Not Like D. Bowie's - It's Different Than That

            A number of years ago at my home church in San Diego, they built an outdoor labyrinth in the back corner of the church property. I walked by it often. I knew it was used for prayer, but I was always suspicious that it was syncretistic, melding some sort of weird spirituality into Christian prayer. Why do we have a labyrinth?

            It was with this same curiosity that I stood on the pebble mat on Monday and breathed deep, holding a question in my mind like a fragile egg, trying to prepare myself for the experience. I took a

Tornadoooooo

It started raining when I walked to worship this morning. It was really nice, actually. Just enough rain to be interesting, to keep me cool, to say that I had walked in the rain.

But it wasn't until after worship, talking with others in the fellowship hall that the pastor announced, "Everyone, there is a tornado watch and all church activities for the day are cancelled!"

What? Tornado? Coming from the West Coast, tornadoes are just plot mechanisms for fairy tales. But no, he was serious. Huh ... wonder what this will be like.

Do Not Hinder Them

The chapel at Western Theological Seminary is a welcoming place. Warm light pours over the bread and the wine on the table in the center of the room. Little puddlets of water sit childlike at the foot of the font, where some had splashed during the vigorous acoustic pouring. The way all the chairs are circled around the table allow me to see the body of Christ (not just in the bread and wine but) in the people sitting across from me.

Things I Touch

I don't remember much about my run yesterday. That is, as I reflect on it, most of what I remember was that I was listening to Robbie Seay and testing out a new App called Strava that tracks my stats live through my new iPhone. Until yesterday, running had been for me a time of silence and breathing, rhythm and pulsing, getting lost, surfacing thoughts, observing the season, and approaching my Maker. It's amazing how two electric earbuds can take all that away.

Removing earbuds is an easy fix (that I shall remedy on my next run). However...

Leading in a Fog

How do I get kids to understand the kingdom of God? How do I shift their conceptions of the Christian life? These are essential questions I have been asking ever since I was hired a few months ago as a youth pastor at First CRC of Grand Haven. I’ve never actually led a youth group, but like most young people in ministry, I make up for it in eagerness, optimism, and consternation. This summer I exercised my brain, wringing it for ideas, vision and strategies. I put together all the scriptures for the whole semester so as to walk the students through the basics of the kingdom of God. I imagined students’ faith light bulbs flashing weekly with fresh revelations.

Liturgy of a Full Life

Day:
Six thirty.
Wake up, get ready, eat.
Drive thirty minutes and listen, watch, think.
Brisk walk
Engage engage engage
Think think think

Good News

[A follow-up to An Unfamiliar, Scary Place]

When I walked onto the grounds of the residential facility, I saw Ethan* far in the distance, in between the trees, swinging a stick back and forth.  The reports I had been getting from his therapist the past two weeks were that he had been failing in school and leaving the building every afternoon, decidedly unwilling to complete any of his assignments.  His therapist also said he has the lowest self esteem of any of the kids she is working with.

I met Ethan’s therapist on the walk into the nearest cottage.  After ten minutes, Chris and Cat* joined us.  We hugged, excited for what the day meant.  We sat down, swapping stories from the afternoon.  I pulled out my folder and took out a single paper, “Intent to Adopt” written at the top. 

Gathered and Sent

“I worship in the church of the open skies,” quipped my friend regarding his religious affiliations. He talked of his surfing and hiking as spiritual experiences of worship as if to say he doesn’t need that stuffy religion in order to “connect to God”. And that’s how we think of worship in the evangelical church, isn’t it? That we are gathering together to connect to God. And so my friend does have a point – why can’t we just connect to God on our own? Why do I need all these “rules” and “sermons” to facilitate an inward connection to my maker? It’s a good question.

Art Prize

Before posting my thoughts, I would love to hear your response to the question:

What is Worship?

Have at it in the comment section.

