marty-vershel

1,370 Pounds of Fear

Tue, 05 May 2026 02:13:26 GMT

I could write about Cherie DeVaux, and honestly, I probably should. She made history Saturday at Churchill Downs — the first woman ever to train a Kentucky Derby winner in 152 years of trying. Golden Tempo came from dead last with 23-1 odds and crossed the finish line while Cherie stood in the winner's circle holding her nephew and crying the kind of tears you simply cannot manufacture. That's a real story, a genuinely good one, and it deserves its own altar.

But I keep thinking about something else entirely.

Every year, the Kentucky Derby does something to me that has nothing to do with the race itself. It's the pageantry. The hats that took three weeks to find. The mint juleps, the singing of My Old Kentucky Home , the roses, the trumpet call, the way a hundred thousand people dress up and gather and hold their breath together for exactly two minutes. There is something deeply human about all of that — something that looks, if you squint a little, like worship.

I have come to believe that we need ritual; we always have and probably always will. We mark things with ceremony because some moments are simply too large to let pass without acknowledgment, and Churchill Downs on the first Saturday in May is one of the last places in America where everybody agrees, without argument, without explanation, to stop, dress up, and pay attention together.

And then on Saturday, just before the gates opened, a horse named Great White reared up, fell backward, and flipped.

He wasn't even supposed to be there. Great White got into the Derby field on Wednesday, just three days before the race, as a late entry after another horse was injured. A door opened that wasn't supposed to open. An unexpected chance, the kind that doesn't come looking for you twice. His trainer had him ready, and his jockey was up. The roses were on the table, the crowd was holding its breath, and the pageantry was in full, glorious swing. And right there at the threshold of the gate, not inside it, not pointed toward the finish line, but right there at the edge of the only moment his entire life had been building toward - - something spooked him. His body said no.

He weighs 1,370 pounds. And fear? Fear stopped him cold. The chance of a lifetime was gone before it ever began.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance.” One chance. One Saturday. One gate. And just like that, it was over before it ever began.

I’ve loved that line from Dan Fogelberg for years, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt it quite like I did on Saturday evening.

The jockey walked away unhurt, which matters more than the race ever could. And Great White was reported to be perfectly fine afterward, unaware of what the moment had cost him, which is either mercy or heartbreak, depending on how you look at it. He will never know what he missed. He will never carry the weight of that threshold. He just is, somewhere in a stall right now, exactly the horse he was on Friday - - ready, capable, and unaware.

I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Not because it's a clean tragedy with a tidy moral, but because I have stood at enough gravesides to recognize that story. I officiate funerals, and I have sat with enough families to have lost count of the ones where fear made the call at the gate. It wasn't made by a failure or by lack of preparation. It wasn’t even bad luck, not exactly. Just fear, arriving at the worst possible moment, at the threshold of the thing they'd been pointed toward their whole life. The conversation they kept meaning to have. The relationship they almost repaired. The door that opened unexpectedly on a Wednesday and closed forever by Saturday. The pageantry of the world rolled on without them, the way it always does, and they never got their two minutes.

Here is what I want to say to you today, and I want to say it as someone who has stood in those rooms and felt that grief: some of you still have your gate in front of you. The unexpected door is still open. The chance you didn't see coming is still there, waiting for you to stop letting fear make the call.

Because fear will always find something to spook at. It will find a reason why this isn't the right moment, why you aren't quite ready, why it would be better to wait for a Saturday with better conditions, calmer nerves, and more certainty. Fear is patient and persuasive , and it knows exactly where to find you — right there at the threshold, when the gate is finally close enough to touch.

But the roses don't wait. The trumpet doesn't play twice. And I have sat with too many people in too much grief over unlived moments to let this Derby pass without saying it plainly.

Whatever is waiting on the other side of your gate — run toward it. Not because the fear goes away. It probably won't. But because the chance of a lifetime doesn't come back around, and somewhere on the other side of that threshold is the thing you were made for.

God meets you there, at the gate, in the fear, in the unexpected chance you didn't see coming. That's where He does some of His best work — not in the winner's circle, not in the pageantry, but right there in the trembling, terrifying, holy threshold moment.

