Just Float

One of my favorite things on Saturday mornings (other than the farmer’s market) is sitting with my coffee and reading the weekly essay by Melissa Kirsch in the New York Times newsletter. I have no idea if she’s a spiritual person, but her writing always speaks to my soul. Though prose, it reads like a heart poem, as she explores themes of purpose, love, family, friendship, and the arc of time. Today, the focus was on the midpoint of the year, which coincided with the specific moment when the Earth reaches its greatest distance from the Sun. Yes, it happens in summer…you can look it up. As Kirsch pondered time and space, she wrote these words:

At aphelion, we’re about 94.5 million miles from the sun, a distance so vast as to be unfathomable. What we can fathom: our two feet pressing into Earth, taking up just inches of space. We’re here, now, in this room, in this house, in this town, a body and a mind and five senses taking in as much as we can. We’re so small, but so powerful that we can think and dream and fuss and project entire worlds into existence. And then we think those worlds are the entire universe. Meanwhile, the earth’s orbit continues, the sun goes on shining.

This year, I turn 50–it’s a number that is, quite frankly, freaking me out. I never really envisioned coming to the middle of my life, a time when there are probably fewer circles around the sun ahead than there are behind. It’s weird and unsettling. My kids are, according to the law, grown. One has started his own life away from us, and the other will soon follow. My perimenopausal body is sending all kinds of hormones careening wildly throughout my bloodstream and I can’t seem to regulate my temperature. I keep having this existential crisis of purpose, and my brain is on overdrive so that resting seems wrong because I have to make every moment of whatever time is left count. It’s at about this point that the anxiety spiral I have always struggled with kicks into overdrive and my brain becomes a ticking time bomb of doom. Everything seems fraught. Everything seems tilted. Everything seems wrong.

Fortunately, I have a great therapist who listens to my anxiety-fueled fears and asks challenging questions to help me reset and reframe and still the storm within–mostly by consistently pointing out that the things I get wound up about aren’t in my control and I need to let them go.

As Kirsch wrote, I think and dream and fuss and project entire worlds into existence and then think they’re the entire universe. But if I pause for a moment and look around, I realize that Earth keeps going and the Sun keeps shining. I can’t help but think of Job, sitting in the wreckage of his life and crying out for something, anything, to help alleviate his misery. But when God finally speaks, it’s not to assuage Job’s grief, but rather, it’s a reminder to look up and look around.

 God goes on in this vein for 4 more chapters! It’s incredibly beautiful, and you should read it. But God’s point, I think, is this: He is bigger than anything he created. And we are very small.

Some people might read God’s response to Job and think that he doesn’t care–that he’s some distant being looking down on humanity with dispassion, an omniscient narrator, if you will, passively watching events unfold. However, I don’t think that’s the case at all. God isn’t dismissing Job’s pain, he’s helping Job reframe it. He’s asking Job to consider the wonder and majesty of all creation–four chapters worth–so that Job not only sees the bigger picture, but finds his rightful place within it.

The other night, we had a church-wide pool party at our local aquatic center. I love swimming. There’s something about moving through water that calms me. The weather had been unpredictable all day, and huge mountains of clouds towered above us . And yet, the sun shone through from behind those clouds, illuminating them in the most brilliant peaches and pinks and golds I’d ever seen. It was stunning, and I took a moment to just float and marvel at God’s creation. When I finally went to bed later that night, I couldn’t stop smiling. The water, the cloud-show, the community reminded me that I am a very small part of something much bigger.

The world is not centered on me. I have no universes to create or order. I just have this day, this moment, this breath in which to be. And sometimes, that’s all God asks of us, to just float in this single moment while he does the hard work of creating and sustaining.

I don’t know what worlds you’re fussing to create right now, but I do know that it’s okay to pause from the strife and the fear and the compulsion to do and to just float and look at the sky and remind ourselves that we are connected to the God who created the universe and all that is in it. In doing so, we remember that God cares about us enough to reveal himself in those small moments of wonder and awe, and that he’s a much better architect than we will ever be.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Taste and See…

I woke up this morning with the following verse stuck in my head–weird, I know, but that’s life inside my brain.

I love eating good food. Eating is a sensory experience that combines taste, texture, smell, and even sound. I love leaning over a bowl of flour that’s co-mingling with yeast and breathing in that rich, warm…well…yeasty smell. And then there’s the satisfying smoothness of the sticky dough as it coalesces into one solid shape. I love the sound a loaf of bread makes when you thump it after it bakes–it’s like a timpani drum. And, of course, there’s the joy and wonder when you break through the crunchy outer crust to find the soft melt-in-your mouth center.

