When I made my 2026 Bingo Board , I tried to choose squares that were a mix of practical, playful, and quietly important. Most of them felt normal, a few felt ambitious, and one or two felt slightly ridiculous. And then there was this one: Monthly Video Call with the Boys. Not climb a mountain. Not write a book. Not even run a marathon. Just call your sons once a month. It sounds so simple that it almost feels embarrassing to put on a life goals board, and yet here we are. If you had told me years ago that one day I would need to schedule time to talk with my kids, I would have laughed. There was a season when silence in our house meant something had gone terribly wrong. Back then, connection was automatic and constant and frequently sticky. We had bedtime stories and car rides and baseball games and the nightly performance of “ Dad, watch this, ” followed by something that absolutely required watching immediately. Togetherness wasn’t something we planned. It was simply the background music of daily life. Now they are grown men with grown-up schedules, real responsibilities, and calendars that fill up faster than mine ever did at their age. Somewhere along the way, spontaneous togetherness quietly slipped out the back door without an announcement or farewell speech. It just left, and life kept moving. So when I made my Bingo Board this year, I added the square: Monthly Video Call with the Boys. Here is the honest part. We haven’t scheduled it yet. Not the first one, not the recurring calendar invitation that will make it real. At the moment, this square exists as a hopeful intention and a line of text sitting patiently inside a blue box. Which means this blog post might be the most public nudge in family history. Boys, if you are reading this, consider yourselves gently called out. In the first Grace Bingo post, I wrote that you don’t conquer a square, you encounter it . Right now I am standing at the edge of this one the way you stand at the edge of a treadmill before pressing Start. I am not intimidated. I am simply aware that once the button gets pushed, something begins. It would be easy to tell myself this is unnecessary. We talk. We text. We stay connected in the everyday ways families do. But there is a difference between catching up here and there and intentionally setting aside time when the three of us can simply be together in the same conversation, even if together now looks like three faces inside small glowing rectangles. I have a strong suspicion that this square is not really about technology at all. It is about intention. It is about choosing to show up on purpose. It is about making space on the calendar for something that already matters. I can already imagine how the first call will probably go. Someone will be late. Someone will talk while muted. Someone will say, “ Wait, can you hear me now? ” at least twice. It will not be polished or cinematic, and no music will swell in the background. It will be wonderfully ordinary, which is exactly where grace has a habit of sneaking in. This square is not finished. It has not even started. But the moment I put it on the board, something shifted. A small, quiet decision was made and a door cracked open. Sometimes grace shows up the moment we decide to make room for it, even if it arrives by ZOOM link . Boys… your move. Following the Squares This is one square on the Grace Bingo board, and the year is still young. I am not trying to complete the board so much as pay attention to what happens inside the squares, including the starts, the delays, the surprises, and the moments that turn out to matter more than expected. You do not need your own board to follow along. All you really need is a little curiosity about where the sacred might be hiding in your everyday life, because chances are you have already been standing on an Unlikely Altar. And if this idea ever nudges you to sketch your own version of a Bingo Board, I would love to hear about it. You can email me here: martyvershel@gmail.com

This question almost never comes right away. Usually I’ll tell someone what I do and they’ll nod politely, like they’re trying to be respectful while quietly deciding where to file that information. You can almost see the mental drawer opening and closing. Then, a few minutes later, they circle back. “ So… are you a minister? ” That’s when I know we’re really talking. The honest answer is yes. I am an ordained United Methodist pastor. That’s part of my life and part of my story. But here’s where it gets a little confusing. When I’m serving as a celebrant, I’m not standing there as a representative of a church or a denomination. And that distinction matters more than people realize. Most of us grew up with a very specific picture of how weddings and funerals are supposed to work. There’s a church, or at least a chapel. There’s a familiar order of service. There’s someone up front who represents a tradition and leads everyone through something we’ve seen before. So when people hear the word celebrant, what they’re really asking is, “ Where do you fit in all of that? ” I usually answer by telling a story. A couple once sat across from me at a coffee shop and said, “ We don’t really know what we’re supposed to be doing. ” They looked nervous saying it, like they were already behind somehow. I told them, “ You’re doing it