That's an Unlikely Altar if I've ever seen one. Not the winner's circle. Not the roses. Not the pageantry. Just a trembling creature at a threshold, and a God who showed up anyway.

If that's where you are today, standing at the gate, heart pounding, door open, fear loud - - May you know, may you remember, may you never forget: you were made for this moment. And you are not alone in it.

The Cheer

Wed, 29 Apr 2026 15:30:14 GMT

There is a word in the Hebrew Bible that appears more than 150 times, and we have never found an adequate way to translate it into English. The word is chesedh .

We try. We use mercy, lovingkindness, steadfast love, and compassion. And every translation captures something true. But none of them capture everything. Because chesedh isn't just a feeling, an attitude, or even a virtue, it's the word the writers of Scripture used over and over again to describe the defining characteristic of God — the way God moves toward people, especially people who have no reason to expect it.

And there is a related word, rahamim , which means something even more visceral. It comes from the Hebrew word for womb . It's the kind of love a mother has for the child she carried — not distant, or theoretical, but rather physical and active. It is a love that cannot stay still when the one it loves is suffering. That's what Jesus was talking about when He said, " Blessed are the merciful. "

It’s not pity, and it’s more than just feeling sorry for someone from a safe distance. And it surely isn't just some kind thought sent in the general direction of someone's pain.

Chesedh . Rahamim . It is a love that gets up and moves.

Now imagine you are sitting on that hillside, the day Jesus said those words. You are not there because life is going well. You are there because you are out of other options, and something about this carpenter from Nazareth made you think — maybe. Just maybe He is the One.

You are a fisherman with calloused hands who has been told your whole life that God is for the educated and the clean. You are a woman who has been publicly shamed and hasn't forgotten the faces of the people who did it. You are a tax collector who knows exactly what your neighbors think of you. You are a mother whose child is sick and who has been told, quietly and not so quietly, that this is what you deserve.

You have heard religious teachers your whole life. You know how this usually goes. They tell you what God requires. But more than that, they like to remind you that you fall short. And they remind you again and again and again.

So when Jesus says, " Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy, " what runs through your heart? Probably not faith; at least not yet. Probably something closer to — so what? Nobody has ever shown me that. Why would I believe it now?

And yet you stay. Something keeps you on that hillside. Maybe it's hunger. The rahamim kind — deep, desperate, from somewhere in your core. The longing for someone to finally mean it.

In November 2008, a high school football team from Gainesville, Texas, took the field for what should have been just another road game.

Gainesville State had fourteen players, wore seven-year-old pads and hand-me-down helmets. And they were winless with a 0-8 record.

When Gainesville State arrived at games, they were escorted by security guards who removed their handcuffs before kickoff. You see, Gainesville State is a juvenile correctional facility. Their players are there by court order — drugs, assaults, robberies. Many of their families have disowned them. They play every game on the road, so there are no home crowds and no one is cheering their names.

Their opponent that night was Faith Christian School — seventy players, eleven coaches, the latest equipment, and hundreds of involved parents.

Before the game, Faith's head coach, Kris Hogan, sent an email to his fans. He asked them to do something unusual. Half of them, he said, would sit on the visiting side. They would learn the names of the Gainesville players. And they would cheer for them.

When the Gainesville Tornados took the field, they ran through a banner that read Go Tornados. Two hundred strangers cheered their names. Faith's own cheerleaders led cheers for the opposing team. One Gainesville player said, “ We can tell people are a little afraid of us when we come to games. But these people, they were yellin' for us. By our names. ”

Faith won 33 to 14. It didn't matter.

Because at the end of the game, when the teams gathered to pray, a Gainesville player named Isaiah asked to lead. And this is what he prayed: “ Lord, I don't know how this happened, so I don't know how to say thank You, but I never would've known there were so many people in the world that cared about us. ”

That is chesedh.

You see, it’s not just feeling sorry for kids in a hard situation. It’s not writing a check from a comfortable distance. But it is about a large group of people who chose to get into the skin of fourteen young men who had never been cheered for and cheered for them anyway.

And it changed Isaiah. You can hear it in his prayer. Something broke open in him that night that had never been open before. That is what mercy does when it is real. Isaiah didn't just feel better that night. For maybe the first time in his life, he felt what grace actually feels like, with skin on it. And you don't walk away from that as the same person.

