Unlikely Altars

I have always been passionate about the game of baseball. Not just the big-league games on TV or those legendary October moments, but the small stuff too - - the sandlots, the cracked bats, the smell of leather gloves. Baseball has this rhythm that feels like life: long stretches of waiting, bursts of action, moments of joy, and the occasional heartbreak. I never played T-ball or coach-pitch ( neither were available for me ), but I remember vividly the first time I stood at home plate in a real Little League game. I stood in the batter's box with a bat in my hands and a pitcher staring me down. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my knees felt like rubber, and I had no idea what I was doing-not really. I didn't strike out, but not because of anything I did. The pitcher wasn't the best, and I was too scared to swing. Eventually, I walked. My big debut was nothing heroic, but I made it to first base. And I learned something that day: showing up is half the battle, even when you're scared out of your mind. I didn't know it then, but there's something deeply sacred about those shaky-knee moments - - the ones where fear doesn't disappear, but you move forward anyway. Throughout Scripture, it's often in moments of trembling - - burning bushes, angel visitations, storm-tossed boats-that people encounter the presence of God. Holiness isn't always calm and serene; sometimes it arrives with a pounding heart and a lump in your throat. Sacred and scared share all the same letters-just arranged a little differently. And maybe that's the point. Sometimes, all that stands between fear and holiness is a shift in perspective, a reordering of what we thought we knew. In my experience, the most sacred moments often begin in fear-not because fear is divine, but because that's where grace so often meets us. That's what this series is about: the space between scared and sacred. The ordinary moments that hold more meaning than we realize. Over the next few weeks, I'll share a few reflections from the ballfield and beyond. Not sermons-just stories. About showing up, falling down, stretching out, and holding onto hope when the game goes into extra innings. Because sometimes, the most sacred ground is dusty, unpredictable, and marked by chalk lines. Now, " sacred " is a word people usually save for stained glass and holy places, not outfield grass and dugouts. But here's what I've noticed: sacred moments don't just happen in quiet chapels or mountain sunsets. They sneak up on us in ordinary spaces-sometimes right where the dust rises, the lights hum, and the scoreboard blinks. Think about it: • The first time you step up to the plate in front of a crowd- - you're scared. • The moment you stop to breathe in a world that never slows down - - it feels like you're falling behind. • The day you drop the ball, and everyone sees - - it feels like failure will get the last word. • And when life goes off-script, and you're deep into extra innings - - you're not sure how much longer you can hold on. Sacred doesn't always feel safe. It often starts with that flutter in your stomach, that quickening heartbeat, that voice that says, "What if I strike out?" But if we never show up, we never get to swing. This series is called Sacred in the Sandlot: Finding Grace Between the Sacred and the Scared because I believe those two words belong together. Every holy, ordinary moment in life comes with a little risk. A little vulnerability. A little fear. That's what makes it beautiful. Over the next few weeks, I'll be sharing four reflections inspired by baseball and life: • Stepping Up to the Plate - The Fear of Showing Up • The 7th Inning Stretch - Sacred Pauses in a Fear-Driven World • The Error That Changed Everything - Failing into Grace • Extra Innings - When Life Goes Off Script These aren't sermons. They're stories. Little snapshots of where the sacred hides out-sometimes in plain sight, sometimes in the places that make us sweat a little. So grab your glove, or at least a good seat on the bleachers. And let's see what happens when we lean into the scared places long enough to find the sacred. Because sometimes the most holy ground is covered in dirt.