right now. ” They laughed. They took a breath and relaxed. And that told me everything I needed to know. They weren’t asking for a perfect ceremony. They weren’t asking for the right music or the right words in the right order. What they wanted was a ceremony that felt like them. Something honest. Something that didn’t feel borrowed from someone else’s life. That’s usually the moment I explain what a celebrant actually does. A celebrant builds the ceremony around the people, instead of asking the people to squeeze themselves into a ceremony that was written for someone else. Once people hear that, things start to make sense. The same thing happens with families planning a funeral or a memorial service. They often start by saying, “ We’re not really sure what we’re supposed to do .” And again, I tell them the same thing. You’re already doing it. They’re telling stories. They’re remembering little things. They’re trying to figure out how to say goodbye in a way that feels real and meaningful and authentic. What they don’t need is someone who already knows the script. They need someone who’s willing to learn the person. Who were they really? What made them laugh? What will people miss when they leave today? That’s the work. Now somewhere around here, another question usually shows up. Sometimes it’s spoken. Sometimes it just hangs in the air. “So… what aren’t you?” A celebrant isn’t there to judge whether someone qualifies for a meaningful ceremony. Life has already done enough of that. A celebrant isn’t there to read a script that could belong to anyone. If the ceremony could be swapped out with someone else’s and no one would notice, it probably doesn’t fit. And a celebrant isn’t the center of attention. If things are going well, people barely remember what I was wearing or where I was standing. They remember how the moment felt. Also, just to make things slightly more confusing, the IRS doesn’t actually have a category for “celebrant” on tax forms. Even the government isn’t entirely sure what to do with us. Which feels strangely appropriate. When I’m working as a celebrant, my role isn’t tied to one religious tradition. It’s tied to the people in front of me. Sometimes that includes faith language. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it includes pieces from different traditions. Sometimes it’s beautifully simple and completely non-religious. The ceremony fits the people. Always. At the end of the day, the simplest way I know how to explain what a celebrant is goes like this. I help people mark moments that matter. Not in a rushed way.Not in a borrowed way. Not in a way that asks them to be anything other than who they are. Just honestly. Just authentically. Just meaningfully. And if you’re planning a wedding, a memorial, or a celebration of life and you’re wondering what that could look like for you, I’m always glad to sit down, listen, and hear your story. That’s usually where it all starts anyway.

Some of the strongest people I know are on my team. More than being on my team, many of them have become my friends. And the one who taught me the most is my fraternity little brother. But you wouldn’t necessarily spot them right away. No capes. No podiums. No dramatic backstories offered up over morning coffee. What you might notice first is how steady they are. They show up. They listen well. They tell the truth. They laugh, sometimes loudly, sometimes at themselves. They know how to sit with another human being without trying to fix them too fast. They know how to stay. Many of them are in recovery. That sentence alone carries more weight than it looks like. Recovery isn’t a chapter you finish and put back on the shelf. It’s a daily practice. A way of walking through the world with your eyes open and your defenses down. It’s choosing honesty over hiding, one ordinary Tuesday at a time. I’ve watched these folks do hard things quietly. They answer phones. They make follow-up calls. They hear grief stories and financial fears and family tensions and don’t flinch. They know what it’s like to rebuild a life one small decision at a time, so they don’t rush anyone else through theirs. That kind of strength doesn’t shout. It hums. It sounds like showing up on ordinary days. It sounds like listening more than talking and like staying when it would be easier to disappear. What amazes me is not just that they are sober or clean or in recovery. It’s how they live because of it. They know the cost of avoidance, so they lean into conversations most people would rather dodge. They know what denial sounds like because they once spoke it fluently. They know the danger of “I’ll deal with it later.” Later has taught them its limits. Recovery hasn’t made them perfect. It has given them direction and purpose. It looks like answering the phone honestly, keeping the next appointment, and doing the work in front of them with care. They know that showing up matters. That today counts. That people don’t need to be perfect or polished nearly as much as they need someone to be present. I hear it when they talk with families who are scared and overwhelmed. There’s no judgment in their voice. No impatience. Just a steady kindness that says, “You’re not alone, and you don’t have to carry this by yourself.” That’s not a sales skill. That’s a soul skill. Some days they’ll tell you recovery