New Season, New Practices*

As I look over the past ten days, I have experienced a lot of joy and challenge, mostly around beginning classes at WTS. It’s a joy to be fully committed to something, to dive in with my whole heart and give my best. It’s a joy to enter into a community of love and formation in which I feel welcomed and embraced. I feel joy at the end of the day knowing I have worked well toward a good end. I feel joy as I engage in my readings and subject matter and learn so much about a God who loves me way more than I ever thought. It has been a challenge to get less sleep and

Hooked

"Accident prone," the mother said to me as she rolled her eyes.
"Come here, boy, let me see it," said the aunt to her young nephew, still a ways off. The boy stood back, no emotion on his face, just one hand covering his bottom lip. She urged again and he dropped his hand. "O Shit!" exclaimed the aunt.

Ten minutes earlier we had found two young boys standing on the side of a lake. The smaller one was frozen holding his fishing pole as the older one gingerly held the fishing line at his mouth. We jogged over to help. Rachel went looking for his mom way down the beach. I grabbed a slimy knife from their bucket and cut the line as close to the hook as possible, so afraid I would slip and tug it deeper into the soft flesh. It was a big hook and the end of the worm was still on there. I patted him on the back.

Dynamite!

"Hey! Good morning!" I called through my rolled down window as I passed the third driveway on my block on the way to work on Tuesday morning. It wasn't my neighbor, but my neighbor's friend who was walking out to his truck to get something. The two (my neighbor and his friend) are inseparable. They're always in the back yard hanging out, drinking, gardening, pushing kids on the swing, and lighting dynamite (more on this later).

"You got the wrong guy," he muttered. For a cheery guy, he seemed pretty upset.
"Huh?" I knew this person. We threw the frisbee together at the block party.
"You got the wrong guy. You can't come over here all buddy-buddy after calling the cops on us," he grimaced.

Paper Sack Sermon

When the morning service at Salvation Army* finished, all kinds of people greeted one another. Rachel and I were instantly caught up in a number of friendly conversations and encouragements. Out of the corner of my eye, two kids approached me holding three paper sacks filled with something; all I could see were heads of grass waving out the tops like flags. Written on the outside of the sack in red sharpie were two words: God created! "This is for you," the boy gleamed, holding one up to me. "We made them in Sunday school." 

The boy and girl were obviously siblings and also the only ones present today for Sunday school. The teacher? Their mom. The next youngest person in the room was probably Rachel, then me, then their mom, and then all the others, averaging in their late sixties. But they were a warm bunch, visibly stripped of pretense and riches and glad to gather together for Sunday worship.

At the beginning of the service, the leaders led the church in a prayer, "God bless Brendan this

Playing In God's Smile

"Let's do cartwheels all the way down the middle of the street!" I turned and three girls had begun their gymnastic mini-parade. When I had asked one of the kids if he wanted to help me set up the yellow barricades the police provided to close our block, I was soon followed by the whole gang, complete with the blonde four-year-old boy asking in his hoarse little voice, "What's going on guys?"

Soon chalk rubbed colorfully on the black pavement (and even on young faces). Taylor Swift echoed from my car radio. An overt skirmish between two neighbors about the limited road access was quickly extinguished. Whimsical yard games intertwined in non-competitive joy. We smacked home runs out of a dented wiffle ball over chalk bases. We shot basketballs into an empty trashcan hoop. We threw frisbees over sitting heads and around parked cars. We got ketchup on the ground after a big bite into a hot dog. Ice cream, donated by a local shop, melted
down our cones and between our sticky fingers. It was the day for extra sprinkles and double scoops, even for grandmas. The sun was bright and warm like a smile from God.

When we met as a neighborhood a number of weeks ago, we began talking about things that could be changed on the block. The conversation veered when defenses went up over the appearance of someone's front yard. "You don't have a pass. If you get a pass, then the whole neighborhood gets a pass. We've got to clean this place up," said one of the more outspoken leaders. Technically she's right. Our neighbors should do a better job at keeping their yards tidy. But as I've been praying about this neighborhood, a scripture has come to mind.

