Gentle Reminders

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With bread and wine you can walk your road.
Spanish Proverb

I’ve been experiencing many firsts. As my oldest gets ready to fly the coop and leave for college, I’m understanding how little influence I hold. And in my marriage as I assume greater responsibility outside the home, my role as homemaker and mother is ever-changing. And as I step into the role of pastor, the weightiness of the title and the gravity of the work humble me. Firsts of preaching and meetings and weddings send me to profuse sweating and nervous laughter, while filling me up in ways I could never have imagined.

And one of my greatest firsts happened this past weekend during our second “preview” service of this new Left Hand Church. I was the pastor to administer the sacrament of Communion.

At our church, just as in our sister, Highlands Church in Denver, our worship experience points to and culminates in the partaking together of bread and juice as the Body of Jesus. Growing up in the church, taking Communion was just what I did, it was expected and I did my best to partake with reverence and gratitude. Whether reverence and gratitude are required or not, it’s what I did. And while I have swallowed the elements hundreds of times, I have never offered them as a pastor.

In front of our new community, as I tore the soft, pungent Italian loaf into jagged halves, I broke.  I choked on the prepared words, moved deep by the symbolic act of breaking the body of Jesus. I was overwhelmed. And with the backdrop of a frigid winter evening, ice coating the sidewalks, eager faces across the pews, I broke. I broke with the weight of the joy and the weight of the gratitude and the weight of the hope found in this person, this remarkable human embodiment of God.

This broken body as bread, smelling delicious of comfort and wholeness and abundance. It was a holy and altogether too big moment.

For the past few months I’ve been co-leading a conversation group with mostly white people about race and privilege at The Refuge in Broomfield, CO. This past Sunday as we collectively lamented the enormity of the task of getting our people to notice the vicious systems of racism and patriarchy, our conversation was heavy and loaded, verging on despair.  The work is unrelenting, and once eyes are opened to the injustices and oppression many experience because of gender, sexuality, color, religion, documentation, ability – getting through some days without heavy burden is tricky.

Our group is comprised of local churchgoers and pastors, except for one, Sarah. As the churchgoers and pastors spiraled downward, Sarah punctuated the conversation with a definitive, “Hey, seems to me you all worship a guy named Jesus who was all about hope and disruption.”

She stopped me in my tracks. It took a moment but I eventually responded with an exhale of relief:

Oh yeah. Thank you for the reminder.

Her statement shook me, as I recalled what I once knew, but forgot.

On this Ash Wednesday, as we are reminded of the impermanence of our bodies, the shortness of our lives, the vastness of a God who loves us enough to embody our fallible humanity in the perfect Christ. May we stop firm in our tracks and surrender our despair. May we stop and surrender our self importance. May we stop and firmly place our questions, doubts, and certainty at the feet of the One who broke for us, who died for us, who rose for us.

We are not alone. Our suffering is never wasted. Our despair is never overlooked. And the gift of hope is held in Christ – in the delicious sustenance of a loaf of bread and a cup of sweet store-bought grape juice. Our ingestion of Jesus is the perfect and complete reminder that He dwells deep within, and we are recipients of grace and mercy, no matter what we do or don’t do.

As I travel down this path of firsts, with profuse sweat and nervous laughter, I pray to invite my own breaking – over and over. For in our breaking we can receive and we can know to the core of who we are that God Incarnate dwells within and among. Within our bodies, hearts, souls, and minds and, among our homes, relationships, communities, and systems.

Oh yeah. Thank you for the reminder.

On the night that Jesus was betrayed, he sat in a room among his disciples to celebrate the annual Passover feast. He took bread, and after he gave thanks for it, he broke it and gave it to his disciples saying, “This is my body, broken for you. Take and eat, and remember me.”

Later that same evening, he took the cup of wine. He held it up saying, “This wine is the blood of a new covenant — a promise for the redemption of all people. Take and drink, and remember me.”

Those Pesky Expectations

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My expectations were reduced to zero when I was 21. Everything since then has been a bonus.

[The Science of Second-Guessing (New York Times Magazine Interview, December 12, 2004)] ― Stephen Hawking

We find ourselves with a new puppy, a Goldendoodle we call Wilson. He’s the kind that pees on all the things and upends a home life in the way where everyone silently wonders if it was worth it (and by everyone, I mean the adults). We didn’t need a dog, I already had one, a perfect doodle named Clementine whose worst habit, aside from a stinky snout, is lying in the middle of the bedroom floor, tripping us up during the inconvenient middle-of-the-night bathroom runs. But the Clemmy girl is a mama’s dog, a diligent companion who has eyes just for me. No-one else in the house has a chance.

We hoped a puppy would bring some solace and distraction to the jaunty work of adolescence, forging a special bond with the children. And in perfect Jepsen fashion, one day we wondered about a puppy and the next we owned one. So far so good, but time will tell if Eric and I have inherited ourselves a young four-legged Wilson as our own.