This past Tuesday was National Sjögren’s Awareness Day . For the record, it’s pronounced SHOW-grins - - like a cheerful facial expression, which is ironic since Sjögren’s is neither cheerful nor smile-inducing. And the color for the day (because every awareness day has a color) is blue, which is fitting, because some days with this disease, I feel pretty blue myself. Sjögren's is an autoimmune disease that quietly disrupts the body’s ability to produce moisture - - leaving eyes painfully dry, mouths uncomfortably parched, and joints stiff and sore. But it doesn’t stop there. Fatigue, a deep, dragging fatigue, becomes a daily companion. Brain fog moves in like a heavy mist. Muscles ache. Moods shift. And all the while, you still look fine. I have Sjögren’s . I was diagnosed just over two years ago, but looking back, I’ve been struggling with it far longer. I could never figure out why my mouth would go bone dry when I rode, ran, or preached. Or why my eyes were always red and irritated. And these days, it’s not just the dry mouth or eyes; the disease has changed so many aspects of my life. Take cycling, for example. It used to be my happy place - - my prayer-on-wheels. Now I have to give myself a full TED Talk just to get on the bike. Riding 20 miles feels like a cross-country trek. I’ve dreamed of running another half-marathon, but honestly? The thought alone exhausts me. Even typing that feels like remembering someone else’s life. And yes - - others have it worse. People face far more painful, devastating diseases. But still . It’s a quiet toll - - always running in the background. Not dramatic enough to draw attention, not urgent enough to explain why I’m not quite myself. But real enough to shape every single day. And here’s where it gets frustrating: even with a diagnosis, I’m not sure my rheumatologist fully understands the impact. We talk about dry eyes and dry mouth, sure, they’re part of it, but that barely scratches the surface. There’s also the unrelenting fatigue. The joint pain. The muscle aches. The brain fog. The poor sleep. The mood swings. And this general sense that my body just doesn’t bounce back anymore. Sometimes I try to explain how much my daily life has shifted - - how much effort even the “small” things take now. And I get the nod. You know the one. The polite, clinical nod. It’s hard to explain the grief of being diminished by something invisible. It’s hard to describe how lonely it feels when the world thinks you’re fine. It’s hard to keep pushing forward when your body keeps whispering, no, not today. And it’s not just Sjögren’s that is invisible on the outside. It’s the chronic migraines. The long-haul COVID. The autoimmune mystery that doesn’t even have a name yet. The mental illness that hides behind a practiced smile. The pain carried by people who look perfectly fine on the outside. The battles no one sees - - because on the outside, everything looks perfect. We are surrounded by people who are quietly struggling with things we cannot see. And that makes me wonder: what if these unseen battles are Unlikely Altars, too? Could this be what an Unlikely Altar looks like? Not a holy place we walk into. But one we carry around inside us. The altar where we lay down perfection and pick up grace. The altar where we learn to listen to our body instead of pushing through. The altar where we stop trying to keep up and start learning how to be kind—to ourselves and to others. The altar where the broken parts are still beloved. No, I wouldn’t choose this path. But I’m beginning to trust that even here - - even in the dryness, the fatigue, the quiet grief - - there is something sacred trying to emerge. So, here’s my quiet invitation: Let’s give each other more grace than we think is necessary. Let’s assume people are carrying more than they’re saying. Let’s practice kindness—not as sentiment, but as daily practice. You never know what invisible weight someone is bearing. And you never know when someone might look at you and think, Thank God, someone else understands. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Let’s just admit something up front: Asking for forgiveness feels like walking into a room naked, holding a plate of burnt cookies. You feel exposed. Awkward. Unsure if what you’re offering is enough—or even edible. It’s terrifying. It’s humbling. And yet, it might be one of the most sacred things we ever do. This is the final post in a four-part series shaped by a tender moment from the show THE PITT, and grounded in the wisdom of palliative care physician Dr. Ira Byock. In his book, The Four Things That Matter Most, he names four phrases we often wait too long to say: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. We’ve explored the first three—words that mend, release, and reconnect. But this last one? It’s the most vulnerable of all. “Please forgive me” places the power in someone else’s hands. And that’s exactly what makes it holy. It means admitting you’re not always the hero in someone else’s story. It’s saying, “ I messed up. I see it now. I wish I had done better. And I hope we can begin again .” To ask for forgiveness is to lay down your armor—your excuses, your good intentions, your pride. It’s not weakness. It’s the beginning of wisdom. We lose our temper. We say the joke that cuts too deep. We go silent when someone needed our voice. We love poorly—or not at all. To say “Please forgive me” is to stop hiding and take ownership for our impact. It’s not self-hatred. It’s self-awareness. And it may be the