When I'm Out of Flyers

I walked up the creaky, overgrown steps to a high floppy porch and gently rapped the wooden door. I was making sure my feet were planted on secure footing when a kid opened the door and left it open as he returned to his video games. Rose looked up from her desk, gave a warm "hi" and asked how I was doing. I waited on the threshold ten minutes like that before Mark emerged from their downstairs, obviously having just thrown on his clothes, a hat and his coffee mug. I was happy to see him. We've only met a couple of times but it seems like more than that. We walked down his front steps and began our mission with the first door to his right.

(Over the past two whole seasons, Rachel and I have been trying to love our neighbors. We've initiated, learned names, prayed, invited, served, raised funds, asked questions, listened, remained present, and tried to deepen relationships in hopes of opening a

Spring is a Miracle

This is from my walk yesterday at Hofma. Check out my last two photo-blogs to see how this scenery has changed drastically. Wow. Only weeks ago this was all frosted and dead. Now it's bursting with life. Birds sing and hoot. The air is warm and wet. Everything is growing and blooming!

fuzzy wuzzy

A Thank You Letter to My Husband (A Blog Hijack)

B,

I vowed to you on our wedding day that I would always be by your side, and somehow it was the easiest and hardest commitment I've made.  I love you, and there was no question in my mind that I want to spend every day with you.  But with our families and histories in two different places, I thought that day that I might never live near my family again.

You told me you didn’t know where Michigan was before meeting me.  But you asked questions about my hometown, and you were eager to visit and meet my family that winter of 2010.  You took a sip of Lake Michigan when you first met the lakeshore and you were shocked to taste no salt.  You made my friends and I laugh when you ice-skated on top of Muskegon Lake while shouting “I’m Apolo Ohno!”

And then you hugged me when I told you I got the job in Michigan.  You were open to moving, you were excited for me, you were ready.  You sacrificed your job, living near your family and friends, living two blocks from the ocean, playing in your band, surfing, and the city you’ve called “home” for the past nine years.  You had to say good-bye to your brother, your best friend.  Then you were welcomed to Michigan with people asking, “Are you crazy?  Have you ever been in winter here?” 

Brendan, I am in awe of your strength and determination.  You are a go-getter and you have a positivity that can paint anything yellow - with daisies.  I smiled when I saw a new library book opened on the dresser.  Now, you’re learning photography.  Two weeks ago, you were reading about gardening, and now we have a fifteen by twenty foot vegetable garden in the backyard.  One day you had the idea to make an adirondack chair for our back porch, and three days later it was complete. 

You’re constantly dreaming, and your dreams are centered around seeing God’s Kingdom on earth.  You humble me and constantly inspire me to trust in God.  You know more local businesses and community happenings than residents who have lived here their whole lives, and I’m almost certain you know more people in this town than I do now.   I love your excitement about seeing our neighborhood improve, and I love having to slowly drive down our street because you and the neighborhood boy are playing football in the front yard.  I loved the four seasons before, but sharing them with you has been a joy because you have a sharper eye for beauty. 

To say thank you for moving to Michigan is simply not enough.  You’ve not just moved and sacrificed, but you’ve thrived despite starting from scratch.  Thank you for making our home hospitable, thank you for loving our neighbors, and thank you for supporting my work by listening to me every night over dinner.  Thank you for embracing winter and shoveling our driveway without complaining once.  Thank you for asking for my dad’s help in making wood projects and for having the kind of relationship with my parents where you feel comfortable stopping over at their house any time.  Thank you for taking the time to notice each season, for learning the street names, for looking forward to extended family events, and for loving my friends. You have given me a great gift by allowing me to share with you the place I grew up, with so many of the people I love.  One of the greatest gifts you could have ever given me.

With love and gratitude,

Rachel  

Hints of It

When I think of springtime, scenes from Bambi immediately come to mind. One day it's winter, the next day it rains, and the third day everything is green, the butterflies are swarming, the birds are swooping and playing after each other, and flowers are constantly opening to the bright sun drying up all the rain in a rising mist. Spring is not like that. It's slow. The snow over the winter almost perfectly preserves everything from fall. And when it slowly melts with the rain, you'd think it was fall. But with watchfulness you might catch hints of it (and listening you might begin to hear it): Spring.

yellow. purple. green. orange.

