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Who Is Our Community?

I have been thinking a lot about community lately. Not the abstract kind. Not the polished kind we put in mission statements. The real kind. The kind that smells like fried fish and sea air. The kind where children play across the street, goats wander nearby, stray dogs circle hopefully, and people gather because this is just where people gather. While we were in St. Vincent, we visited a small local restaurant. The kind of place where people don’t really sit inside, so the inside becomes a mix of restaurant and storage. A couple of tables on the porch. A few picnic tables in the parking lot. The menu was simple: catch of the day or blackfish, served with provisions. And yet, there it was. Community. At one table sat about eight women of different ages. One of them asked me how I was and seemed to actually want to know. Not the polite kind of question. The kind where your answer matters. Nearby, another group gathered around a picnic table, drinking beer, talking, laughing, eating, enj...
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The Ocean Is Not Quiet… We Just Don’t Always Listen

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I came home with salt still on my skin and something I can’t quite name sitting with me. For two weeks, life slowed down. Morning didn’t rush me. No schedule chasing me out the door. Just light coming through the window and the ocean, always there. I swam every day. In Indian Bay . The kind of water that makes you forget what time it is. The kind that holds you without asking anything in return. It felt… good. Simple in a way that makes you wonder what we’ve done to our lives back home. And it’s beautiful there. It really is. But there’s something else. Because there were no fish. Or almost none. I kept waiting for that flicker of movement, that quick flash of colour. But mostly it was just… quiet. The reef didn’t feel alive. It felt tired. Like something that had been through too much and didn’t have the strength to show it anymore. And I don’t know what to do with that. Part of me wants to explain it. To make sense of it quickly. There’s no recycling. Garbage...
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Easter Hope and Renewal

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It has been a long year already. And we are only three months in. There has been too much loss for such a short stretch of time. Too many goodbyes. Too many quiet moments where grief sits heavy in the room, like a guest who will not leave. Even the season has seemed to echo it, winter lingering, snow refusing to melt, the earth still held tight in cold hands when we are so ready for warmth. Some years feel like this. Like everything is holding its breath. And yet… here comes Easter. Not politely. Not timidly. But stubbornly. Hopeful in a way that almost feels defiant. The story of Jesus Christ does not pretend that death isn’t real. It does not rush past the sorrow or tie it up neatly. It lingers at the tomb. It allows the silence. It lets the grief speak its full truth. And then, without warning, without explanation that satisfies the mind, something shifts. Life. Not as a return to what was. But as something new. Something transformed. Something that says, quietly but un...
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Waving Branches Anyway

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There’s something almost defiant about Palm Sunday . It arrives with joy that knows full well what is coming. We line up with our branches, we hum the songs, we let ourselves get a little swept up in it all. There’s movement, laughter, children who take their roles very seriously, and adults who, just for a moment, remember how to play. We wave palm branches like we believe something good is possible. And maybe that’s the point. Because life doesn’t pause its heaviness for holy days. Grief doesn’t step aside. The world doesn’t suddenly become lighter just because the calendar tells us it should. We carry everything with us: the worry, the loss, the unanswered questions. They don’t disappear. But neither does joy. Palm Sunday feels like permission. Permission to celebrate even when your heart is tired. Permission to sing even if your voice is a little cracked. Permission to join the parade, knowing full well that the road ahead bends toward heartbreak. There’s something deeply...
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Holding Hope When Everything Hurts

This Lent has been heavy. Not the kind of heavy you can name neatly or wrap up in a tidy prayer. The kind that sits in the room with us, in red eyes, in long hugs, in the quiet “I’m okay” that isn’t really okay. A colleague reminded me the other day, softly, “Easter is coming.” And I took a deep breath, but what does hope mean when everything still hurts? Author Sophia Dembling writes about a man who reached out to her just weeks after his wife died, asking, “Please write something hopeful.” I’ve been sitting with that. Because if we’re honest, some of our hopes in grief are impossible. We hope the door might open and everything will be as it was. We hope for a way around the pain. A prayer that makes it disappear. But grief doesn’t work like that. There is no way around it. Only through. And that is not the kind of hope most of us want. But maybe hope isn’t about escaping grief. Maybe hope is what we practice inside of it. Hope looks like showing up when your heart is breaking. Lighti...
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Love With Nowhere to Land

This week has been heavy. As a pastor, I sometimes feel like I’m supposed to be the steady one. The one who knows how to hold grief. The one with the words. The one who helps other people walk through loss. But this week I lost my dog. Our beautiful girl. My companion. My hiking partner. The one who quietly regulated my nervous system just by being beside me. The one who padded through the house like a soft presence of grace. And the truth is, my heart is broken. The strange thing about grief in ministry is that it rarely comes alone. In the past month, people in my congregation,  people I love deeply,   have lost brothers, mothers, lifelong friends, and  spouses. Hospital rooms. Funeral homes. Phone calls that start with that familiar pause. You begin to feel like the whole community is carrying loss at the same time. And in the middle of all that very real human grief, I found myself whispering a quiet question inside my own heart: Is it okay that I’m th...
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Lent Is Not a Punishment. It’s a Practice.

Every year, Lent arrives quietly. No glitter. No fireworks. No grand announcement. Just ashes pressed onto foreheads and a whisper: Remember who you are.  Lent is not about spiritual theatrics. It is about slowing down enough to notice our own lives.  We live in a culture that prizes speed and noise. We scroll. We hustle. We perform. Even our exhaustion feels competitive. Lent interrupts that rhythm. It invites us to step off the merry-go-round and ask a deeper question: What in my life is life-giving? And what is not?  For centuries, Christians have marked these forty days by adding or subtracting something. Fasting from habits that numb us. Taking up practices that root us. Not to prove devotion. Not to impress God. But to become more awake.  Sometimes subtraction is necessary. We let go of patterns that drain us. We name resentments we’ve been rehearsing. We let go of the need to win every argument. We unplug from the constant stream of outrage. We notice the smal...
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