Dreams are funny things. That wild notion that creeps in, and then before you know it you’re researching pups on the internet. It’s not that we forgot how bananas puppy hood can be, we just glossed over the difficulty. This is the same reason why I birthed three kids and ran 9 marathons. Thankfully, we forget. We minimize the severity of the pain, while holding the beautiful and sepia-toned memories. I’ve had enough puppies in my lifetime to know the risks and pitfalls. And Eric and I painted a dismal portrait to our teens of disrupted screen time and losses of freedom, but we said yes anyways, because we know that joy is forged in the fires of discomfort, in the overcoming and in the difficulty. And somehow, as the happy memories harden, the middle of the night potty breaks and carpet stains won’t seem like a huge deal.

I have a problem with expectations. While I believe dreaming is important, the management of expectations is a real thing. Before becoming a parent my expectations were off the charts, perfection the acceptable ideal. We all know that is an unsustainable reality, so with the arrival of the babies my expectations had to pendulum swing in the equal and opposite direction, rendering all things horrible until proven otherwise.

I recognize now the importance of a middle ground – that, amidst the dreaming and romanticizing, there are expectations to be considered and heeded. And oftentimes I am surprised by my newfound reality whether it’s in parenting, puppy raising, or church planting. The reality is either harder or easier than I presumed. A reason to hold expectations with a loosened grip, carrying generosity and grace toward oneself in the process.

As a One on the Enneagram, the expectation of perfection tends to be my default. We all know the problems here.

And so my work is to learn from others, to observe how they navigate the world, to observe their strategies and skills as metrics for setting my own personal expectations in this nebulous learning curve, while also recognizing I cannot measure others with the standards I measure myself.

Also, I must discern and dismiss many of the internal voices of condemnation and criticism, as well as voices of fear and protection. I cannot tell you where these come from, but certainly no one has spoken to me with the level of condescension that I can speak to myself.

As I come to trust my own voice – the quieter, curious, knowing voice – I recognize the essential value and worth in the work I do, believing in my calling as a pastor, as a parent, as a puppy owner, trusting I am the right one, the best one for these tasks. And in this trusting and believing, the passion is reignited which re-illuminates the dream, rendering me capable and ready for the work of being who I am in the world. Just as I am.

And so the sepia-toned dream will take hits and it will become marred and mired in the oftentimes grisly work of ushering new life into the world. But I have good instincts. I have lived life and I have learned through misplaced expectations, feeble attempts, wild success, through ill-informed decisions and wild-haired spontaneity.

Just because it’s uncomfortable,

just because it’s messy,

just because it’s not perfect,

absolutely does not mean it’s wrong.

So puppies or parenting, church planting or everyday living – expect to be surprised and expect to be disappointed – holding all of it together, with a loosened grip.

Too Much and Not Enough

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When I try to write in English, I feel like a bird without wings still trying to fly.
Debasish Mridha

I used to ski a lot. As a late arrival to the sport I never developed a fearlessness or confidence that comes from adopting a skill  as a youngster. And one could argue that fearlessness, particularly when it comes to athletic pursuits has never been part of my genetic code. I am built to make and house new life, so any threat rings harsh and true within every cell of my being. Slow down! You could die!  I jump straight to death. I sense there is little room for improvement when one is preoccupied with actual death. So, I shame myself for not overcoming and I keep trying while also being absolutely miserable.

Now that I’m a presumed grown up, I try to choose and embrace sports that require my feet on the ground, in actual shoes. I prefer to travel in straight lines, connected to the earth.

But it was always my dream to ski. I grew up with visions of me coasting down mountains making the swishes of soft, smooth “S” turns. The skiers I knew were cool, athletic, and lovely.   But when I started learning to ski at twenty-one under the tutelage of my dear fiance who had me on black diamonds my first day (not happily, I might add), it was nothing near soft and smooth. My snowplow was an act of desperation, a wedge of terror. I, more than once, threw my poles, exited the boots, and sobbed in the snow. How could this be, this is what I always dreamed of? This is everything I thought I wanted! And now I’m a disaster with an exhausted body and a tested future marriage.

Once I got the hang of skiing I had some good days where everything clicked and I felt like the skier I thought I was always supposed to be. And other days were miserable and wretched. But I noticed something. The miserable and wretched days were the days I learned a new technique or cemented a new skill. While I wasn’t always conscious of this, I did begin to discover a pattern. The subsequent ski day was easier, more fun. The difficult days were work days, cementing days, cycled with carefree, lighthearted days.

Last week, after a wonderful first service of our new Left Hand Church community I jumped right into intensive meetings, culminating with the Q Christian Fellowship conference (formerly GCN) in Denver.

I’m not always crazy about meetings. I feel the need to prove myself somehow, like I have to measure up to everyone else around the table. And while some aspects were amazing, enjoyable, and rewarding, other parts were difficult, a test of my mettle and worth.  It felt a lot like skiing.