is about routines. It is about meetings and boundaries. And it is. But it’s also about learning how to live honestly in your own skin. It is about discovering that your story doesn’t disqualify you. They will tell you that your actually qualifies you. If you listen closely, you’ll hear it in the way they talk about time. They don’t waste it. They respect it. They know how quickly things can unravel and how slowly they are rebuilt. Recovery teaches you patience, but not passivity. It teaches you urgency without panic. That’s holy ground. The Unlikely Altar isn’t in the meeting room or the certificate or the anniversary chip. The Unlikely Altar is built in the daily choice to live with your eyes open. To be accountable. To be kind even when kindness costs something. The Unlikely Altar is in the courage it takes to say, “This is who I am, and I’m still standing.” I don’t put these folks on a pedestal. Pedestals are lonely places. But I do learn from them. Every day. They remind me that grace isn’t a one time thing. Grace keeps knocking. And sometimes it knocks through another human being who knows what it means to be rescued and responsible at the same time. If you’re in recovery and reading this, know this: your strength shows. Even when you think it doesn’t. Maybe it shows even more in those times. You are doing sacred work in ordinary moments. You are building Unlikely Altars just by showing up as yourself. And some of us are watching, grateful, steadying our own steps because of yours. To my friends, and to the people I love in recovery, thank you. Truly.

There are days when this work feels quiet in all the wrong ways. It’s dial after dial after dial, and no one answers. Voicemail after voicemail that never gets returned. Texts that get sent carefully, kindly, without pressure. And the hardest part is this: I can see that the texts are read. They don’t go unopened. They don’t disappear into the void. They are delivered. They’re seen and read. And then there’s…silence. And that silence is heavy in its own way. The calls we make aren't cold calls. We pay money for the leads - - leads that are people who filled out a form and asked for information. They raised their hand and said, “Yes, I want to know more.” And then life happens. Or fear does. Or denial. Or exhaustion. Or maybe just the hope that there would always be more time. I don’t know the true answer. But what I do know is that sometimes, when I circle back and try again, I discover that a couple of those names now belong to people who have died. No conversation ever took place. No plan was ever made. Just a request for information, followed by silence, followed by an ending that came sooner than anyone expected. That’s when the questions show up in my head and my heart. What would have been different if I had persisted a bit more? If I had called one more time? If I hadn’t worried so much about being a bother? I know the answers I’m supposed to give myself. I know I can’t control outcomes. I know people get to decide when they engage. I know all of that. And still. This work has a way of slipping past what you know and settling into what you carry. I recently spoke with a widow who told me she waited too long. She managed to scrape together enough to bury her husband, but just barely. The funeral happened. The casseroles came. And then the bills arrived, and they didn’t care that her world had just fallen apart. Months later, she was still struggling to catch up, still paying for decisions she never thought she’d have to make alone. That conversation sits with me when I see a text marked “read” with no reply. It sits with me when someone tells me off for calling again. It sits with me when I’m tempted to believe that silence means disinterest. Because here’s the truth I’ve learned the hard way. I don’t know which call is an interruption and which one is a lifeline. I don’t know which family is one conversation away from relief. And I don’t know which silence will eventually turn into regret. So when someone cusses me out, I try to remember that anger is often fear wearing armor. It’s discomfort. It’s denial. It’s the ache of not wanting to look too closely at something that feels overwhelming. And when I keep calling, even after being ignored, it isn’t stubbornness. It isn’t pressure. It’s love. This work has become my calling, not because it’s easy, but because it matters . Because maybe, just maybe, one more dial leads to one family who doesn’t have to sit in a funeral home office wondering how they’re going to pay before they can say goodbye. Maybe one more conversation spares a widow from having to choose between burying her husband and paying her bills afterward. I can live with being misunderstood. I can live with being told to stop calling. What I don’t want to live with is knowing I stayed quiet when my voice might have helped. So I keep dialing. Not relentlessly, and not without care, but faithfully. With humor when I can. With humility always. And with the hope that somewhere on the other end of the line is a family who will never know how close they came to needing this conversation far too late. If you’ve ever wondered why someone like me keeps calling, even when it would be easier not to, this is why. Grief is heavy enough. And if love sometimes sounds like a ringing phone, I’m okay with that.