One of the most powerful qualities of food however, other than the fact that it keeps us alive, is that when we pay attention to eating, the experience sears itself in our memory, so that years later, you might find yourself suddenly transported through time and space with one bite of bread or pie or tomato, or watermelon to people and places that have long since gone, but that helped to shape who you have become.

I often think about my Grandma Ruth when I eat fresh strawberries. When I was a kid, we’d spend a few weeks each summer with my grandparents at their house in the Ozark Mountains. My grandma had a big strawberry patch, and each day, she’d dole out cooking pots to the grandkids and let us go gather the ripe berries, which we’d then wash and freeze for the winter. I must confess, I’m a bit of a strawberry fiend, and when I found a warm, ruby-red ripe berry nestled beneath the green leaves, I couldn’t resist popping it into my mouth. There’s a natural sweetness to home-grown strawberries that you never get with the store-bought ones. And to eat a fresh strawberry warmed by the sun is an almost sacred experience. On those berry picking days, my pot was always nearly empty when we came inside, but my grandma would just laugh and say, “Sara! You’re going to turn into a strawberry!” That was fine with me.

We picked blackberries, too–little round purplish-black fruits that grew wild next to the woods. You had to carefully work your way around the thorns, and I got pricked more than a time or two, but the end result was an explosion of flavor that was tart, with just enough sweet to keep you diving back into the thicket for more.

As I’ve been pondering Psalm 34:8, what I keep hearing is an invitation. It’s an invitation to experience God’s goodness by going out into the world and enjoying the things he has made. Taste, God says. Eat the good food. Savor the experience. Relish the fellowship of sharing a meal with friends and family. Taste, and in the tasting, see that I am good.

I don’t think that God wants us to shut ourselves away from life–to be dour and frumpy and self-righteous about everything. God didn’t create the world in shades of gray, rather, he painted in bold strokes of color and infused it with the most remarkable flavors from cinnamon to saffron and everything in between. Life can be delectable, and when we experience that burst of sweetness from a sun-ripened berry, it’s a reminder that God is good and that he loves us and that he wants to show that love to us in tangible ways. But more than that, tasting and seeing builds important connections in our brains that can sustain us as we continue to grow and change and work our way through the seasons of our lives. A blackberry bush reminds me of my grandma, who could, if I’m being honest, be both prickly and sweet herself. There’s power in those memories–a rootedness that I need–a reminder of who I am and where I come from.

And over it all I hear God saying, Taste and see that I AM good, and you are welcome to take shelter in me.

Of course, I am more than cognizant of the fact that there are millions around the world who have no access to good food, and for whom life holds little abundance. The sad truth about hunger is that there are more than enough resources to go around, we just need to do a better job of helping everyone thrive. For me, that includes supporting organizations, both local and global, that seek to ensure all people have food.

I have long contributed to the work of Heifer International, a group based out of Little Rock, Arkansas that seeks to end poverty and empower individuals by providing them opportunities to become self-sustaining through farming and livestock practices.

I also have been blessed to volunteer at Harvesters Community Food Network in Kansas City. This organization does SO much with their resources, working to ensure that all people in the KC area have access to good food.

There are so many organizations seeking to help others taste and see that the Lord is good, and they need our help now, more than ever. Together, as a people of faith, we can bring God’s love to people in real and tangible ways.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Unfolding

This past week, we lost one of our family dogs, Charlie. And while, at almost 12 years of age, I knew it was coming sooner rather than later, I didn’t know it would come now. I have felt an acute sense of loss over the passing of this cuddly, goofy, whiny, stinky, demanding old friend. He was love, in every sense of the word–always there, always joyful, always full of hope. But as the tears have fallen, I’ve realized that I’m not just mourning a dog. I’m mourning the end of a season–the closing of one more book in the series of my life.

Our boys were just 6 and 8 when we brought Charlie home. Next month, they will be 18 and 20. The dogs and the boys grew up together, and now that both old dogs are gone, I feel that the last link to the boys’ childhood has been severed. There’s a finality that I can’t quite wrap my head around, an understanding that a new season is unfolding. But it’s hard to let the past go.

I found a picture the other day of my oldest crouched over the dining room table with a fanny pack buckled around his waist and a silk band tied around his head ninja warrioring his way through 5th grade math problems. Then there were the plethora of pictures of my youngest, his impish grin ever present, eyes twinkling at the camera as he’s just finished some mischief I have yet to discover. Sometimes I find myself wondering where those boys went. It’s the same when I look at pictures of myself as a girl–the confidence, the optimism, the sense that the future is a long ribbon unfolding before you full of amazing stories to be written.