This new world I’ve entered is filled with tenacious, generous, talented people. But if I’m not careful, I can feel like an impostor, like if they could see me, if they pulled back the curtain of my soul there would be nothing but a bunch of disparate parts and pieces that don’t make much sense when pooled together.

And yet, I know, this is not true. This is what happens when we expand and grow and become, when we gain skills and knowledge and influence. Sometimes we hurt. We worry we are somehow too much and not enough at the same time. We feel like we have to craft our thoughts into a concise, bullet-pointed list, when all we need to do is process out loud  in our – what feels like too much – messy vulnerability.

Part of me wonders if much of this is a result of my conditioning as a woman. For years I subjected myself to the belief that as a good Christian it was my duty to keep quiet and let the men lead. That didn’t work out too well, resulting in a hefty dose of shame. I know better now.

I’m still on the learning curve. I’m still figuring out who I am and how I operate in this new world. After years of being home raising kids I am now amongst remarkable faith leaders who are leading churches and initiatives that are changing the world. We are on the same trajectory, aiming for what is right and true and best, in this essential work of reconciling creation to the Creator. This is my calling and my greatest dream and I’m thrilled, but still terrified. Somehow I think it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be – doing what I do, being who I am, humbled, grateful, awed.

May all of us speak as we are led, celebrating the diversity of our voices.

May all of us join where we are called, even when quaking in our boots.

May all of us remember we are loved, as we are, as we become.

While the impostor draws his identity from past achievements and the adulation of others, the true self claims identity in its belovedness. We encounter God in the ordinariness of life: not in the search for spiritual highs and extraordinary, mystical experiences but in our simple presence in life.
Brennan Manning, Abba’s Child: The Cry of the Heart for Intimate Belonging

Our Left Handed Baby

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When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.


The three year long gestation finally resulted in a birth – Left Hand Community Church – the life I’ve been coddling and ogling over for these long months. Saturday night we experienced our first service. As we witnessed the equally feared and anticipated moment, the Spirit was palpable. No words can describe the unfurled hope and generosity enveloping us each in the moment. We did it.

I am overcome with gratitude at our first showing. With a full sanctuary we celebrated the reality of an inclusive, affirming congregation in Boulder County. CENTRAL Longmont, a Presbyterian congregation, has welcomed us into their arms, into the fold of their space and their hearts. We have been honored to occupy their building and to offer our shared community a heartfelt expression of abundant acceptance.

I gave my first full length sermon. It felt as natural as anything else I’ve done in my life – a little bit nerve-wracking – but I was filled with anticipation and joy to share a message of generous love to my friends, family, and all those in between. I was honored to speak my story, to identify the breadcrumbs that lined my oft-assumed nonsensical path.

Never have I been called to anything of this magnitude before. The metaphor of birth is apt and complete, for this is the most akin thing to birth I’ve done since delivering my three babies into the world. And this past Saturday all we had to do was examine and count fingers and toes, we didn’t have to run diagnostic tests or fear for the viability of this Left-Handed life. We were carried, which is the only way I can describe it. All the things fell into place with a few minor, inconsequential details to work out.

I am hopeful for the life of church in America. I am excited for the new iteration of progressive Christian churches that seek to create space for the Spirit to breathe new life. I am thrilled to be on the front lines of this movement, to witness a small but mighty group of pastors and congregants who know that love is our primary task and witness to the presence of God. I am honored to be serving my community where all manner of persons may lead and teach, where we discuss matters that matter.

I dreamed of this three years ago and I will continue to dream of who we will be.  But today I want to celebrate, I want to own and recognize the remarkable beauty of this life. I want to recognize our becoming, knowing there will be bumps down the road – it’s the church for goodness sake – but today I am resting and inhaling the gratitude and exhaling the hope.

After this past year of defeat upon defeat, of witnessing the underbelly of this nation and experiencing grave disappointment in our churches and leaders, I believe I can safely say a new day is on the horizon. A new hope is being birthed. We get to witness new life.  We get to watch a new movement sweep this country and I am thrilled to be part of it.

A message of hope and inclusion, of welcome and renewal. We are not in this work to fix anyone. We are in this to love everyone, to remember our job is to bring relief to one another, and God’s job is to transform lives.

But, as I shared in my sermon, we must remain humble. We must remember to attribute credit where credit is due. We must remember from where we came. What often starts as a beautiful expression, a life-giving expression, can quickly be used to oppress some and empower others. I wonder if it is our human condition. I don’t know, but I do know I’d rather continue to ask questions than assume answers. While this tends to be an uncomfortable space, dwelling in tension, I think this is where we are to remain. When we are satisfied for too long, we stagnate. It is important to find rest, to renew, to celebrate success, and relish good work, but it is more important to grow and stretch and build and resist.

I am grateful for this new baby church body. I can’t wait to watch us grow up, to see what we will do, and I am resting from the three years of labor as I relish in this birth.

Soon we will be running to keep up with our ambling toddler, trying to anticipate the needs of each new stage. But until then, I am amazed and honored and deeply, deeply humbled.

Check us out at

Do What You Do.