I didn’t make a New Year’s resolution list this year. Over time, I’ve noticed that my resolutions tend to come out sounding like demands. They’re usually written in a tone I would never use with another human being, and yet somehow, I think it’s reasonable to use it on myself. I’ve lived that story before. It usually goes strong for a few weeks and then fades into a quiet, half-hearted apology to myself somewhere around Valentine’s Day. So instead of resolutions, I made a Bingo Board. It’s simple, really. Twenty-five squares laid out in a 5×5 grid. Some are practical. Some are playful. And some are closer to the heart and ask for more presence than planning. For me, it’s an honest mix of things like writing more, moving my body, trying something new, showing up for people I love, and paying attention while I’m doing it. It feels truer to me than a list of resolutions ever has. A Bingo Board doesn’t bark orders. It doesn’t shame you for unfinished squares. It doesn’t pretend that life moves in straight lines or that effort always leads to neat outcomes. It simply sits there and invites you to notice what happens as the year unfolds. And that’s really the point. You don’t conquer a square. You encounter it. An encounter is slower than an achievement. It leaves room for surprise. You might come to a square feeling ready and confident, or arrive tired, distracted, and unsure. You might step into it intentionally, or stumble into it because the day took an unexpected turn. Either way, the square meets you where you are. When you truly encounter something, it tends to change you, even if only a little. A conversation lasts longer than expected. A moment asks more of you than you thought you had to give. A simple goal opens into a deeper story. What looked like a box to check becomes a place where you slow down and notice what’s stirring just beneath the surface. That’s usually where the sacred shows up. As I stared at the grid, I realized something else too. Almost every square wasn’t really about an accomplishment at all, but about a place or moment where life has already taught me that grace tends to show up - - an Unlikely Altar. Those ordinary places where grace shows up without fanfare. Waiting rooms. Kitchen tables. Bar stools. The quiet space after a hard conversation. The pause before a decision. The breath you didn’t know you were holding until it finally lets go. They aren’t polished. They don’t announce themselves. Most of the time you don’t even recognize them while you’re standing there. It’s only later that you realize something holy happened in a place that didn’t look holy at all. Grace keeps showing up in the middle of things. In the trying. In the waiting. In the ordinary, imperfect act of showing up again and again with whatever attention and honesty we can manage that day. That’s what this Bingo Board is really about. Each square isn’t something to accomplish so much as a place to stand still long enough to notice what’s happening. Some squares will get checked off neatly. Some will stay open longer than I expected. And some will crack open into stories I never planned to write. This year, I’m going to write my way through the board. Not as a scorecard and not as instruction, but simply as a way of paying attention to what actually happens inside the squares. The interruptions. The conversations. The resistance. And always, the grace that shows up, because I’ve come to believe that grace always does, even when it arrives a little sideways. If this idea resonates with you, you’re welcome to make your own version of a Bingo Board. Not as a productivity tool or a list of things to prove, but as a way of paying attention. Your squares don’t need to look like mine. They can be as simple or as tender as you want. And if you do end up sketching something and feel like sharing it, you can always reach me at martyvershel@gmail.com You don’t need your own board to follow along. You just need a little curiosity about where the sacred might be hiding in your everyday life. Because chances are, you’ve already been standing on an Unlikely Altar. You just didn’t know to call it that yet.