first true step toward healing. I’ve made mistakes - - big ones and small ones. The kind that wakes you up at night. The kind you still defend in your head. The kind you wish more than anything you could undo. And somewhere along the way, I learned this: Guilt says, “You did wrong.” Shame says, “You are wrong.” Guilt can lead to growth. Shame just keeps you stuck. Grace, however, speaks a different word altogether: “Yes, you messed up. But that’s not all you are.” It tells you your failures don’t have the final word. That you're more than your worst moments. And that healing is still possible. You can’t change the past. But you can reshape the future. And sometimes all it takes… is a few brave words. Forgiveness doesn’t always look the same. Sometimes it’s a trembling phone call. Sometimes it’s a letter you never send. Sometimes it’s standing at a gravesite, whispering, “I’m sorry,” to someone who can no longer answer - - because you need to say it anyway. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s tears you didn’t expect. Sometimes it’s finally being able to exhale. “Please forgive me” isn’t etiquette. It’s a sacred act. It says, “I’m taking responsibility. I’m choosing honesty. I’m choosing love over ego.” It might sound like: “I didn’t know how to love you back then. I’m sorry.” “I wish I had shown up better for you.” “I know I hurt you, and I want to own that.” “Please forgive me—not because I’ve earned it, but because I’m asking in love.” It won’t always be clean. Or poetic. But it might be real enough to begin again. This may be the most fragile altar we ever build. It doesn’t look like a church or a ceremony. It looks like a shaky voice at a kitchen table. A voicemail you almost didn’t leave. A tear-streaked prayer whispered into the quiet: “Please forgive me.” It’s an altar of humility. Of trying again. Of giving love another chance. It’s an Unlikely Altar—because it rises from our flaws, not our strengths. And still, somehow, it’s the very place grace loves to meet us.

This is the third post in a four-part series inspired by a scene in the show THE PITT , where adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father and are encouraged to say four simple things: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. These phrases also form the heartbeat of The Four Things That Matter Most , written by Dr. Ira Byock - - a palliative care physician who has spent decades listening to what really needs to be said before it’s too late. We’ve already reflected on “I love you” and “Thank you.” Now we come to one of the hardest, most sacred of them all: I forgive you. Let’s be honest - - this one isn’t easy. “I forgive you” may be the most difficult sentence on the list. It doesn’t show up without a backstory. It comes dragging behind it a wound. A betrayal. A silence. A disappointment that left a mark. And yet - - Forgiveness is what sets us free. As Lewis Smedes once wrote: “ To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you. ” I used to think that quote was beautiful but a bit dramatic - - until I forgave someone I never thought I could: My biological father. He left before I could form a sentence, let alone hear one from him. I have no memory of his voice. No photographs together. No answers to the million questions a child doesn’t know how to ask. For a long time, my forgiveness was held hostage by silence. By what never got said. And honestly? I thought I’d made peace with it—until something inside me whispered, “But did you ever forgive him?” That whisper turned into a quiet reckoning. And somewhere along the way—without fanfare or closure—I did. And just like Smedes promised… I discovered that the prisoner had been me. Look, I didn’t throw a party. I didn’t send him a card in the afterlife. There was no angel choir or Oprah moment. Just an internal shift. A loosening. A letting go. A long exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding. That’s the strange and sacred thing about forgiveness: Sometimes it’s a conversation. Sometimes it’s a grave you whisper over. Sometimes it’s a journal entry you don’t even mean to write. Sometimes it’s just deciding not to carry the weight into tomorrow. Forgiveness isn’t a magic wand. It doesn’t make everything okay. It doesn’t erase pain or excuse what happened. It doesn’t mean you go back to how things were. It just means this: You’ve decided not to give bitterness the final word. Forgiveness is not weakness. It’s strength - - with a scar. It’s grace that has walked through fire - - and still chooses to walk forward. Sometimes the person you need to forgive is no longer here. Maybe they never got it. Maybe they never will. But the beauty of forgiveness is this: It’s not always for them. It’s for you - - so your heart can stop clenching. So you can breathe easier. So you can live lighter. Sometimes forgiveness looks like cleaning out a garage: You don’t want to do it. It’s a mess. But once you start, you realize how much useless stuff you’ve been holding onto. Sometimes it’s one trembling sentence: “I forgive you. Not because it was okay. But because I want to be.” Forgiveness might not look holy. It might not feel sacred. But I promise you—it is. It’s one of the strangest altars we kneel at. Not carved from stone. Not lit with candles. But built from vulnerability. Grief. Honesty. Strength. And when we let go of what we thought we’d carry forever - - something sacred rises in its place. That is your Unlikely Altar. Because sometimes, the most sacred thing we ever do is let go.