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“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.”
Dorothy Day

I’m not sure how I feel about this 2018 new year. While I’m not a huge celebrator of the holiday, I do hold the typical excitement for repurposing and reorganizing, for embarking upon new goals, for seeking ways to spend my time and/or money with greater intentionality. I don’t prefer to stray too far from my physical routine of sleep/awake cycles so partying long into the night is not something I ever choose to do with abandon. I do wish I had this skill, but alas, I do not. I am, at 45 years of age, coming to terms with the fact that I am just not that exciting.

When times are normal, one’s natural response in this season is to reflect upon the past year’s accomplishments and mishaps while anticipating new accomplishments and mitigating new mishaps in the upcoming year.

But this 2018 feels different doesn’t it? There is some collateral damage that has yet to be resolved. We are still dwelling in weird and scary times. Our nation is not in a better place when one looks to Washington. And for me, my greatest collateral damage, I lost my ability to dream. My year wasn’t horrible and I never lost sight of how fortunate I am, but I lost my levity, my dreaming. Our collective ignorance innocence was stolen wasn’t it? For those of us that claim Christianity it’s been a whopper – none of us could have predicted the bafflement and betrayal we would experience from the church bodies that raised and reared us as their own. The costs are staggering.

This deep toll on my spirit sent me inward toward 2017’s end. I pulled away from social media, deactivating my Twitter account. I am not designed to know this much information, to have this much commentary, to feel this much angst for all the suffering across the globe. No longer could I sacrifice my sanity or my presence on the altar of “remaining informed”. Instead I had to rely upon trusted friends and family to keep me abreast.

And sure enough, come New Year’s Eve, I rediscovered my ability to dream. This 1965 brick ranch has been used hard after four-and-a-half years of ownership and my favorite room still needed a fresh personal touch. And so I rolled and splattered color on the walls while Eric relocated the television and its myriad of cords and accessories. We rearranged furniture and pictures while chattering and laughing, relearning the rhythms of mundanity and physical labor. My spirit came back, I returned to me – doing what I do – making my home safe and inviting for all of us, myself included.

And this is the hope I hold for 2018. A reinvigoration, a return to doing what we do. Instead of preoccupying ourselves with the craziness that will not end, what if we take our news in doses and focus upon caring for our bodies and souls again? What if we take care of our families, neighbors, communities? What if the nuttiness of Washington is not priority but relegated to background noise? What if we detach ourselves from our laptops and phones when we get those telltale physical signs – the heaviness between the eyes alongside the restlessness and simultaneous ache for hope?

Some could claim this is a privileged position, one which I recognize and agree. Yet, our sanity and effectiveness might depend upon our ability to unplug.

I am all about being informed. I want to be a global citizen, but my mobilization occurs here, in my body, my home, my immediate community. I want to make the business of being a good neighbor, a loving partner, an attentive parent, a concerned friend, a committed citizen, a purposeful pastor my priority. My heart must continue to break for the injustices and suffering around the world, yet how can I be effective there when  things here are not as they should be?

I’m convinced it’s all about the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Our energy and compassion here translates to energy and compassion there. Loaves and fishes. It’s all about the offering, the trusting. When we move forward in the confidence of our responsibility, here, now, we change the world.

I bring my loaves and fishes to the table, to the place where multiplication happens, where miracles occur and I offer my limited resources, my paltry understanding, my hunger, fatigue, and grief, my shaky joy. I bring my body and soul, believing and accepting to the core of who I am that I am beloved by the God that made me in Her image. I am cherished, held, invited to rest upon Her breast and receive. The holy ground of my fear – not a terrified fear, but a reverent fear – this holy ground is the soil of my community, the soil of my home, the ground upon which I see this world of mine. I remove my shoes for this holy ground might swallow me up if I am not humble.

As a pastor, as we bring a new expression of God’s love to our community, I tread with humility and reverence for this task. Christianity in this nation has done lasting and horrific damage – not just in recent months but over centuries. We as Christians have grave responsibilities that must never be taken lightly. The work of dismantling white supremacy, the world of restoring dignity to women, the world of affirming and honoring the lives of our LGBTQ+ communities, the work of defending our vulnerable immigrants and their families, the work of loving our least of these – all of this is our call. Here. And the task is massive. Yet, we carry our humble lunch to the feet of Jesus. Imploring, uncertain, resolute resistance.

And we plod forth confident in Love. Love for ourselves, our families, our neighbors, our towns. For we are standing on holy ground, doing what we do, here, now.

Cloaked Minivans

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There are things you can’t reach. But
You can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of god.

And it can keep you busy as anything else, and happier.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
As though with your arms open.”
Mary Oliver

I swore we were not going to be the family that owned a minivan, but when we needed to purchase a reliable but inexpensive used car in a pinch that would fit our family of five, we turned to a used Nissan. The vehicle was in great shape, but we soon learned minivans had come a long way since this particular model’s design was implemented. The single side sliding door, the bulky infant seat blocking complete passage of anyone larger than two years of age, the gutless engine squabbling anytime someone dared press with persistence upon the accelerator all posed as slight inconveniences. The greatest inconvenience however, was our invisibility. If anyone needs to rob a bank – borrow a minivan. It was as if we were cloaked, until we attempted to pass.