Some days in this work end with a policy. Some days end with silence. And some days end with 343 dials , 6 total contacts , 2 people who had already died, 2 who swear they never filled out a form , and 1 very clear message that included the f-bomb and instructions to leave them alone. After a day like that, I had choices. I could have written Lauryn a letter of resignation. I could have poured something strong and kept pouring, purely for medicinal reasons. Or I could do what I’ve learned to do over a lifetime — look for God, and for the Unlikely Altar , even on days like this. So I made an Old Fashioned , sat with the frustration, and went looking for meaning instead of escape. This is what I found. Most days, this work doesn’t feel like selling anything at all. It feels like waiting and hoping. Waiting and hoping for someone to answer a call. Waiting and hoping for a text that rarely comes. Waiting and hoping through long pauses where you don’t know if you helped, were annoyed, or simply disappeared into someone else’s already-full life. Those days get under your skin. They make you second-guess your timing, your tone, your calling. They whisper that maybe you’re bothering people. That maybe this work is foolish. That maybe you should find something easier, something cleaner, something with clearer wins. But I’ve seen what happens when no one shows up early. I’ve seen families blindsided, not just by grief but by decisions they didn’t know they’d have to make so fast. I’ve watched love get tangled up with panic, debt, and shame. I’ve seen people try to say goodbye while also figuring out how to pay for it. Final expense work lets us step into the story before the crisis. Not to scare people. Not to pressure them. Just to slow things down. To give them room. To give love a little help before it’s exhausted. It’s not flashy work. It’s quiet. Sometimes awkward. Often resisted. And a lot of it never shows up on a spreadsheet. Some conversations end with a policy. Many don’t. Some end with “not now.” Some end with silence. Some end because the person dies before anything can be done at all. Those are the ones that hurt the most, because you know exactly how the story will go from there. Still, we show up. Somewhere between the last unanswered call and the first honest breath of the evening, I realized that this too was an altar. Not a sanctuary. Not a success story. Just a kitchen counter, a half-finished drink, and the choice to stay present instead of walking away. That’s the Unlikely Altar . The place where frustration and care sit side by side. Where you tell the truth about how hard the day was and still decide not to quit. We show up because kindness done in advance still counts, even when it’s invisible. We show up because being honest and steady with someone who’s afraid is never wasted. We show up because preparation is one of the most underrated forms of love. I don’t know what your “why” is. Maybe it’s mostly financial. Maybe this work just fits your season right now. That’s okay. There’s no purity test for why we do this. I only know mine. Mine comes from seeing families who couldn’t afford even a simple cremation. Mine comes from watching grief get heavier than it ever needed to be. Mine comes from knowing that a little planning can spare the people you love from a very hard day. Hope doesn’t always look like a win. Sometimes it looks like not quitting. Sometimes it looks like making the next call with the same care as the first. Sometimes it looks like an Old Fashioned on the counter and the decision to look for meaning instead of escape. So we keep showing up. And day after day, I have to remind myself of this simple truth: nothing done with love and honesty is ever wasted.