Rototilled

photo credit: Mike McClenahan

Through our front window I saw the red, busted, rust-laden pickup pull up to the curb outside of our house with a disjointed green trailer full of equipment tugging along behind. Throwing on my coat and shoes, I sprung out the door into the sunshine and brisk air. The robins were out, picking worms from the soil.

"Jim!" I greeted him as he walked up my driveway, wheeling behind him a bent up rototiller (it's funny how a man can be so much like his truck) which he stood in the middle of my back lawn.

"You just tell me where," he said, his brow wrinkled and eyes wide, almost like he was speaking to a foreigner, "and I'll do it." We filled the gas reservoir and with a number of strokes the small engine sputtered and growled.

A few days ago, I shared with my neighbor, Marcy, that I wanted to plant a garden just off my back porch. I wanted to grow potatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes, jalapeños, strawberries, thyme, cilantro,

Two Sounds

I woke up to two sounds in the night.

The first sound was a crash, an explosion like one from the movies. It started with an ear-splitting crack and then grew like a roar, deep and throaty. My head came up off the pillow and I oriented myself. The sound came from the west and slightly north. After some silence I sat up to listen more. Nothing. I got up and went downstairs to peer out the window. Nothing but the dark rain slapping shiny streets and cars and charging down in columns from the roof.

What in the world could that have been? Nobody else seems to be disturbed. The television glows drearily in the window across the street. It's four in the morning. The blast was framed in silence. No scream, no laughter, no collapsing of structures. "If a tree

Seed Under Snow

I walked straight into the neighborhood garden store and the door swung closed behind me. The pungent, woody smell of fertilizer lifted my nostrils. One older man muted the television and turned to acknowledge me. I planted my palms on the worn counter.

"I'd like to grow a vegetable garden. I'm wondering what would be the best way to go about it."

He began answering, but slowly. He asked me about my plot size, soil type, deer, sun exposure, what types of vegetables I'd like

Isaiah Thirty-Five (Continued from 600 wing)

I looked up. He came into his own space with familiarity, strong to the ground, planted and steady. Colorful eyes shown bright with possibility from a strong-jawed, determined face. I recognized something or someone in him.

After brief introductions, we sat down in momentary silence.

"I thought I would connect with you," I probed, trying to find my words. Why was I here? "I'm new to this area. I'm from San Diego. My dad's a pastor, and I was a worship pastor there. My wife and I just moved into the area and I'm looking for opportunities."

"Great. Well, welcome to Michigan. So are you looking for full time or part time or..." I could tell I was at a distance.

"It's not that really, I mean I guess I'm looking for opportunities, just getting a feel." Where was I going with this? "It's not that I want a job - necessarily. I'm looking for people..." I drifted off, words and language evading my grasps. "I wanted to kind of see what's happening here, what God's doing in your church. So I thought I would connect with you."

"What's God doing here," he mouthed. He shook his head as if waking himself from a dream. The distance between us felt smaller as he began to speak.

"This church. Man. This church had it's 'hay day' back in the nineties." With a blue pen he drew a bell curve on a napkin and

600 Wing

Clouds covered low overhead and snow reached wide, covering acres of oak studded farmland. The road I followed tracked like an Etch-a-Sketch, drawing straight black lines in a series of right angles as I made my way southeast.

At the center of a sprawling black parking lot loomed a colossal edifice with high walls and dark hard edges, boxed and sealed with glass and cement, shrink-wrapped and watertight. Like a dormant robotic dog, it sprawled over the asphalt. I circled slowly, unsure which lettered portico was the main entrance.  I swung open the high metal and glass door to a long, carpeted walkway. Coat hangers hung to my left and more doors, drinking fountains, and numbered signposts, letting me know I was one long hallway away from the four hundred wing. The lights were off and the ceilings were unreachable and unnoticeable except for the way they blocked the sunlight. A silent figure caught my eye and vanished behind a distant doorway, above which quietly

Morning Flames

After my shower and shave I took my time down the stairs to an empty kitchen. Rachel had just left for work minutes earlier. I put some water in a pot and ignited a hot blue flame on the stove which licked the metal bottom of the pot. In my groggy morning state, I stared at the burning flame and the bubbles in the water which were beginning to form.