It’s a hard thing to go unnoticed. While some people prefer this, I don’t. I liked my cars. I wanted to look cool, gaining certain approval while being that mom with the fun car. But when you need wheels, you need wheels, cool factor notwithstanding.

Before our van ownership, minivans were also invisible to me. But you know that thing, when you’re researching a new car and now you can’t stop seeing the thing you never saw before. Yeah, that’s how it was with the vans. My perspective shifted and I couldn’t not see them.

Perspective shifts seem to happen when we find ourselves with a fuller, truer understanding of a person or situation. Oftentimes these can be watershed moments when our old lenses are replaced with new and everything rearranges itself. We stop dwelling within our ignorant and limited view, accepting the potential for new truth. We gain fresh eyes to see. Sometimes this work is uncomfortable and leveling, but it is natural, normal, and essential.

Advent is an important time to seek a new perspective. I have found it helpful to try to place myself in the Nativity – to imagine what it might be like as Mary, preparing for birth while travailing the desert on the lumpy, itchy back of a donkey. As a wife I consider the mixed emotions Joseph must have felt as his expectations and preparations were complicated by the needs of God. And as a human, I imagine myself amongst sheep on a chilly night while a chorus of angels deliver odd, yet gratifying news of a lowly king’s birth. This exercise uncovers a new, yet familiar perspective on a nonsensical story.

But my little exercise can only take me so far, because this young family was not like mine. I am American, white, straight, Christian, privileged. I am part of the dominant narrative with a mortgage and healthcare, blonde and blue-eyed boys, a full pantry, and heat. I am passable and not sought by authorities. At first impression, I’m not a threat to the status quo. The world recognizes me and mine, and accepts us. We pass.

But this was not the case for Jesus’s family of origin. They did not pass. They were not revered. They did not get by without suspicion. Which begs the question to those of us in my particular demographic, would we ever recognize, much less accept Jesus if we ever saw Him? Is it possible? Or would He be invisible, cloaked by our privilege and supposed righteousness?

Our perspective shift, our ability to recognize Emmanuel – God with us – occurs when we line ourselves up with the people Jesus did. We get to see Jesus when we feed the hungry and offer drink to the thirsty. We discover Jesus when we visit the imprisoned and clothe the naked. We recognize Jesus when we share our home with the stranger, when we exhibit care to the sick (Matthew 25:31-46). Until we participate in the revering of the least of these, Jesus’s arrival in our lives and world will go unnoticed by us.


And as I take inventory of my surroundings, I would contend one of the greatest casualties of our inability to see Jesus in our everyday, is our joy.

Joy, the lifeblood of our days, the persistence of goodness despite circumstance. Joy, the carefree release of weighty burden.

Joy cannot happen until we begin to divest ourselves of the power and privilege that plagues this affluent nation. Joy cannot happen until we empty ourselves of our self-righteousness and self-hatred and self-importance. Joy cannot happen until we seek the company of them and we recognize there is no us and them beyond a few choices and luck. Joy happens when we observe the world through lenses of empathy, compassion, love, concern, relationship.

And until we can dine with the unsuspecting, walk with the humiliated, weep with the outcast, Jesus will remain cloaked to us. As Christians, we will sadly ignore the One we claim to follow.

I do not want an invisible Jesus – one that escapes me because I’m too bent on my own gain and my own comfort. I want to see Him. I want to experience the birth of Him just as I experienced the birth of my own babies. I want that squalling infant in my arms, protesting  injustice and chosen blindness with each tear and clenched fist. I want to whisper into His tiny little ear how much I love him, knowing His love in turn.

God is in the slums, in the cardboard boxes where the poor play house. God is in the silence of a mother who has infected her child with a virus that will end both their lives. God is in the cries heard under the rubble of war. God is in the debris of wasted opportunity and lives, and God is with us if we are with them.


Our Clamoring Silence

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Your silence will not protect you.
Audre Lorde

As some of you may have noticed I took some time off from the blog. I continued to write and fill pages in my notebook each new day, but I had to remove myself, evaluating my words and my efforts.  I wasn’t sure what else to say. I was, and continue to be, in a constant state of reaction as I am baffled by the state of our nation and world, wondering how much we can handle before it all snaps. And in these times we have to stagger our breathing. We have to care for our souls, bodies, relationships, tending to our greater purposes.

This past year has rendered anyone who pays attention confused, concerned, overwhelmed. The cost of remaining informed is high. Those of us who want to make the world better are tired and disturbed. It’s been a long year. The threat to the goodness and well-being of creation continues unabated. The onslaught of head shaking injustice purported in the name of power, greed, wealth is incomprehensible. And the moral gymnastics contorting faith-based institutions and leaders to align with a political party is staggering.

