This Easter Sunday, Drew and I raised glasses filled with sparkling grape juice along with two dear friends as a toast to our risen King Jesus and all He has done in our lives. It was a bittersweet cup, because among the four of us we carry a good deal of loss, trauma, and ongoing health concerns. Like the couple on the road to Emmaus admitting to a yet-unrecognized risen Jesus “but we had hoped,” we have carried, body and soul, the weariness of journeying onward in the face of unmet hopes and dreams. After dinner, the four of us read a liturgy “In Praise of Christ Who Conquered Death” aloud together as a testament to the inevitability of dawn, of the Risen Son, even when all appears to be cloaked darkness. . .

Over two thousand years ago this Thursday, Jesus’ best friend leaned against His chest and undoubtedly felt, sensed, heard the beating heart of God. It’s a strange and intimate detail not evident in every translation of this passage, but it is there. I wonder what John, self described as “the disciple who Jesus loved” heard in that moment. Was Jesus’ heart nervous and thumping loudly? Or was it resolute, regular, and strong—steady enough to calm the anxiety John was undoubtedly feeling as he listened to his beloved Rabbi predict his immanent death? . . .

I am excited to share this piece with you, because it is a testimony to God’s grace at work in my weakness. It has been a deep honor and joy to partner with Missio Alliance, a para-church organization that emphasizes “Curating content and conversations around the most pressing needs of the church to foster meaningful change.” Drew and I had the chance to attend their national gathering this March, and I can attest that they practice what they preach. Missio Alliance consistently uplifts under-represented voices in the Church, including women and people of color. I am grateful for the invitation and safety in which to share some of the deepest wrestling of my soul. Please know that if you are struggling with depression, I am here to talk—not to solve, but simply to support and bear witness. Beloved, you are not alone. . .

“Is there anything I can help you with?” asked the kindly teacher as she stopped by my table.

“Can you make me better at this?” I responded, only half joking.

We both looked down at my dismal attempt to paint the gaudy bouquet she’d placed at the front of the classroom as our subject for the five-week acrylics class I’ve been taking at my local senior center. This had all sounded more appealing when I read about it online, when the dream of officially learning to paint still felt. . .dreamy. . .

The glass milk bottle with the friendly face of a smiling cow printed in black ink has waited, empty, for months. I purchased the half pint of milk while on a two-day personal retreat in September because I don’t think one can adequately prepare for the tsunami of cuteness that hits you upon beholding an adorable half pint of organic farm-fresh milk in a glass bottle with a yellow lid and *a smiling cow* while perusing the aisles of a small town grocery co-op. One look, and I was done. I put the ridiculously overpriced thimbleful of milk in my cart, smug with the knowledge that I would definitely get my money’s worth from Little Half Pint by repurposing it into a vase when I was through consuming its contents.

That September solo retreat was the first time I started writing about BELONGING—a topic that has shaped and shifted across the months yet has remained firmly rooted in my heart along with the notion, “there’s something to this” and the desire to dig deeper. Certain this would be the topic of my next book (let’s disregard the fact, for now, that all the books I’ve written still live in my head), I began to write about belonging with gusto. And then, life happened—as it so often does. . .

I’m grateful to share that InTouch Ministries is featuring an article I wrote this week. It’s about following Mary’s example in risking it all by spending “unproductive” time at Jesus’ feet, and how taking that risk is changing my life. Thanks for reading, friends. . .

I’m writing to share good news:

My friend Keith wrote a book called Thin Places that is full of goodness, beauty, and truth, and it is available now. I had the honor and deep joy of collaborating with him by creating a Visio Divina image for contemplation at the end of each chapter. . .

“Whole wool, WHOLE WOOL!” my two-year-old brother (who had difficulty pronouncing his r’s) insisted upon singing in the family home video we watched this year over Christmas. Those of us watching looked at each other and laughed because we knew what this meant: back then, only one song held sway for Jimmy—my little brother who had been dressed in a black cape and white turtleneck for the song-and-dance variety show my younger sister and I had attempted to organize—and that song was “Whole Wool.” Since learning the song “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” it had been effectively shorthanded by Jimmy to “Whole Wool,” a song that, when sung, had the power to appease his toddler fussiness and even get him to join in, smiling and clapping, holding the whole world between two tiny chubby hands as my mom helped him remember the words. I miss the days when a simple Sunday school song was all it took to turn fretful tears into joyfully sung confessions of faith. He’s got you and me, brother, in his hands. . .