Now I sit at the precipice of 50. My boys are grown. Their dogs are gone. The generation that raised us and trained us is getting older. We’ve lost parents and mentors, teachers and friends. And Charlie’s passing seems to encapsulate all of that–all of the letting go beyond simply saying goodbye to a furry companion and friend.

But God reminds me that there’s a time for everything–a season for every purpose under heaven.

A few weeks ago, I went outside on a glorious Saturday morning. I was feeling sad, but the Sun beckoned me out of the darkness of my feelings and so I went to sit and read and pray and think. I took Charlie with me, and after he sniffed around the bushes for a bit, he did what he always loved to do and spread himself out in the sun to bask in its yellow warmth. It occurred to me that the world was incredibly green, as recent spring rains had brought all of nature out to play. I wrote a poem about spring green, marveling at God’s handiwork all around, before settling into the hard work of soul tending. And as my old dog lay in the achingly green grass soaking up the sunshine, I thought about time and change and seasons of life and I wrote these words on the inside cover of my book:

4/25/26

10-something A.M.

It’s occurred to me that, as I am sitting on the porch staring at the grass and trees and dog, that I am in a season of unfolding. I have no idea of summer plans, schedules are in flux, decisions yet to be made. People are in different places–how will it all unfold? How will I unfold? And so, I wait. I watch. I still the questions. I accept the unfolding.

Come back later, I feel God saying. Look back next year. We’re still in progress.

Of course, we’ll always be in progress. But, as God has shown me time and again, there is much to learn and love in the unfolding.

So, let’s go. Let’s sit. Let’s wait. Let’s unfold, God, you and I. Here I am–work away!

Changing seasons are hard, but they’re beautiful, too. Have you ever seen a green so bright, full, and all-consuming as the green that explodes forth in early Spring? It’s like being in the midst of the Emerald City, and it completely captivates me. It’s a promise that, no matter how our lives change, God isn’t going to abandon us in the loss of yesterday. Rather, he’s already at work in the future, adding color and beauty and joy and love to whatever will unfold as we write our next story.

And so, I’m working on letting go–of dogs, of boys, of halcyon memories that were only one part of this tale called Life, and I’m easing my way into the next part, opening myself to new understandings and experiences and challenges, and adventures. I have no idea what it will look like, but I know that God will exceed all my expectations.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

What’s the Value?

I recently read an article about the joys of spring cleaning and organizing. Then I looked around my house. At this moment, my craft table is covered with an assortment of items: hiking shoes (that the dog was chewing), dog leash, fabric cutting tools, ironing board, sewing machine, three books of poetry (two lying open), one biography, three calendars (one current), one glove (again, the dog), a Bible, a sewing box, two devotional books a friend gave me, a box of note cards, and a pair of socks my son got for Christmas and abandoned.

As I contemplate bringing order to this particular brand of chaos, I am not filled with joy. In fact, I’m more likely to just walk away and let it be, because honestly, when I want to read a poem, it’s really helpful to have some laid out and ready to go. But then that little wiggly, creepy-crawly uncomfortable feeling of judgement comes worming its way into my brain. You know what I’m talking about…that voice that says you’re obviously a bad person because you have clutter in your house. Because dust is a sign of shiftlessness, right?

I’ve been thinking lately about how we assign moral values to so many weird things in life. Culture tells us that a spotless and well-organized home is the marker of someone with strong moral fiber. It also tells us that if you’re not running around like a chicken with your head cut off, then you obviously are not using your time wisely, and that if your yard is a bit weedy then something is wrong with your overall character.

I could tell you stories of over 20 years in ministry about what this does to one’s soul…but I won’t. Suffice it to say, I have learned that when Paul said to forget what is behind and strain toward what is ahead, I think he meant leaving behind the judgements of the world, too. Instead, Paul says:

And what, pray tell, is that prize? In Philippians, Paul was specifically speaking about the resurrection of the dead–of attaining eternal life in Christ. And how do we do that? Jesus was pretty clear:

It’s interesting to me that so many of the things we assign moral value to aren’t things that Jesus talked about at all. Even when meeting with the woman at the well, who lived under such judgment that she had to draw water during the hottest part of the day, Jesus didn’t condemn. He offered her life instead. Jesus looked at people with compassion. He saw their needs. He saw their hurts. He saw their shortcomings. He saw their mistakes. And he said, “Come to me.”