In this season of church planting and discovering what it means to pastor I am pitched midway upon a steep learning curve, one that demands I accept who I am and what I can handle. This curve has me in its grip of vulnerability as I lean into places that invite me to show up, to speak my mind, to share my experience. Oftentimes I would prefer to stay to myself, to keep quiet, to listen, and take copious notes, but this is not that season. That season has passed. My learning now demands I speak aloud. My learning now involves risk and potential mistakes, trusting in what I know and admitting what I don’t.

My silence serves no-one in this stage. My silence is merely an excuse to shield myself.

And in this world in which we exist, our silence serves no-one. Our silence is merely an excuse to shield ourselves.

While choosing silence in the face of controversy can bring comfort in the short term, oftentimes choosing silence in our culture today equals complicity.

Today’s ever-present power differentials within America are acute, emanating from the grimy mist of Washington and Hollywood and everywhere in between. The eye opening, yet unsurprising movements of #MeToo and #ChurchToo reveal the sickness of male power and the reckoning that begs to be brought to completion, that begs to tear asunder the notion that we are beholden to men as our leaders, spiritual and otherwise. And our rampant racism that begs to call into account the fall out from our nation’s founding built on the back of slave and indigenous populations.

Peeling back the layers of injustice is painstaking and time consuming, while also rewarding and enduring. Each seed dropped, planted, watered is a contribution to the holistic betterment of our society. Our personal shifts in perspective the equivalent of recovery’s first step – admitting there’s a problem and our powerlessness as we are. The work is long and as people of faith, as people of conscience, as people of love and justice we will plow forward with better questions, believing the victims, celebrating the truth-telling, and upending the complicit structures to become a nation great for all.

When the world is tilted in the favor of a small fraction of folks, no-one wins. No-one knows equity. No-one knows equality. There is a misogynist and white supremacist power differential that must be reckoned with before we can entitle all humanity to one nation, under God, indivisible with liberty and justice for all. And if we choose denial and self-serving righteousness we will continue to stumble along in the murky darkness that is the American Dream.

Since we are all in this life together we are each equal beneficiaries of the American ideal along with everyone else –

not just Christians.

not just men.

not just white.

not just straight.

not just cis-gender.

not just abled.

not just housed.

not just landowners.

not just those with 401k’s and health insurance and well-paying jobs.

When my privilege is leveraged, my power is evened. My hand reaches down to pull up my brothers and sisters, the American Dream now realized. We are as good, as full, as abundant, as righteous as our society’s most vulnerable. Our generosity to one another is key – seeing one another, examining the inner workings of systems keeping certain people in power, while keeping other people down.

There is no longer room for silence. We have to speak – clear, united, shaky – honoring our knowing voices, our truth-telling voices. The time is now, voices ringing together for truth and equity, love and compassion, ferocious for justice.

Breathe On

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“The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we shall have for destruction.”

Rachel Carson

My daughter and I traveled to Chicago this past weekend for a quick visit to see my brother. We were greeted with a cold that sinks into the bones. A cold that delivers to the layers of down and wool a knowing wink as it passes straight to the marrow. Huddling and chattering around paper cups of hot cocoa, we shivered our way through the city, including the architectural boat tour. The stunning Chicago riverfront a respite from the freeze. Autumn was in full display – crunchy leaves and overcast skies lent our visit a warm hue to color our memories.

On the return flight, I learned my window seat companion was en route to Montana to meet up with buddies for a hunting trip. He, a resident of Pennsylvania, had never been west of Ohio. I tend to be one of those people on the airplane. I like to pass the flight, chatting about this and that, learning and listening to stories. Mike’s and my time together was entertaining as we perused the flight map and traced the arced line to determine our general location. I’m not much help in these situations. I guessed we were somewhere over Iowa, Kansas, or Nebraska.

Anticipating his first view of the Rockies, he inquired about each and every dirt hill across the patchwork of farmland. I answered with expertise that the mountains would be obvious.

Once the peaks came into view his excitement was uncontainable, for this was his first time in twenty-seven years to witness snow covered peaks. He asked why I didn’t tell him they were so amazing. I shrugged. Words can do no justice, I said

The wonder upon his discovery was infectious. For me, flying into Denver, the view is nice but the mountains are small and distant and everything is brown this time of year. It was nice to try on his lens for awhile, to view the landscape from his perspective.

I needed his wonder for I am finding myself desensitized. As a person who seeks information and understanding, striving to respond, I realize with our current news cycle that wonder, awe, expectation have become collateral damage. This is a tragedy.

Tuesday’s attack on Manhattan barely shocked me. I was sad and hurting for the community, but the news wasn’t surprising. Has this level of violence become commonplace? Are we supposed to now accept trucks running down pedestrians and high-powered rifles spraying crowds?

I asked my daughter for her thoughts. She shrugged and said: This is the world we live in. It’s been going on my whole life. True.This is her life. This is all of our lives.

