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For the last ten years my heart has been wrestling and processing through the strong sense that both Church and what it means to be in community were changing. The journey has, at times, been desperately lonely, but it has also been filled with beautiful conversations and experiences with people like you. The invitation before us is to begin to see again as we join God's work in making all things new.

THIS IS MY STORY →

    His Boots Were Caked With Mud

    If I sat down with you for a coffee and asked you what the central message of the Church was, what would you say?

    Perhaps after we collectively spent a few minutes venting about the hypocritical judgmentalism prevalent in the Church your response might go something like this, ‘well, I guess to leave this place. To make sure I’m going to heaven.”

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    My Dreamer is Broken

    She looked up from her vanilla reindeer drink with glistening eyes and found the courage to whisper “the dreamer in me is broken.” I thought for a moment; careful to avoid a rushed response that would dishonor her vulnerability. We sat together in sacred silence for a few moments before we sensed a permission to continue with words.

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    You are Good, You are Loved

    My hands paused for an extra moment this morning; hovering over the shoes that would carry you off to Kindergarten. For a fleeting moment I thought if I waited long enough I could turn back the clock. Perhaps time would settle into stillness long enough so I could revisit all the times I’ve rushed you out of childhood and forgotten you are still beautifully wrapped in innocence and wonder.

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    The Spring Mud

    Spring. I love the way that the light lingers through the dinner hour and I no longer feel like my reality is characterized by darkness. I love the warmth of the sun on my face as I listen to the melting snow and ice. I love that our neighborhood bursts forth with new life as we collectively emerge from our sub-zero hibernation.

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    For What We Have and Who We Hold

    She woke close to her normal time, and cried out for someone, anyone to rescue her from the confines of her lonely crib. She made it 4 hours, which is a victory – in the sick and twisted parental-trenches-kind-of-way. She’s 19 months and a ball of fire in the best way.

    There have been countless nights of pleading with her to go to bed; to stay in bed; to sleep like a big girl. Countless nights of wishing we didn’t have to step so gently or purposefully on our old wooden floors. Nights we wish we had more time to connect with one another before one of us was lost to the rocking chair and the other to exhaustion.

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    You Lift My Heart With Ease

    I wrote this for my son Nash last year. The news headlines remind us that our world is filled with darkness and heartache and evil. I am convinced that we must find and remind ourselves of the goodness that surrounds us. So write it down, tell that story, post that picture and let us remind each other of the goodness we so often overlook.

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    Seat Buffers and Singing

    In the church I usually attend there is always room for a seat buffer. Always enough space to stay hidden and unnoticed. Always enough space to avoid eye contact. Always enough space to keep to myself. Always enough space to do my thing (consume) and leave.

    Last Sunday I attended a small and cozy space, much different from what I’m used to. There was no seat buffer.

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