Sometimes gratitude whispers for years before it finally finds words. That was the case with my stepdad. A while back, I wrote a blog post thanking him—not because it was Father’s Day, and not because anyone asked. Just because it was time. Because something in me needed to name what he had been for me. Here’s what I wrote: One day, my mom brought home a man who seemed enormous. Over six feet tall, driving a Chevy station wagon that felt like a spaceship to a kid who had only known a one-parent universe. At the time, I didn’t know how to name it. But something began to shift. He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t make promises or declarations. He just… stayed. Through the slammed doors, the smart mouth, the years when I gave him every reason to walk away, he didn’t. His name was Warren. He never asked to be anyone’s hero. But as I think about it, he was mine. He passed away a few years ago. And while I told him thank you in a hundred little ways over the years, I don’t know if I ever said all of this. I hope he knew. I think he did. I’m grateful I had the chance to write those words. But still—there’s always that ache: Did I ever really say it to him? Did he hear the “thank you” in the way I meant it? Did I say it enough? That’s why this phrase—Thank you—matters so much. It’s one of the four things we’re told to say to someone who’s dying. But I wonder if it’s something we’re meant to say much sooner. Much more often. In THE PITT , when a father is dying and his adult children are encouraged to speak four parting sentences to him, one of them is simple: Thank you. Not thank you for being perfect. Not thank you for never letting me down. Instead, it is thank you for what you gave. Thank you for what you tried. Thank you for loving me the best way you knew how. Dr. Ira Byock, the palliative care physician behind this four-part framework, says that ‘ thank you ’ is not just etiquette. It’s healing. It allows both the dying and the living to make peace with what’s been, and maybe even with what’s been missing. But too often, we wait. We assume people know. Or we run out of time. When I sit with families after a death, they tell stories that glow—memories of kindness. Quiet sacrifices. Everyday grace. You can feel the gratitude woven through the grief. But I always wonder: Did the person they’re remembering ever hear this? Did the stepdad know the difference he made? Did the teacher ever hear that she changed someone’s life? Did the friend know they were someone’s lifeline? Gratitude lives in our hearts. But it doesn’t always make it to our lips. Saying thank you isn’t just good manners. It’s soul work. It turns fleeting moments into something lasting. Not just thank you for the big things. But for the faithful, often-forgotten ones: Thank you for doing the dishes when I couldn’t get out of bed. Thank you for picking me up in that spaceship of a station wagon. Thank you for sticking around when you didn’t have to. These aren’t throwaway lines. They’re bricks in the foundation of love. And when spoken aloud, they build something sacred. These days, I try to say it out loud. On purpose. To the people who stay. To the ones who hold steady. To the ones who never ask for credit but deserve it anyway. To my boys. To friends. To the stranger who smiles when I most need grace. Gratitude doesn’t fix everything. But it softens the rough places. It redeems the quiet ones. It builds an altar where we least expect it. Think of someone you’re quietly grateful for—and tell them. Not with a grand gesture. Just a text. A phone call. A few words at the kitchen sink. Thank you for what you did. Thank you for being there. I noticed. I remember. Those words don’t just express love. They become an Unlikely Altar .