But I’m not ready to accept this as reality. I’m not ready for this to be my normal. I’m not okay with ignorance.

Just as I want to be awed by season changes and beauty in nature and snowcapped peaks, I want to remain shocked by events such as this.

But it’s every day. And I’m tired. My body, mind, and heart are not designed to consume this much information. The news is unrelenting, but I will not claim ignorance. I cannot claim ignorance.

As a teenager and college student I participated in choir and band. One of the techniques we employed to collectively carry a long tone, longer than our lungs allowed, was staggered breathing. Through negotiation and planning, my neighboring musicians and I would consult one another to determine where we could each breathe without disrupting the larger sound. This accomplished two things. One, I didn’t faint in my attempt to support the greater good. And two, the tone remained strong and healthy, aware, uninterrupted.

We have to learn how to stagger our breath. We have to protect our souls, our minds, our relationships, our communities. We protect by working together, by employing our neighbors to be on when we need to be off. We have to protect our shock and outrage, reacting as needed to injustice, abuse, and lies. We have to protect our wonder, our hope, and our generosity toward our neighbors, supporting the larger community through our wholeness.

The fight against cynicism and nihilism and numbing is real. These days are overloaded – a new crisis, a new normal, a new baseline all clamoring for our apathy. I don’t want to settle for this. My faith and my conscience won’t let me. But the fatigue is ever-present and we are being asked as a decent and loving people to endure more than we are capable.

Who are our trusted friends? Who are our fellow travelers and breath staggerers in this resistance movement for decency and hope?

We cannot afford apathy.

We must persist for joy and goodness.

Mike, my airplane neighbor, upon witnessing the snow capped Rocky Mountain peaks for the first time was reverent and grateful. He could not contain his excitement as his infectious awe melted my accustomed heart. His wonder drew a tear to my eye, a reminder of my tremendous need to claim hope.

The goodness of the world demands our rest and our fight, our outrage and our peace. Through renewal, we can stand firm and refreshed in our convictions. Through sharing the load by staggering our breathing, we can protect wonder and awe and beauty.

Breathe on friends.

A Cacophony of Colors

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Photo credit: Claire Jepsen


“In every change, in every falling leaf there is some pain, some beauty. And that’s the way new leaves grow.”
Amit Ray

The trees out my window are all the acceptable autumn hues – crimson and golden and the unturned green. The sky is the bluest of Colorado blues. A bird with pink breast settles upon a branch on one of the two already naked trees, purveying the scene below. Squirrels scamper over and across, leaping through the crackling foliage, gathering and storing. Nature summons me outdoors before it’s too late.

Change in process – scenes of nature in dynamic flux. Always in flux. There is but a moment to take a breath before another change asserts itself.

I am departing a slow season. One where days stretched and answers were slow. Voices prattled about productivity and worth and earning one’s keep, tricking the mind. The slow seasons are important, crucial – a still space to learn the rhythms of grace, to hone imperfect patience, to shore up defenses in preparation for the call that will not relent. The slow seasons seem long, but when the go ahead is given, no amount of slow can prepare for the good and abundant and frenetic activity that befalls.

These years of staying home as mom offered me the luxury of focusing on the kids and myself. I had other things here and there that fulfilled me, while knowing I was doing the good work of raising the next generation and caring for our home. But now, here I sit, on the cusp of starting and pastoring a church. It’s a lot and it’s everything. It’s all the good things.

And so, all of a sudden, the season has shifted. A gust of wind and the leaves are gone, we now await the snow. Quiet days while the kids attend school have now morphed into meetings and deadlines and phone calls and emails in a few short days. The onramp feels like it never existed. The runway shortened. What happened?

We think we know what to expect when the shift happens. We think we’ve anticipated and planned and yearned enough that the discomfort of the adjustment is abated. But no. In all my years living this life I can’t think of one thing that went as I expected.

As a One on the Enneagram I carry a permanent expectation of perfection. I believe there is an ideal way to execute most things (well, really, all things). Parenting, marriage, relationships, life all bear a weight that I carry. I must do it perfectly. And when the myth is busted, I believe the lie. I assume it’s my fault. I’m deficient. I’m broken.

Growth isn’t pretty. Growth hurts. I go to the gym three times a week and I’m always dealing with an annoying twinge. I always have sore muscles and tired legs. I’m not injured, I’m just uncomfortable, yet I’m growing stronger. I feel it when I lift a bag of chicken feed or I hug my kid tight. I feel it when I run and I am held together. I feel it when I have a rest day and I return and everything is easier. Growth hurts, but is so rewarding.

I am gonna have to figure out how to be kinder to myself, how to roll and set aside the notion of any perfection. It’s such a myth. There is no best way to do anything. We do what we do how we do it, with our foibles and failures, our wins and successes. This is all we are guaranteed.

A church is getting planted. It is happening, sooner than we can be prepared for, I’m sure. But you know what? Isn’t this where we all want to be? In a place where we’re met, where God greets us in our odd and messy humanity, in our mixed motivations, and ideal expectations. Trust is hard. It’s easy to get antsy, to take matters into our own hands and finagle outcomes. But I’m not sure that’s the best way.