Jesus didn’t assign moral values to things like organizing, ironing, and gardening. He didn’t look at those who were impoverished and tell them to work harder. He didn’t see children running about and tell their parents to get control, either. He didn’t review someone’s grades and say, “Well, I guess you’re out.” And he certainly didn’t open the door to a vehicle and go, “Bleuhhhhh!! What is wrong with you?!?!” (This, I do every time I get into my son’s car. But in my defense, I found an ossified half-eaten cheeseburger once.)

Instead, the people that Jesus mostly passed judgement on were the religious leaders who had invented so many rules for people to follow that they were bound to make mistakes. He also condemned them for being hypocrites and for not really loving God, as evidenced by their lack of justice and compassion. Jesus didn’t assign moral value to the things of this world, but rather, to the work of God’s kingdom. So why do we insist on assigning moral value to anything other than that?

If Jesus walked into my house and stood before my craft table today, I don’t think he’d purse his lips and give a stern, “Hmmm…” He might pick up a book of poetry and share some thoughts on a favorite verse. Or he might say, “If no one’s wearing those socks, I think I know someone who could use them.” But maybe he’d just smile and say, “I’ve always loved the way your brain works. Now, tell me what you need.”

What would it look like if we stopped assigning moral value to things that don’t really matter to Jesus and, instead, started focusing on the things that did? What would it feel like to let go of feeling judged and not good enough and, instead, to put our time and energy into doing the kingdom building work that Jesus actually called his followers to? What would the world be like if we spent our time and energy seeking justice, proclaiming the Gospel, making disciples, and bringing healing? Can you imagine living in a community where judgement was released and love was embraced? How beautiful and wonderful that would be!

As humans, we’re never going to get it completely right. Fortunately, God knows this and offers grace. And if God offers his grace so freely, who are we to withhold it from others…or even ourselves? Let’s be a people of grace, focused not on what the world values, but on what Jesus values. Love God. Love others. How hard can that be? 😉

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Zondervan NIV Artisan Collection Bible Review

Now that Spring is officially upon us, I’ve been enjoying the pops of color arising from the ground. It’s a reminder that there’s life in that dark earth, and that it will reveal itself when the time is right.

This past week, I’ve also been perusing a couple of new Bibles for review. Spring holidays are a great time to gift a Bible–from Mother’s Day to many graduations and weddings, Bibles are a lasting gift that invite loved ones to a deeper relationship with God.

The Zondervan NIV Artisan Collection Bible is perfect for gifting! The covers, designed by artists Kerry King, are absolutely beautiful and evoke all the hope and promise and whimsy of spring. But more than that, the simple text structure allows room for Bible journaling or drawing–whichever you prefer. There’s no commentary with this Bible, just the Word and ample space for contemplating using your own artistic gifts.

I actually think this would make a fantastic graduation gift. You can pair it with some colored pencils, a multi-colored gel pen set, some bookmarks, and even some stickers! This Bible is everything a student would need heading off to high school, college, or even into a career.

There is a simple beauty in the Zondervan Artisan Collection Bibles, and it’s a great invitation to experience God. Better yet, you can get one for yourself, journal/draw/paint your way through, then give it to a loved one so they can add to the story!

You can purchase here. It really is a beautiful book that opens doors to experiencing God in a deeply meaningful way.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Don’t Fight It

I like solving problems. It makes me feel productive–and useful. If there’s a situation that needs to be resolved and I am in the vicinity, then I act or speak. My husband is the exact opposite. If there is a problem, he thinks about it. And thinks about it. And thinks about it some more. I don’t understand this. While he’s thinking I’m chomping at the bit. I throw out one suggestion after another. I grab the car keys. I find the number for the plumber. I pull up a YouTube tutorial. But still, he thinks.

Though maddening in the moment, what I have come to realize over the years (and begrudgingly appreciate) is that my husband isn’t not doing something , he’s reasoning the problem out. He’s looking beyond the immediacy of the situation to find a long-term or lasting solution that is likely much more logical and practical than anything I would rush off to do. And while it’s infuriating, it also makes a lot of sense.

This morning, as we enter into the final stages of the Passion journey, I’m reflecting on Jesus’ measured approach to his arrest and subsequent trial. Jesus has shared Passover with his friends. He has announced that one will betray him, and given them a new covenant to observe. He has prayed alone and in anguish while the friends who have sworn to stand beside him fall asleep. And he has been filled by God’s spirit to finish what he was born to do. So when Judas brings a mob to arrest Jesus in the middle of the night, Jesus is calm and steady and focused on what he needs to do.