I never heard my biological father say I love you. But the truth is—I am pretty sure I never heard him say anything. I have no real memory of him at all. He left before I could even form a sentence, let alone hear one from him. There’s a strange kind of silence that comes with abandonment. Not just the absence of love, but the absence of a chance at love. I don’t know what his voice sounded like. I don’t know if he ever wondered about me. But I do know what it’s like to grow up without a father’s words, especially those three: I love you. And then, years later, when my mom died—and not long after, my stepdad too—I wasn’t there to say those words to them, either. Not in person. Not at the end. They knew, of course. We had love, real and steady. But still—I would have given anything to sit beside them, hold their hand, and say it out loud. Not because they needed to hear it, but because I needed to say it. That’s why we start here—with this phrase. I love you. Three words that are simple. Sacred. And sometimes, spoken too late. We act like “I love you” belongs to romance movies or greeting cards or perfectly timed dinner dates. But real love doesn’t wait for the perfect scene. It shows up in kitchens and parking lots. In hospice rooms and voicemails. It shows up trembling and overdue. It shows up clumsy and cracked. But when it’s real, it matters. In one episode of THE PITT , a father is dying. His adult children are encouraged to say four things to him before he goes. One of them is “I love you.” It’s not tidy. It doesn’t fix the past. But it lets something sacred come into the room. Sometimes that’s all love needs: a voice, and enough courage to speak. We assume people know how we feel. We think our actions speak loud enough. We wait for the right time. But I love you isn’t just a farewell. It’s a way of being. A kind of spiritual punctuation that should show up regularly, not rarely. Not the performative kind of love. The practiced kind. The daily, quiet, ordinary kind: I love you, even when the house is loud and no one’s listening. I love you, even when we’ve been distant. I love you, even when I forgot to show it yesterday. Maybe you didn’t grow up in a family that said it. Maybe it still feels awkward or unnecessary. Maybe it’s easier to crack a joke or give a hug than to speak the actual words. Say them anyway. Even if they come out sideways. Even if they sound clumsy. Say them before you wish you had. When I sit with families to learn about a loved one who has passed away, I’m always amazed—and if I’m honest, often saddened—by how rarely I love you gets mentioned. Not because love wasn’t there, but because it went unspoken. Maybe they just weren’t the “say it out loud” type. Maybe they assumed it was understood. It’s part of why I make it a point to tell my boys I love them every time we talk. We don’t hang up the phone without saying it - - ever. It’s not dramatic or emotional. It’s just what we do. A habit of the heart. A way of marking the moment and reminding each other: This matters. You matter. Because I love you is an altar. And when it shows up late, or soft, or bravely spoken in a place it’s rarely heard. It becomes an Unlikely Altar.

Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.

My friend is a hero of mine. Not because he wears a cape. Not because he speaks in lofty words or quotes Scripture from memory. Not because he’s got his life together. (He’d be the first to laugh at that idea.) But because he shows up. He shows up when people are hurting. He shows up when something needs fixing or someone needs lifting. He shows up with hugs, silence, stories—whatever the moment calls for. He serves without fanfare. He listens without judgment. He gives without needing to be noticed. And lately, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Soul-weary. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The other day, he read something I wrote about Old Fashioneds. I wanted him to read it—because he's in recovery, and I trusted him enough to be totally honest with me. He was. And that opened a deeper conversation. He told me he’s looking for something. A rhythm. A ritual. A way to keep going when everything feels heavy. He didn’t call it a prayer. He didn’t call it church. He just said he needed something. A breath. A pause. A bit of meaning to lean on. I think a lot of us are looking for that. Some people find it in Scripture or a sanctuary. Others find it in walking their dog, or washing dishes, or sitting on the porch and watching the world not ask anything of them for a while. We don’t always need big answers. Sometimes we just need one quiet moment that doesn’t ask anything of us—except to be exactly as we are. My friend isn’t big on organized religion—too many walls, too much noise, too many people talking about God while forgetting to be kind. And yet, the way he lives—his compassion, his presence, his stubborn hope—tells me his faith is real. Maybe more real than most sermons. So, today, this post is for him. And maybe for you, too. If you're feeling tired. If your body is worn and your soul feels bruised. If your faith is hanging by a thread. If you’re not sure what you believe, but you still want to believe in something. I see this kind of weariness everywhere lately. My manager is working fifteen-hour days, pushing himself beyond what feels human, trying to keep everything from falling apart. The weight she carries isn’t just in the hours—it’s in the constant pressure, the never-ending to-do list, the silent worry no one sees. I think of a woman I met who stayed by her husband’s side in the ICU for more than two weeks. There were no visiting hour limits for her—she hardly ever left. Day after day, night after night, her presence was the only comfort he had in a place where hope felt fragile and time slowed to a crawl. Others are grieving, burned out, holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside. And some can’t even name what’s wrong. They just know that everything feels heavier than it used to. This isn’t just the tired that comes from a long day or a short night of sleep. It’s the exhaustion that lives in your bones, in your spirit. It’s the kind of tired that accumulates over time—from caregiving, from chronic stress, from holding in emotions, from showing up for others while neglecting yourself. It doesn’t clock out when your shift ends. It follows you home. It wakes up with you. A nap won’t fix it. A weekend off won’t touch it. Even sleep can feel like it doesn’t reach the place that hurts. Because this kind of tired isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, even spiritual. It's weariness that comes from meaningful things: loving people through crisis, holding others’ pain, carrying grief, trying to be strong for too long. What helps isn’t always a fix. Sometimes what heals is simply being seen. It’s someone looking at you with quiet understanding and saying, “I know you’re carrying a lot.” It’s being allowed to stop pretending you’re okay. Sometimes the most sacred thing isn’t a solution—it’s someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you, just chooses to sit beside you and offer grace and peace. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is admit we’re tired. Not fix it. Not push through. Not pretend we’re fine. Just tell the truth. That’s what my friend did the night we talked. And thankfully, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I just listened. And as I ended the call, I was reminded how much we all need room to be human. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. Sometimes it looks like a car ride for someone who needs to get to the doctor. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like asking for a breath of meaning when you’re too worn out to pray. Sometimes, we’re all just tired. I know that I am. If that’s where you are, I hope these words help you breathe. I hope they remind you that even your weariness is seen. I hope you remember that your doubt is not disqualifying. And that silence and pauses are part of the prayer. May you find rest in unexpected places. And may the sacred sneak up on you— right where you are. Sometimes the altar isn’t built of stone. No candles. No hymns. Just this moment. Just this breath. Just this—your Unlikely Altar.