They will receive mercy.

That crowd on the hillside didn't know what to do with that promise yet. But maybe — just maybe — some of them had felt something like what that young man Isaiah felt. The shock of being cheered for by people who had no reason to cheer. The disorientation of being treated like you matter by people who didn't have to.

And maybe that's what finally made them believe it was possible.

Chesedh doesn't always look like 200 fans on the bleachers. Sometimes it looks like a cup of cold water handed to a stranger who is thirsty. Doesn't seem like much and is often barely worth mentioning. But to the one drinking it — standing there parched, overlooked, and not expecting anything from anyone — that cup is the whole character of God made visible in one ordinary moment.

That's the Unlikely Altar for this one. It isn’t some grand gesture or a stadium full of people. It is the moment when someone who has never been shown mercy receives it — and something in them shifts permanently.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

Not because mercy is a transaction. Not because you give it and get it back like change. But because when you live chesedh — when you get into someone's skin and choose to move toward them instead of away — you find yourself swimming in the same love that has been moving toward you your whole life.

Even when you didn't know it. Even when you were the one on the visiting side, wondering if anyone would ever cheer your name.

May we know, may we remember, may we never forget — there is a love that will not stay at a distance. It has a Hebrew name we cannot fully translate. It comes from the womb. It moves toward the ones everyone else has written off. And somewhere today, in the most ordinary and unexpected moment, it is looking for a way to show up through you.

Blessed are the merciful.

Go cheer somebody's name.

Something Made You Stop

Sun, 26 Apr 2026 17:41:58 GMT

You weren't thinking about death.

You were scrolling. Maybe it was late, and the TV was on in the background, but you were only half watching. Or maybe you were looking at pictures of the grandkids, or a video somebody shared, or just moving your thumb out of habit the way most of us do when the day gets quiet.

And then the ad appeared.

You could have kept scrolling. And to be honest, most people do. But there was something about the ad that made you stop. Maybe it was the word family or the word burden. Maybe it was a face that showed up uninvited in the back of your mind — someone you love, someone you'd do almost anything for — and for just a moment, you let yourself think about what you might be leaving them to carry.

So you filled out the form.

Now here's what I've learned after months of calling the names on that list: most people can't tell you exactly why they stopped.

Some stopped out of fear. The fear of dying before things are in order, or the moment they realize what a funeral actually costs. Fear has a way of moving us before we fully understand what we're doing.

Others stopped out of love. They see something like that and think of their spouse, or their kids, or a grandchild who would be left to figure things out on a day when thinking clearly isn't exactly easy.

And some stopped because the form was there and it was simple, and maybe it passed a quiet moment without asking too much in return.

I don't know which one you were. Maybe all, or perhaps none of the above. But I do know this: you typed your name, filled in the numbers, named someone you care about, and hit submit. And whatever was behind that — fear, love, or just a quiet Tuesday afternoon — something in you moved.

And I want to be honest with you about something.

I'm not calling because I need the commission to survive. I don't. I'm calling because I officiate funerals, and I stand with grieving families several times a week. I've seen what happens when nothing is in place. I've watched the frustration, the stress, the quiet panic behind the decisions that have to be made quickly and paid for just as fast. And once you've seen that up close, you don't really get to unsee it.

Now, I might be wrong, but I don't think that form was just about information. I think somewhere along the way, you've seen a GoFundMe for a funeral. Maybe you shared it. Maybe you gave five or ten dollars because you knew the family and it felt like the least you could do. And somewhere in that moment, without even putting it into words, you thought: I don't want that to be my people.

I don't want my kids passing the digital hat while they're still trying to figure out how to get through the week without me. I don't want my spouse choosing between burying me with dignity and keeping the lights on. I don't want the people I love most asking strangers for help on the worst day of their lives.

Just so you know, that isn't fear talking. That's love — the kind of love that thinks ahead. And a love like that is quietly one of the most faithful things a person can do.

So here's where I come in.

I'm the guy who calls.

You may have seen my number and let it go to voicemail. You may have read my text and meant to respond. You may have genuinely forgotten you ever filled out the form in the first place, because life got loud again the moment you put your phone down, and the stillness disappeared.

I understand all of that. I really do.