Surrounded by a group of angry people wielding weapons and intent on harm, Jesus doesn’t react in panic or fear. He doesn’t try to bolt. He doesn’t spit in Judas’s face and scream, “Over my dead body!” He doesn’t grab a sword and start swinging. Instead, he looks at Judas and simply says, “My friend, go ahead and do what you have come for.”

Jesus saw the big picture. He knew that he and God were rewriting history. And so, while it made absolutely no sense to those rash problem-solvers like Peter, Jesus went willingly and silently with his persecutors. And he changed the course of history in the process.

Instead of fighting the powers that be, Jesus followed THE power that is and was and is to come. And though the next few days would be awful and agonizing and astonishing, all of humankind would benefit. When I consider Jesus’s act of thoughtful love in the garden so long ago, all I can do is say, thank you, and then seek to share this story of amazing, life-changing love with others.

We live in a culture that feeds on rashness. We speak, act, and jump into the fray with little thought to the consequences or plan. Today, Jesus is reminding me that, sometimes, we need to think further ahead. We need to focus on the divine plan, and let God’s love lead us forward, even if it means not reacting in the moment. Even if it means giving up our own power and authority. Even if it means sacrificing our plan to follow God’s.

As we move toward Easter Sunday, I would encourage us all to pause from reacting in the face of whatever might come. Instead, seek the silence. Seek the garden. Seek the foot of the cross. Seek the tomb. Hold it all–the pain and sacrifice, the fear and confusion, the loneliness and abandonment, the weight of crushed dreams. Be still and wait before the Lord. Be still and know that he is God. And he has a better plan.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

The Invitation

Last night was Ash Wednesday service, my least favorite service of the year. I’ve never fully appreciated the call to repentance and renewed discipleship. It’s not that I don’t think those two things are important, but I feel like those are daily practices in trying to follow Jesus…although, I suppose there is something to be said for a corporate call to repentance and renewal–sort of like the Day of Atonement in Judaism.

That said, I mostly just show up for Ash Wednesday and go through the motions until it’s over. But last night, something struck me. It came as my husband read out the invitation to enter into Lent.

This year, the beginning of Lent falls in the middle of the quadrennial Winter Olympics. To say I am an Olympic fan would be putting it mildly. I LOVE the Olympics. It’s a weird quirk for someone who generally eschews all things sports, but the Olympics are so amazing. I love seeing all the different sports beyond throwing and catching balls. Who knew sliding a stone along a sheet of ice could be so thrilling? And who in their right mind would look at a ski jump and say, “What if we just added a bunch of flips after we launch ourselves fifty feet into the air?” There’s also something beautiful about nations coming together to peacefully compete. And, of course, there are the athletes themselves who have spent years working toward this moment, and most of whom will go home with nothing more than the title of Olympian next to their name.

During the closing ceremony of each Olympic games, the head of the International Olympic Committee gives a proclamation, inviting the youth of the world to gather, once more, in four years time to compete in the Olympic games. That invitation, repeated every two years for both summer and winter games, always gives me goosebumps. It’s such a beautiful call–one of purpose and hope and expectation. And upon hearing it, I always think, “I can’t wait for the next Olympics!”

As I was listening to the invitation to enter into Lent last night, I found myself thinking: What if I approached Lent like I do the Olympics? Instead of something dark and dreary, what if the invitation to Lent was actually a beautiful call of purpose and hope and expectation? Because what is the point of Lent, really, if not to draw closer to Christ? And how can we approach that invitation with anything less than exuberance?

Through our practice of Lent, Jesus calls each of us to draw closer to him–to throw off the trappings of busyness and brain rot, of worry and want to sit with him in the desert places and be healed, uplifted, encouraged, and strengthened. And as we sit in those desert places, God promises that he will bring life. Forests will grow, plants will flourish, and streams will burst to overflowing.

Through the practice of Lent, God is inviting us to enter into the life that he desires for us, one marked by his presence and his wisdom and his love. We all enter into the desert in different ways. For some, it’s about giving something up. For others, it’s about taking something on. But for all of us, it’s about getting to that place where we can sit and commune with God.