In these early days of a new year, I’ve been learning to discern the love song hidden in silence. Today, as I write, I find myself surrounded by noise at the local coffee shop (there is only one). On most Tuesdays, I bundle up and set out for a coffee shop to write—usually choosing to drive someplace other than here. But today I walked to the one non-chain coffee shop we have in our small town simply because I want to learn to choose my one small life. Their coffee is usually weak, and I always leave smelling like their kitchen. It feels like a liability to be here—vulnerable, somehow. I might risk seeing someone I know; I also risk feeling alone and unknown. In reflecting upon the past year, I have realized how much time I’ve spent living in the future – yearning, dreaming, wishing to be somewhere different as someone different than who I actually am. It is vulnerable, after all, to be seen and known for who we actually are, where we are—especially to see and know ourselves as we actually are and to choose us—here, now—anyways, like God does. . .

When I was sixteen years old, I spent a full week stenciling a favorite passage of scripture upon my clover green wall. The local craft store had provided everything I needed as an amateur muralist, and I began confidently stenciling the opening verses of Isaiah 61 in bold black paint for several days before I began to wonder if I hadn’t quite measured out enough space for the entire passage. What’s more, the lines had begun to slant, and the letters were crowding in on each other. With each day that passed, it became clear that my original intent would have to be abbreviated. Alas: verses 1-3 had been exchanged for ¾ of verse 1. Though slightly dampened, my spiritual fervor was moderately re-kindled as I stood back from my completed masterpiece in a paint-spattered robe, beholding the truncated words of Isaiah 61. . .

Driving north on the Alaskan highway in November, closer to the Arctic Circle than I have ever been or will be, I am given the sense that we are passing through a silent conversation—one that has been happening long before we were born and will continue long after we are gone. The wind speaks to the trees and the trees acknowledge they have heard with a slight bow of the head and a shudder of snow from frozen limbs. I see my own breath hang suspended in the grey surround of our frigid rental car like a question mark. Dear forest, will you grant us safe passage? There is something enchanted about this place, this undulating stretch of forested hills that allow few to inhabit its ice-laden enclave. To live here is to face the possibility of death, almost daily, whether by running out of fuel or falling through too-thin ice that appeared solid or encountering a wild animal who is hungry, just before its long hibernation. . .

Today was supposed to be a productive day. But it’s been composed of unexpected conversations with family members, my neighbor, and God instead. The past couple of weeks have been full of conversational moments—some with words, some without. As I write, I’m thinking about the familiar warmth of my grandmother’s body next to mine as we lay side by side in her tiny hospital bed just last week, watching game shows from 1979. As we watched the fuzzy show flicker across the flatscreen I wondered how many of the people in the audience and on stage were gone now. Did they take their prizes with them? My grandma laughs at their antics and feels far away from me, like we are living on two different channels. Her backbones are fractured and I don’t want to say goodbye.

I do not have a new post for this week, but I’d like to share a couple of opportunities for you to engage with my work elsewhere:

1) In partnership with the spiritual formation organization Renovaré, I will be leading an online workshop on forgiveness and reconciliation on October 24th and 26th, and would love for you to attend! I’ve titled it Kintsugi Kingdom because I continue to be inspired by the way that God transforms our cracked and broken selves into vessels of His glory. In this workshop, we will explore what it looks like to become Kingdom-of-God people who embody forgiveness and reconciliation as part of our DNA. We will do so through guided spiritual practices, teaching, and group conversation. If this sounds like something you’d be interested in, I’d love to see you there! . . .

As I’ve continued to ponder the mystery of belonging to community, one conviction is growing increasingly clear: belonging is different from acceptance. The key difference is not depth or longevity—although those ingredients do play a role in helping us differentiate between them. Instead, I believe the primary distinction of belonging is this: unlike acceptance or popularity, belonging cannot be earned. And I think this frustrates us. We are used to earning and achieving—to leaning on our most accessible and powerful resources. It is terrifying to let others see that we might not have it all together. Even in Christian communities, we do not readily reveal our neediness, loneliness, fear, depression, sin, dissatisfaction, or doubt. So instead of living into belonging, we settle for popularity...

I’m sharing some further thoughts on belonging this week, exploring what it means to be the church to each other in our particular locations as the people of Christ. Thank you for joining me in this!