There’s a moment at some gravesides that never leaves me. The prayer has been said. The final words have settled into the air. And just before people turn to walk away, someone lingers. Sometimes it’s a spouse who reaches out and rests their hand on the casket a second longer than expected. Sometimes it’s a daughter who leans in, whispering something only she needs to hear. Sometimes it’s a son who clears his throat, nods once, and steps back quickly, as if staying any longer might undo him. That pause tells me everything. It tells me love was here. It tells me something mattered. It tells me this goodbye carries weight. I have learned more about life, love, and legacy at a graveside than anywhere else. I’ve learned that grief doesn’t show up the same way twice. Some people cry openly. Some stand very still. Some tell stories through tears. Some stare at the ground as if they’re trying to memorize it. None of it is wrong. I’ve learned that love is almost always present, even when relationships were complicated. Even when words were left unsaid. Even when the story wasn’t neat or easy. Grief has a way of clarifying what mattered. And standing there, I’m always aware of this simple truth: one day, every one of us will be remembered in a moment like this. Not for what we owned. Not for what we avoided. But for how we loved. I’ve learned that people rarely talk about money at gravesides—but they carry it with them anyway. I’ve seen worry sitting just behind the eyes. I’ve heard the whispered questions later, once the crowd thins and the quiet returns. Who’s paying for this? What happens next? Did they leave anything in place? I’ve also learned that relief has a sound. I t sounds like a deep exhale. It looks like shoulders dropping. It feels like space—space to grieve without also having to scramble. I’ve stood with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those moments, grief was still heavy—love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty. I’ve learned that the most meaningful moments are often the simplest ones. A hand placed gently on a casket. A name spoken out loud one last time. A pause long enough to let love catch up with loss. I’ve learned that nobody wishes they had said less. They wish they had said thank you. They wish they had said I forgive you. They wish they had said I love you one more time. I’ve learned that preparation is not the opposite of hope. It’s an expression of it. The families who experience the most peace aren’t the ones who avoided hard conversations. They’re the ones who faced them gently, ahead of time, and left fewer questions behind. Grief will always be heavy. Love makes it that way. But standing at gravesides has taught me this: what we do beforehand matters. Quietly. Faithfully. In ways that may never be noticed—but are deeply felt. And by the time they’re needed, they matter more than words. If you’d like to talk about what planning ahead could look like for your family—without pressure and at your pace—I’m always here for that conversation. Breathe peace. Marty

No one warns you about the nights. People talk about the firsts. The first holiday. The first birthday. The first anniversary. But few talk about the first night. Or the second. Or the hundredth. Because night is different. During the day, grief has manners. It waits its turn. You answer texts. You run errands. You smile when you’re supposed to. You can almost convince yourself you’re doing okay. But at night, grief becomes bold. It becomes rude. All those manners are stripped away. When the house goes quiet, grief doesn’t whisper anymore. It speaks loud and clear. The other side of the bed stays empty. Not symbolically empty, but actually empty. Cold where warmth used to be. Still, where breath once rose and fell in the dark. You reach without thinking, then remember once again that she isn’t there. He isn’t coming back. The bed used to be a shared place. A place of conversation. A place where laughter echoed in the room. A place of intimacy — where you could be fully vulnerable and fully alive. A place where prayers were shared and whispered. A place where silence could simply be, without needing explanation. But now that same bed feels oversized. Like a room built for two that only one person is allowed to enter. Some nights you sleep on the edge, clinging to what feels familiar. Some nights you sleep in the middle, hoping closeness might still be possible. And if you’re honest, some nights you don’t sleep at all. Let’s tell it like it is. Night doesn’t ask how you’re holding up. It quietly tells the truth. And the truth is, you aren’t holding up all that well. You lie there listening to the sounds of a house that suddenly feels like a stranger. Every creak feels louder. Every tick of the clock is heavier. This is where loneliness settles in. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just steadily. People think loneliness lives in the heart. But at night, loneliness lives in the body. It’s the tightness that settles in your chest. The knots that twist your stomach. It’s the questions that arrive at 2:17 in the morning. What if I forget the sound of their voice? Their laugh? How long will this ache last? Is this what the rest of my life looks like? Night has a way of magnifying everything grief touches. Yes, I know people tell you that you are not alone. Friends and family remind you that God is with you. And they mean well, they really do. But at night, faith can feel thin. Even the promises can feel quiet. That doesn’t mean faith is gone. It means it’s quieter than it used to be. Faith after loss often changes its tone. It becomes quieter. Less certain. More honest. The confident prayers from before may give way to borrowed ones. Or to silence. Or to a single whispered name in the dark. If faith feels fragile at night, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. It means it’s carrying weight. This is the part we don’t talk about enough. Night is brutal. But believe it or not, night is also sacred. There is the lamp left on because total darkness feels unbearable. Or that favorite chair that still holds his shape, the one no one else can sit in. And the blanket, the one you reach for because it still carries her scent. These small things become altars. Unlikely Altars , but altars all the same. Quiet ones. This is where love still shows up. Not to fix the pain. Not to hurry healing. Just to sit with you while the world sleeps. Please hear this clearly. If the nights are lonely, you are not broken. If sleep comes in fragments, you are not failing. If the quiet feels louder than the day, you are not doing grief wrong. What you are doing is not weakness. You are loving someone who mattered. You are learning how to breathe in a house that remembers. And even when the room feels empty, love has not left it. Not really.