I am in a small tent pitched on cold crushed pine needles at the base of a granite bowl suspended in the high Sierra Nevada mountains. Above, the sky is flame-blue, streaked with clouds and bouncing off the  cold crystal lake. Little circles grow as trout snack on little bugs. The sun is not yet visible; its halo ignites the jagged sawtoothed peaks to the east. I'm pulling on my pants in the tent, which ruffles and bends as my brother steps out and pulls a fleece over his head. I see my dad sitting in jeans on an old pine log, folded at the waist over his knees as he works on something between his boots with his big hands. It's a little butane burner he props up and balances with one hand and with the other strikes a match. The hot flame roars and spits and is soon

Will You Give Me A Drink?

Yesterday in high school group we told John's story of the woman at the well. Afterwards, we gave students the opportunity to write their deepest secrets. Is there a time you have felt lonely or secretive? What was that like? How does it feel to write your secret? How would your parents or teachers react to your secret? How would Jesus respond to what is on your paper?

Three high school boys shared around my table. One was open and friendly, pleasantly aware and blessedly naïve. One was deep in pain, writhing in silence and fear. He clearly wanted to be left alone but he is also desperate for somebody to understand him. One was foreign, a lonely student from Germany struggling to speak English phrases. And in each of these boys I saw reflections of

Forced Fasting

Slushy rain splattered our windshield on our way east through frozen blueberry farms to the doctor's. The flush red twiggy plants, bare to the cold air, stuck in blank snowy rows that we flipped like pages as we passed. Each fruit and leaf had earlier been picked by winter's chill. Similarly we passed mowed corn fields, beheaded like statues, chopped as a pine forest for lumber. Tall stood

Life Is Pain, Highness. Anyone Who Tells You Differently Is Selling Something

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of forty days before Easter during which the church celebrates the wilderness, the suffering of Jesus. We come together, usually meditate on Psalm Fifty-one, think on suffering, and then choose something to fast from for the next forty days until Easter.

I knew this girl in our youth group who every year fasted from candy and chocolate. We all knew; she complained about it often. But I didn't come up with very good ideas either. I felt on-the-spot pressure to act more spiritual than I felt. The best idea I had was one year when I chose to drive no faster than the speed limit. For forty days I learned patience and to submit my actions to a higher law. I think those are good things. The funny thing is, the speed limit is always posted. I didn't add some new rule to my life to

Frühlingsglaube*

I was backing down my driveway today when I drifted left into a giant pile of snow. Throwing it into first, I spun my front tires in ice, lurching the vehicle back and forth. Rachel got the neighbor and came out to help push. I got out to check out the situation and landed my once dry foot into a slushy puddle.

My goal for the year has been to find full time employment. In my mind, that would be the marker of assimilation into a new

Sunrise in the Snow

Out in the woods on a winter morning somebody stokes a fire. I can see it burning 

through the snowy trees. The whole world huddles 

around the warm center, rubbing our hands together in the morning light.

Perchprints Now Dimples

I put the dishes in the drying rack and stand still to admire the snow falling out back. It's the kind that falls heavy like rain and stacks thick upon itself. A flutter in the corner of my eye is a bird flitting from the wire to the branch, flashing white stripes beneath his wings. Another flutter, this time a bright spatter of red against the white. It's a cardinal, majestically perching upon a wire. She flashes her red wings and swoops to another branch. I become aware there are a dozen birds, jumping from branch to branch, branch to rooftop, wire to branch.