The season of wait is a great teacher. There isn’t much forcing you can do and there sure isn’t much you can control. Patience and courage and honesty are forged in the fires of wait. The exact ingredients one needs when life ramps up.

Just as the seasons shift, the beauty shifts, too. And each new season is met with anticipation – changing leaves, first snow, springtime flowers, late night barbecues. And each season has its hassles – brown stalks, frozen pipes, muddy dogs, hot nights. We can focus on the pain or we can focus on the gains.

Or we can focus, as we often do, on a little bit of both.


When We Were Girls

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The Church says: the body is a sin.

Science says: the body is a machine.

Advertising says: The body is a business.

The Body says: I am a fiesta.

Eduardo Galeano, Walking Words

Typing, I observe my hands, unadorned but for a gold band to mark the years of marriage and life together. I now must wear reading glasses, viewing anything closer than the length of my outstretched arm is tricky. My jeans are a size bigger than I’d prefer, they bag and sag at the right places, allowing freedom of movement. I began coloring my hair, the gray decided to make its entrance post-election, while in the throes of parenting at peak teenager-dom. My face is lined, normal for a Colorado-dwelling 45 year-old. I could do something to smooth over the hard-earned etches, but I hate making appointments.

I gaze at my face in the mirror, picking and pulling at this and that. The person staring back surprises me, for I half expect a young girl to be reflected. How is it that I’m the one to make important decisions and raise teenagers and be married for nearly a quarter of a century? Surely these benchmarks are for someone far more qualified than I. While in my heart and mind I feel young, all I have to do is look down at my legs or my hands to be reminded I am on the better side of middle age.

But as I look down at my legs and hands I am grateful for this body, this container I have. We’ve been through some tumultuous times and I am now able to appreciate her generosity, her adaptability. I was gifted a healthy, sturdy form. She carries me where I need to go, she’s a hard worker and creative, preparing me well for birthing and rearing babies. She is of good stock.  Health and old age abound within her lineage, although possibly shortened some by that pesky Diet Coke habit.

As my shape began to shift, around the age of ten or eleven, I took meticulous inventory before the wide bathroom mirror. I resisted and lamented as thighs rounded and breasts formed. I was never one of those girls that longed for womanhood. I was afraid. I wanted to remain young, carrying the shape of a child – undefined, vertical, edged. For in becoming round, I knew I was vulnerable, threatened. Body now rendered noticeable, open for criticism, available for critique, fair game for commentary.

This week, the news from Hollywood and the legislation from Washington has me reliving this vulnerability. As women emerge with firsthand testimony about abuse and assault, subjected by a man and his lackeys who carried power over dreams, careers, bodies, I am reminded once again our bodies are not revered. Our bodies are not to be managed by us.

These egregious actions and decisions remind us our bodies are threatened. For when one of us is violated, we are all violated, knowing we each are equally at risk. No industry is loyal to us. We know deep, down to the core of our marrow that we are the target, fair game for scrutiny at best and physical violation at worst.

And even at 45 my body is still fair game. I still feel vulnerable. I still feel the eyes. I’m still that young girl checking every new crease and bump for signs of failure or success. My body is my scoreboard, the points marked across each dimple and exposed rib, across the stretched lines from the babies to the wrinkles on my hands. We have been conditioned to believe our bodies are our currency, our bodies are our measure of success, our bodies are our ticket to approval.

And I wonder, with the amount of time trying to beat my body into submission through relentless exercise and poor nourishment and hate-filled thoughts, what toll has this taken?

Yet through it all as I learn my body and her generous offerings, my deep appreciation grows. She leads our reunification after the divorce which commenced upon the rounding. She teaches me about the gut rumble, the sixth sense, an alert to something amiss. She forgives for choosing carrots over hamburgers, for selecting a run over a rest day. I make efforts at peace, offering her kindness, consideration, listening, regard. I offer up reassurance of my mutual commitment to our reconciliation through pants that don’t pinch, through mammograms, and long showers. I wear makeup and walk, I smell flowers and hug my children, I lift weights and no longer push through pain. I am heeding her call toward anger and righteous causes. I know she means it when she prods me forward despite my insecurity and sweaty palms. She knows. My body knows my deepest desires.

And no relationship is perfect. The gold band on my fourth finger reminds me of this fact. Yet through forgiveness and reconciliation we – my body and I – continue to press forward.

To my fellow women – I must confess to you my comparisons and measurements. Forgive me. I admire you and I have been unfair. I tried to make deals. I wanted to swap my body for yours. I assumed you were faster, thinner, healthier, happier. But through respecting my own body, I respect yours, I honor yours. May we stand firm together, in appreciation and generosity to ourselves. May we protect one another from the powers that seek to divide. May we link arms, affirming our fearfully and wonderfully made forms, giving thanks for all we’ve been entrusted.