Every December, the argument returns like a familiar carol sung a little too loud. Is Die Hard a Christmas movie? Some folks hold tight to their cocoa mugs and say, “ No way. ” Others smile the way you smile when the argument is already settled in your heart. I’ve come to believe the debate survives because it isn’t really about explosions or one-liners. It’s about where Christmas actually finds us. When I was preaching, Christmas was rarely quiet. Four or five services on Christmas Eve. Programs to assemble. Bulletins to proof. Candles to count. Microphones to fix. Holy night by way of logistics. I loved the people. I believed the message. But if I’m honest, there were years when I was just muscling through it all, trying to sound joyful while quietly counting the hours until December 26th. Not because I didn’t care. Because I was tired. Christmas had become something I delivered more than something I received. And then, late. After the sanctuaries were dark. After the last “ Merry Christmas ” was said. After the robe was hung back up. Die Hard would sometimes flicker onto the screen. No sermon. No sanctuary. Just a tired preacher on a couch watching a tired man crawl through air ducts, barefoot, scraped up, and refusing to quit. That’s when Christmas found me. First, the setting. Christmas Eve. Office party. Tinsel, teddy bears, and awkward small talk. The soundtrack includes sleigh bells and gunfire, which feels honest if we’re being real about the season. Love arrives on a plane. Redemption arrives barefoot. Second, the plot. A man flies across the country to fix a marriage. He brings a gun, sure, but mostly he brings humility. He learns to say the right name. He learns to ask for help. He learns that reconciliation costs something. If that’s not Advent, I’m not sure what is. Third, the theology of it all. Christmas, at its heart, insists that hope shows up where it shouldn’t. In a stable. In a cubicle farm. In a high-rise named Nakatomi. Grace breaks in during a holiday party and doesn’t bother to RSVP. This is why Die Hard feels like an altar to me. Not a cathedral altar with candles and quiet. An Unlikely Altar . The kind you stumble into while holding snacks. The kind that surprises you with meaning between explosions and one-liners. Because the movie isn’t really about violence. It’s about stubborn love. It’s about a man who keeps crawling through ducts because quitting would be easier, but it would be less faithful. It’s about choosing a relationship over pride. It’s about saying, “ I was wrong, ” and meaning it, even when the building is on fire. And yes, there is a Christmas miracle. Snow falls in Los Angeles. Paper snow, but still. A family is restored. A villain falls. A limo driver gets a tip. The season delivers what it always promises: not perfection, but presence. So, light the tree. Pour something festive. Put Die Hard on the screen and let it preach. Let it remind you that Christmas shows up loud and sideways, that love sometimes limps, and that grace can absolutely wear a tank top. An Unlikely Altar. A Holy night. Yippee-ki-yay, AMEN! 🎄💥