This year, I’m very excited about a new Lenten series from Lectio 365. This daily prayer and devotional app has been extremely helpful to me in drawing me closer to God. I love that the format is rooted in ancient traditions, and I appreciate the intentionality of the daily prayers and guide to reflection. Lectio 365 is a place infused with God’s Spirit. Their 2026 Lenten focus is on the Desert Fathers and Mothers. Each day throughout Lent, the devotionals will focus on the life and teachings of the men and women who lived in the desert centuries ago, helping people find their way to Jesus. If you’re looking for a Lenten practice, consider getting the app and following along. It’s free and easy to use.

However you approach Lent this season, I pray that your time in the desert will produce a bountiful harvest of God’s grace and love in your hearts and homes.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

Because Compassion Matters

I’ve been praying and thinking and reading and watching a lot the past few days, trying to both understand and discern the awful events in Minnesota this past weekend. For me, the civil unrest in Minnesota is a culmination of events that have been taking place for many months in many cities around the country. I’ve tried to focus on the Gospels, reading and thinking on Jesus’s words and actions as he traversed the regions around Jerusalem. I’ve listened to thoughtful reflections from Christian teachers and leaders. And I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed. Because this moment matters. Because what we’re living through is not normal. Because people are suffering. Because we can do better.

I try not to mix politics and faith. I appreciate and respect that many of my Christian friends and acquaintances have differing political perspectives than I do. Over the years, I’ve had great debates with some of these friends, but we’ve always walked away from them in love. We didn’t care that we disagreed on issues such as abortion, gun laws, or even marriage. We just enjoyed the heated discourse and figured God would handle the rest.

But that’s not true today. I love the United States, and I feel very lucky to have been born in this nation that has the freedom of people to live and self-govern at its core. Sure, we’re messy, and our actions have often fallen way short of our ideals, but we’ve done some pretty fantastic things, too. Yet if I’m being 100 percent, I have to say that I am deeply struggling with the state of the US today. We seem to be led by individuals who are both corrupt and morally bankrupt, by people who somehow equate power with wreaking havoc and sowing chaos. As my husband said, it’s like someone burned down your house, set up a tent, and said, “Look! Isn’t this better?”

In the midst of it all, people are playing tug of war with Jesus in an effort to support their own ideologies and desires, forgetting that Jesus doesn’t play those games.

As I’ve been praying and pondering how Jesus is calling his people to respond in this tumultuous time, one word keeps coming to my mind: compassion. Luke 1 speaks of one who will come with compassion, allowing the dawn of heaven to break upon us and give light to those living in darkness.

Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is driven by compassion. He had compassion on the people who flocked to him for healing. He had compassion on the outcasts who were cast off by society. He had compassion on the little children who were placed before him by eager parents. He had compassion for those who were mourning the loss of loved ones. He had compassion on the servant of the high priest whose ear was cut off during Jesus’s arrest. And he had compassion on the soldiers who nailed him to the cross and were gambling for his clothes.

Jesus saw the suffering of others. He sees the suffering of others today. And he still has compassion. He has compassion for the immigrants, regardless of their legal status. He has compassion for the federal law enforcement officials who have been tasked with doing a terrible job. He has compassion for those mourning Rene Good and Alex Pretti, whose lives were taken in shocking acts of violence. And while it’s really hard for me to understand how, he probably has compassion for the officers responsible for these deaths, too.

I’m in no way condoning what has been taking place in Minnesota, or what has taken place and is taking place in cities around the country. While I respect a government’s right to enforce their immigration laws, whether I agree with those laws or not, to do so by terrorizing people and denying them due process is wrong.

It’s interesting to me that Jesus lived in a time when leaders sowed violence and seemed to lack the capacity for compassion and humility, too, but he didn’t talk a lot about that. At least, not explicitly. A lot of what he said and did was counter-cultural and upended both cultural norms and religious teachings. But he didn’t yell about it. He didn’t call political leaders names or make them into caricatures. He did yell at the religious leaders and called them whitewashed tombs and a brood of vipers because they were exploiting people and perverting the gospel message, which should be a sobering reminder for all of us “religious” folk out there. But mostly, he just saved people–physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He drew people to him and he loved them.

So, what is our Christian witness in times of turmoil and unrest? I like how Christian writer Henri Nouwen puts it:

As Christians, we’re not called to sit on the sidelines and watch as people suffer. We’re called to exercise compassion and help those who suffer. But we can do so in a variety of ways, depending on where we feel God calling us. Some people show compassion by bearing witness to acts of injustice or terror. Others take part in community-led endeavors to support those in their local communities who might be struggling. We can show compassion by reaching out to our immigrant neighbors, asking them how they’re doing and what they need. We can do the same for law-enforcement members who live in our neighborhoods, too. We can support immigrant-owned businesses, as well, and get to know the people who run them. We can pray for those who are suffering, and for those who are the cause of the suffering.