Why do they keep moving around? Are they startled when a snowflake lands upon their tail feathers? Are they looking for their

Enter Rest

I set aside yesterday as a sabbath. Monday is a funny day to choose as a sabbath, I know. Despite my attempt to clear my schedule of everything, there were some inevitable tasks that had to get done. When my wife asks me if I have cleaned the shower yet, it's hard to say, "no, sorry hun, it's my sabbath today" as she's running out the door to work for us.

As it turned out, the content of my "sabbath" was not very different from any other Monday. Then what is a sabbath? It is a day in which the intentions of my heart are to rest in God, to listen to God, to celebrate God, to enjoy God. On a sabbath, I open my day to the Holy Spirit and say, "Here are some things I was thinking about doing, but it doesn't really matter what we do. I really just want to be with you. What next, God?" So I began with prayer* and then did everything else with the intent of

One Year

How quickly life changes. Most of the time it's before I know what to do, before I get there, before I say the right thing, before I understand it. I thought moments like this came at the peak of great crescendos, emotion building around a single, focused event until the beautiful resolve of a significant moment. This is far from reality. Instead, all moments, great and small, are shouting in the cacophony of the present. 

It was one year ago today that I got this call from my brother while I was sleeping. My sister-in-law is in labor. "Hold it," I tell myself. "Stop, slow down. Slow down this moment until I am there." Rachel and I raced from San Diego to Los Angeles. In the car, we found out our nephew was born. He came

Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock. Knockknockknockknockknockknock!

Over the past couple of weeks, Sally's abnoxious knock has actually softened. I quickly walk around to open our back door to the familiar face of my neighbor.

"HEY nayber! Just to let you know your spigot's got a leak. Tried shuttin it off but it won't stick. Your landlord's gonna be payin' plus there's plenty of ice too. Say, it don't bother me but I just thought I'd tell ya."

"Come on in!" shouts Rachel from the kitchen. I realize the door's standing wide open and Sally may as well come in before too much cold air does. Sally obliges. Rachel happens to be sticking a tray of

An Unfamiliar, Scary Place

GUEST BLOG by Rachel McClenahan

Because a snowstorm was predicted overnight, I jumped out of bed on Friday morning to see how much snowfall had accumulated.  With just a dusting on the cars in the neighborhood, I got dressed and headed out the door.  Today, a foster care worker and I were driving to Detroit and I would meet the 11-year-old boy whom I was assigned as an adoption worker.

Ethan* is the only child on my caseload who does not reside in a foster/pre-adoptive home.  He is currently in a residential home, or a children’s home staffed by caseworkers and therapists, and today he would be going to a new residential home.  He had run away and threatened staff/other children so often that he needed more supervision and care.  The new home will be his fifth placement since coming into foster care over a year ago.

After a two hour drive, we arrived to where Ethan was residing.  Fifteen minutes later his therapist brought him to where we were waiting and the foster care worker introduced me as his new adoption

I Am My Tracks

Snowshoeing is new to me. I got some for Christmas but this last week is the first time there's been enough snow for me to get out there and stomp around. Yesterday the clouds pulled back, revealing a bright sun glistening and sparkling from the soft pillow of snow covering the whole forest. My new snowshoes were strapped on, pushing through the white and spraying my dark jeans with frosty powder. With snowshoes, it's much more fun to walk through the deepest snow.

I found faded footprints leading up a hidden trail and followed them way back into the woods, toward Lake Michigan. The trail split and headed down into a ravine, where a wooden fence stood guard as I walked around it. The footprints were smaller now, but I was determined to reach the lake. Branches heavy with snow hung over my path. Fallen trees made a jungle gym through which I clumsily maneuvered, my feet framed by snowshoes. Wind blew the treetops above, from which fell big clumps of snow all around. I was

Snow Blower or Footprints. Whichever.

With a steel-tipped shovel I scrape the pavement behind my parked car. It's early in the morning and probably in the single digits fahrenheit. Beneath my coat and fleece, I'm sweating and enjoying the hard work; it reminds me that I have muscle for a reason. In fact, my shoulders and chest are still tight from yesterday's shoveling. But it snowed again last night - four inches. My task this morning is to shovel the fresh snow out of the way, so our heavy cars won't pack it down into ice, bonding a slippery path to our uphill driveway.