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“How about yo play?” he hollered from across the fence. Several beats of silence ensued. “The Yoplait kind of yogurt?” he clarified in response to my quizzical look.

It took me a few seconds to realize that my neighbor—a caterer with a significant amount of local food hookups—was offering me yet another case of free yogurt, this time from a different brand.

“Sure!” I said brightly, wondering where we would fit this new case of yogurt alongside the 46 other yogurt cups he’d given us several weeks ago.

“How about milk? It’s whole milk. . .” his voice trailed off as he waited expectantly for my response.

“Yes,” I answered slowly, “We are running low on milk.” I didn’t bother telling him that Drew is the primary dairy drinker in our home and as such we’ve taken to buying half gallons so the milk doesn’t spoil.

This week, I went on a solo retreat to a cabin in the woods for the purpose of telling myself and God that I am working on a book. I am someone who needs symbol and ritual to make things real, and getting away for a couple of days to cement that intention was profoundly helpful for me. I am sharing an excerpt of what I wrote with you here. It’s in its roughest form right now, but I am hopeful that these words will be part of something bigger that has to do with healing and belonging within the Body of Christ. If anything stands out to you or nettles you, would you please let me know in the comments? Your input will help inform the direction in which I write. Thank you for the gift of your readership, friends. May the peace of Christ go with you today and each day. . .

I’ve been nervous to begin again after the summer’s writing hiatus, a practice I’ve adopted since beginning this blog. Each year when September rolls around, I start to panic. Thoughts such as “Maybe no one will notice if I start in October instead” and “It could very well be that I have nothing left to say, and that’s okay. Is that okay? It doesn’t feel okay” fill my mind. The anxious “Will I? Won’t I? How could I not?” dance has become a laughably familiar routine, so I’ve decided to just lean into it. This summer has been full of good things: reuniting with old friends, traveling to new places, spending time in forests and lakes with family, celebrating weddings and birthdays, and consuming a good deal of homemade granola. There have been many moments over the past two months in which I have tasted and touched, smelled and seen the goodness of God (Granola! Sun-warmed pine! Morning songbirds! Strawberry Champagne Cake!). But the one image that came to mind today when wondering “Where shall I begin?” involves a perspiring teenage boy, six different birthday parties happening at once, and a single rose. . .

Stage 1 of The Great Spectacle Debacle began in the Year of our Lord 2016, November. For the first time since my late teens, I was on a mission to get a new pair of glasses. My old ones were scratched and worn and reminded me of my previous stage of life—one that encompassed the end of high school, college, and a failed marriage. It was time for a change, and I was broke. Unable to afford vision insurance, I was paying out of pocket for an optometry appointment (how does this make sense) and I wanted to make. it. count., which meant leaving with a new pair of glasses and a whole new outlook on life. I was basically a ward of the state at the time, working for a Christian non-profit and earning zero dollars (can I get an amen). After updating my prescription, the optometrist showed me to an “affordable” lenses rack of about 15 frames; I chose a rectangular dark tortoise shell pair that were called “Gotham.” I hoped maybe Batman vibes would give me courage in my newly divorced, fresh-out-of-grad-school, emotionally turbulent mental health counselor stage of life. At the time, it felt as though I was choosing a new pair of lenses through which to see the world. More than anything, I wanted to see healing. Redemption. Some semblance of purpose for the past hellish season of my life. . .

It was a stupid mistake—a scenario for which I should have prepared in advance. But then again, one assumes that the one-hour flight between Dublin and London should be hassle free. Consequently, packing one’s single allotted ‘personal item’ (aka my overstuffed ‘personal’ backpack) for an airline known for its stringent baggage policies should require relatively little preparation or forethought. I had the essentials: my water bottle, a genre-spanning collection of books, some mixed nuts, makeup, the pink hearts-and-rosebuds 50’s era robe I had purchased that day, and a cheery cowboy mug that says “too big for your boots.”

My family and I had just spent several days in Ireland visiting my younger sister before flying to England for a family wedding. On the day of the flight, we were running a bit behind schedule. At the airport we rushed together en masse to one of the many self-check-in kiosks around which groups of anxious passengers clustered like bees—novices trying to do the work of a check-in agent because this particular airline charges you money to speak to a live person. . .

Part two of my story of finding healing from church hurt through experiencing a healthy expression of church can be found here. Thank you for reading!