the way that it does. We know that a core memory has been triggered when something in the present brings us instantaneously into a re-experiencing of that event. We remember how it felt, tasted, smelled, sounded. We remember our shame or elation, our tears or our joy. We recall the exact words spoken over us, for good or for evil. Part of the work of healing through counseling is addressing core memories that keep us stuck in the past in a way that keeps us from moving forward. One of my core memories happened at Christmas time. . .

A simple observation: Perhaps when Jesus said, “Consider the birds,” he meant it. This morning, the birds out my window were singing with a sound that could only be described as “riot”—fully, exuberantly, unceasingly. This went on for so long under the low-bellied heaviness of a dark grey sky, pregnant with impending rain, that I began to wonder, “Is there something I missed? These birds seem to know something I do not. . .