If you’ve ever driven a Jeep, you know about the Jeep Wave — that friendly little hand gesture between drivers that says, I see you. We’re in this together. It’s a simple, silent connection. An unspoken, open-armed welcome. But a few years ago, that wave got some company — in the form of rubber ducks. Have you ever seen a rubber duck perched on a Jeep — or a whole flock of them riding shotgun on the dashboard — and wondered what in the world they’re doing there? Whether you're a Jeep enthusiast or just duck-curious, the story behind those little plastic passengers is one worth hearing. It all started in July 2020. Allison Parliament had just moved to a new town and bought a Jeep Wrangler. After a particularly tough day, she spotted another Jeep parked outside a store and, on a whim, grabbed a rubber duck she’d just bought, wrote “Nice Jeep” on it with a marker, and left it on the windshield. Just as she was finishing, the Jeep’s owner, whom she described as a “burly, scary-looking, 6-foot-5 guy,” came out and asked what she was doing. She showed him the duck. He laughed. He loved it. He encouraged her to post it on social media. She did — and that one small act of kindness took off faster than a Wrangler on a dirt trail. Under the hashtag #duckduckjeep , Jeep owners across the country ( and then the world ) began buying rubber ducks, dressing them up in silly outfits, and leaving them on strangers’ Jeeps as surprise gifts — little tokens of joy, connection, and community. “Nice ride.” “You belong.” “Here’s something to make your day.” Jeep dashboards became “duck ponds,” and people smiled a little more. It’s quirky. It’s fun. It’s ridiculously wholesome. And it’s built entirely on kindness — no strings attached. Last Friday night, at a local Pride event, the company I work for gave out rainbow-hearted ducks. Same spirit, different crowd. It struck me that these tiny, cheerful ducks — given without condition — say something big: I see you. You matter. You belong. Wouldn’t it be something if we all lived like that? Not just Jeep people. Not just companies during Pride Month. Not just churches when it’s convenient. All of us. All the time. Because here's the truth: far too many people — especially in the LGBTQ community — have been made to feel like they don’t belong. They've been asked to tone it down, fit in, hide parts of themselves, or earn their way into acceptance. The Church has often been one of the worst offenders. We’ve wrapped exclusion in soft phrases like “love the sinner, hate the sin,” but love can’t thrive when someone feels they have to hide who they really are just to be accepted. Jesus never operated that way. He didn’t make people qualify for love. He welcomed the overlooked, the outsider, the ones pushed to the edge. He made room at the table. He waved first. He shared his ducks freely, metaphorically speaking. So what if we did the same? What if we turned our dashboards into duck ponds — reminders to choose kindness over judgment, joy over gatekeeping, welcome over fear? What if we waved more, loved louder, gave freely, and stopped acting like there’s a limited number of seats at the table? So, if you see me out on the road, feel free to wave. Come say hello. I just might have a duck or two to share. Because sometimes, grace shows up in the quirkiest of places. A gas station parking lot. A Pride festival. A church pew. Or sitting on the dash of a muddy Jeep. That’s the heart of this blog — finding the sacred in the everyday. A rubber duck as an Unlikely Altar. A silly little moment that points to something holy. Because belonging is holy. Kindness is holy. And every time we choose love — especially when it’s unexpected —we build one more altar in this world where grace can rest.