Most importantly, we can stop dragging Jesus between political parties and just let him move freely throughout our homes, neighborhoods, communities, and country. If we truly want to follow Jesus, then we have to leave ourselves behind, taking action with and for those who suffer to build God’s beloved kingdom on Earth, as it is in heaven.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

What Are You Doing?

Sometimes, the past comes to me unexpectedly. Not literally, of course, but I’ve always had this sense of time transcending space, or maybe space transcending time, when the present and past intermingle. There are moments when I feel history all around me, and while it’s probably a product of my overactive imagination, it never ceases to move me.

And so it was, on a chilly December evening, as I sat on a riser on the stage of a historic mid-1800s theater, that the past showed up again. It was the final rehearsal for our community Christmas concert, and the choir was taking a break while the small ensembles ran through their numbers. A choral group was center stage, singing a gorgeous rendition of the The First Noel. As I looked out across the mostly empty theater, with its box seats, brass balcony rails, and gilded flourishes, I thought of all those who had been in this theater before. In my mind, I saw Civil War soldiers peeking from behind the stage curtains, while bustled ladies in plumed hats peered down from the boxed seats and teens in rolled jeans and bobbie socks tripped down the aisles holding buckets of popcorn. The theater that had been nearly empty before was suddenly full to bursting, and my heart rejoiced at this great reunion of souls as I thought about all of the life that had been lived in this one place.

All of a sudden, the closing lines of poet Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day” floated to the surface of my mind, and I found myself pondering:

I turn 50 in 2026, and just putting this fact on paper fills me with dread and, weirdly, humiliation. 50 wasn’t a number I ever pictured for myself. I was simply going to be in my early 30s forever. For me, 50 feels like rounding a bend and finding myself a lot closer to the end of the race than I expected. I keep doing the math in my head, adding up the ages of my ancestors to try and gauge how much time I might have left, but honestly, I’ve never been very good at math, and maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.

As I communed with the great cloud of witnesses in the theater last month, I was reminded that life is a gift–a wild and precious gift–and God, in his infinite kindness, has given us the opportunity to choose what we do with it. As a Jesus person, I believe that we are called to live lives of purpose, seeking to build God’s kingdom here on Earth. But I don’t think that means we’re called to live lives of drudgery and severity. Quite the opposite, actually.

In the gospel of John, Jesus talked a lot about life–mostly that he is the bread of life and brings life to all who follow him. In John 10:10, Jesus talks about the kind of life we’re called to live.

Of course, Jesus being Jesus, there’s a lot more to this verse than just YOLO (you only live once). It’s in the middle of a teaching about sheep following their shepherds which ends in Jesus revealing that he is the Good Shepherd who leads his flock to salvation. So, when Jesus talks about life, he’s talking about it on two levels: the spiritual and the temporal. Jesus came that we might have eternal life, but also so that we might live as people freed from the fear of sin and death; hence, living life to the fullest.

Each new year, I try and choose a word that will be my theme for the year. Initially, I had chosen “Surprise” as that word. I feel like, in some ways, I’ve stopped allowing myself to be surprised by life. I’ve become too cynical, and I want to be more open to wonder. But as I was writing this, I realized that going into 2026 requires more. I think, for 2026, a better word is live. If life is a gift meant to be lived to the fullest, then we should do that. We should take the trips, make the big leaps, tackle the someday projects, set extra places for dinner. We should give extravagantly, forgive generously, turn the page on past failures or hurts, embrace the possibilities, be kind to others, and say yes to God more. We should walk through woods, plant some flowers, look at the stars, and watch the birds take flight, giving thanks to God for the wonderful world he’s made.

Living life to the fullest isn’t, I think, about adding more to our lists. Rather, it’s about making our lists in conversation with God. Here’s the entire text of Mary Oliver’s poem. I think it captures full-life living beautifully. So, what are you doing in 2026?

Blessings and Peace,

Sara

“The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Still A Time for Wonder

I laughed this morning as I read this post from a few years ago…because we’re just a couple of days from Christmas and everything in the first paragraph is still true! It’s like my life spins on one endless loop…I’m creating traditions where I don’t even know it. These words from Malachi were a good reminder for me just when I most need them, and it’s my prayer that they will be for you, too.

And thank you, for engaging in this faith exploration journey with me–for showing up in this space, even when it’s not regularly scheduled programming. I appreciate each of you, and wish you a very Merry Christmas whatever it might look like.