I shovel hard, but despite my persistence, icy tire tracks still cling to the pavement. I know they need to be removed, but I've been out here for almost an hour. My shoulders, chest, and hands are getting sore and my face is becoming numb from the cold. I push the majority of the loose snow off to the

Getting Colder

speckled forest

Not Microscopic (visible!)

I pulled up onto the driveway today, all the way until our back lawn starts. I turned off the car, was about to get out, but was frozen by the snowflakes on my window. One by one, they landed lightly on the cold window without melting. My eyes strained as I focused on their tiny detail.

I always knew snowflakes were unique, that each had a pattern. But until today I thought the

Leaving the Trail

I've run, hiked and photographed the woods at Hofma preserve enough to know its trails like a good friend. But I discovered a small trail I had not seen before and decided to make it the direction of today's run. Marked by trampled leaves, the cold trail wove between slender and bare trees through a hole in a fence and quickly merged into a wider double trail, the kind made by tire tracks. Pine forests lined either side of the sandy, needled floor and I turned left, off the trail and into the thick of the trees. I criss-crossed two trails and took one of them. Pine needles turned to sand, which turned to deep leaves, under which lay sticks, ready to twist underfoot and snap me in the shin. Before long,

Make Up Rules

"I'm probably gonna fall"
"Maybe just put your hand on my shoulder and I'll walk with you"
"Okay," Anthony stepped his right sneaker up onto the skateboard and put his small glove on the top of  my shoulder.
"Ready? Go."

After cleaning up from lunch, Rachel and I plopped down on the couch and continued our

Wise Words are Few Words

Listen to your neighbors
In listening we invite
By listening we love

Thoughts Setting Like A Sun

I swing the door open with my foot and sidestep out in the cold. One hand* carries a chair from our dining table and the other clutches a thick book full of thoughts and ideas begging to be explored. I am tired of being inside all the time. I want to breathe fresh air and feel some breeze, however cold it is. I want to feel sun on my face, even if most of its heat is going other places on the planet (like, say, San Diego). It's pretty much sunset time, although this time of year it's hard to tell just when that begins.

I draw up the chair to the south edge of the porch, plop down, and wrap my neck in a long scarf. Snow covers the grass in patches, and the sun is dripping down through the bare branches above the

Holy Pajamas

Rachel and I slept in today, taking advantage of the fact that I no longer lead worship for a church. It's been a nice change of rhythm for us to drive together to our gathering as a church family. Sundays have become so much more relaxing and restful!

No alarm woke me up. I crept downstairs with my book*, turned on a lamp, laid back into the couch and began to read** as the snow fell gently outside. As I read about ministry and gifting, I reflected on some of the ways God has called my friends and me uniquely. Rachel came downstairs in her pajamas to say hi, about two hours after I woke. We realized we only had about fifteen minutes to

Winter Has Begun

a fork in the road

Can I Call It Home Yet?

We've "come home" to Grand Haven for the first time, back from our visit to California.

There's something dreamlike about visiting what used to be your home. It's like when you take an unfamiliar winding road and come upon the backside of a familiar building. "This leads to here?"

I'm not used to flying into San Diego with fresh suitcases. I am surprised by which friends stick around and make a plan to see me while I'm there. I'm not ready for such long goodbyes from my

Celebrating the Year

We ran out into the cold, hugged our parents, siblings and best friends, and jumped into our freshly and colorfully decorated get-away car, making sure Rachel's wedding dress was tucked in before shutting the door. As we began driving across the icy pavement, our friends ran alongside the car cheering. In all of the excitement, one groomsman (I won't mention his name*) slipped in front of the headlights, tearing a hole in the rental tux and barely evading an accident! We waved goodbye and we were on our way to downtown Grand Rapids for the night. In the low light of the dashboard we looked at each other, smiling and laughing. What a beautiful day, what a beautiful time in our story. 

Today Rachel and I are in downtown Grand Rapids once again, not only to celebrate 2013, but to