Sara

Today, we find ourselves entering the home stretch of the Advent season. Christmas is in two days and, per usual, I am in manic mode. There are gifts to finish purchasing, stockings to stuff, menus to plan, and goodies to bake. In all of my self-inflicted hustle and bustle, I sometimes forget to pause and reflect on why we celebrate Christmas in the first place. Holidays can easily devolve from celebrations to chores if we’re not careful, and there are times I have teetered on that ledge–or nose-dived right off it!

So now, I’m reflecting on the writings of the minor prophets: specifically, the books of Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi. These three prophets lived and worked in the post-exilic period, after the Israelites had returned from Babylon. There was a lot of work to do–the land was in ruins. So this group devoted themselves to putting the pieces of their nation back together. It was busy work and, as happens in the midst of busyness, the people were neglecting God again. The prophets were there to remind them that, although the work of rebuilding the nation of Israel was important, most important was their continued faithfulness to God and his law. Kind of like our to-do lists, right?

And yet, I have found, that when we set aside our “must…keep…pushing…through” items and focus our souls on God, he shows up in such unexpected and remarkable ways that we can’t help but, as the hymn proclaims, stand in awesome wonder. Last year, about this time, a moment of awesome wonder came in my kitchen as I was sitting on the little wooden step stool my husband’s grandfather made long ago and which has become my Bible time stool. I was reading through the book of Malachi. Like his contemporaries Haggai and Zechariah, Malachi was urging the people to remain faithful to God, and chastising them for prioritizing other tasks and only giving God the left-overs of their daily lives. But Malachi was also speaking beyond the present, prophesying a time to come when God would judge between the faithful and the faithless, setting aside a people to call his own. Chapter four of Malachi ends this proclamation:

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I quickly turned the page to see what would happen next, and was flummoxed to discover that there were no more words. What?! I thought to myself. That’s it? Truth be told, there’s one more verse–it says God will come and strike the land with total destruction. (Malachi 4:6) Quite the exclamation point! But I want to focus on the proclamation–the promise of Elijah before the day of the Lord’s arrival.

As I flipped ahead through the next several pages of historical commentary in my Bible, somewhat disgruntled by the lack of resolution on the author’s part, it dawned on me…Malachi ends abruptly because the story’s not done. Flipping quickly to the book of Matthew I sat, stunned, as I looked at the words before me. For the first time ever, I was awed, not by God’s word, but by a genealogical list of names.

Normally, when it comes to biblical genealogy, I just skim through it. But what stunned me, what awed me, weren’t the names themselves, but the fact that God had been continuing the story for generations, even after the prophets in Scripture had gone silent. Malachi spoke of the coming of Elijah in 430 B.C., and in the first-written synoptic gospel around 60 A.D., we have John the Baptist, an Elijah-like figure, living in the Judea wilderness and preaching a gospel of repentance in preparation for the coming of the Lord.

The final word in the Old Testament is a promise of the Lord’s coming. Then there’s silence. Time moves on. One generation gives way to the next. Nations rise and fall. Yet the minutiae of life keeps moving, like a time-lapse video, different figures blurring together as they move in an out of the same scene. Years pass…hundreds of them in which people are born, in which they live and laugh and love and cry, in which they die and are laid to rest with all of those who have gone before. And the Earth keeps turning.

It’s quiet. It’s ordinary. Until one day, in an ordinary time in an ordinary place, an angel delivers a message to a young man and a young woman that will change everything. While many people had long ago stopped expecting God’s promises to be fulfilled, God hadn’t forgotten. From Malachi to Matthew (and Mark and Luke) God had a plan, and what we celebrate at Christmas is the fulfillment of that plan.

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This, then, is what fills me with awe. That God came in a moment when it was least expected–in a time when many had likely written off his promise of a messiah as a myth or legend–a story of hope to be shared, but not really to be anticipated. God continued the story…for thousands of years! And it’s a story he’s continuing to write–his words etched into the hearts of all those who love him–his promises yet to be fulfilled.

As the shepherds did on a night long ago, I stand (or sit) in awesome wonder of God’s work. I’m overwhelmed by the depth and breadth of his faithfulness. For me, this Christmas is about hope. The hope that God is faithful, that all of his promises will come to fruition in his time and in his way. God never gives up. He came when everyone least expected it, and in a way that no one could have foretold.

My prayer for you as we enter the Christmas season is that you, too, will have an experience of God that leaves you standing in awesome wonder. Are you looking? Are you waiting? Fear not! God will come.

Blessings and Peace,

Sara