But I keep calling. Not to pressure you or hit some quota. I keep calling because I've stood at too many gravesides and sat with too many families trying to figure things out in real time. And there is a difference when things have been taken care of. Love will always make grief heavy — nothing changes that — but when the practical pieces are already in place, there's a little more room to breathe.

And I wonder if part of you already knows that.

Here's the question I keep coming back to, and I ask it with nothing but care and concern: when your loved ones are sitting in the funeral home, what will you have left them to carry?

Not your furniture. I mean the practical weight of your absence. The bills that still arrive. The funeral that still has to happen. The decisions that still have to be made by people who are already carrying more than they know how to hold.

You had a moment — maybe just thirty seconds on a Tuesday night — when you let yourself think about that. When love or fear or something that felt like both moved your hand and you filled out a form.

That moment was worth something. It still is.

The form was just the beginning. The conversation is where it becomes real.

And whenever you're ready for that conversation — unhurried, no pressure, just honest —

I'll be here.

Cold Fries

Sun, 19 Apr 2026 04:39:19 GMT

This past week I was filling my Jeep with gas, on my way to officiate a funeral, when I saw him. I don’t think he saw me watching, but I did. He was standing off to the side of the parking lot, half-turned away from the store, rummaging through a trash can until he pulled out a crumpled McDonald’s bag. He opened it right there and started eating what looked like leftover fries. Cold. Greasy. Whatever someone else didn’t finish.

Cars kept moving in and out. The pump kept clicking. Life didn’t slow down for him. I probably should have walked inside, bought him a decent meal and a Coke, handed it to him like it was nothing.

But I didn’t.

He went on his way, eating fries from a trash can. I got back in my Jeep, pulled out of the station, and headed toward a room where people would be gathered to remember someone they loved.

And somewhere between the gas station and that funeral, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just what he was doing… but what it stirred in me. That quiet, uncomfortable mix of heartbreak and guilt and the deep-down sense that something about the world is just not the way it’s supposed to be.

And as I drove, a familiar phrase kept finding its way back into my head, like it had been waiting for me to notice it again.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they will be filled.

Most of us have heard those words before. We’ve heard them enough that they can start to feel like something soft, something spiritual, something that belongs in a sermon or stitched onto a pillow somewhere.

But I wonder if we’ve ever really let them land.

Because righteousness, the way Jesus is talking about it, isn’t about being good or moral or checking the right boxes. It’s bigger than that. It’s about things being made right. It’s about the world looking the way God intends it to look… whole, just, restored. It’s about what Scripture calls shalom.

Because if you remember who was sitting on that hillside listening to Him, this would not have felt abstract at all. These weren’t people who had just finished a nice lunch. They were fishermen, farmers, and laborers. People who knew what it felt like to go to bed hungry. People who understood thirst not as a metaphor, but as something your body feels when it hasn’t had enough for too long.

So when Jesus said hunger and thirst, they didn’t need an explanation. They felt it.

And then He takes that feeling — that desperate, undignified, I-will-dig-through-a-trash-can-if-I-have-to kind of hunger — and says that is what your longing for righteousness should feel like.

Not polite. Not distant. Not theoretical. But a desperate craving.

Sometimes that hunger shows up on a global scale, and it hits you like a fist. It’s the footage you can’t quite turn away from. Children in places whose names we struggle to pronounce, drinking water that would make us sick. It’s the moment when numbers stop feeling like numbers because you’ve seen a face, or a story, or a man in a parking lot eating cold fries out of someone else’s leftovers. It’s the part of you that knows, deep down, that the world has enough — enough food, enough water, enough resources — and yet somehow it doesn’t reach the people who need it most.

That gap between what is and what should be… that ache… that’s hunger and thirst for righteousness. That’s a longing for shalom.

Sometimes the hunger is quieter than that.

I have sat in rooms where a marriage was coming apart, and what always surprises me is how little noise it makes. You expect shouting, doors slamming, something you can point to. But more often it’s just a heaviness. A silence that settles in between two people who used to know how to reach each other and somewhere along the way forgot.

You can feel the absence of wholeness like it’s taking up space in the room. And if you’ve ever been there, you know the feeling. That deep, steady ache that things could be different. That somehow the distance could be crossed. That healing might still be possible.

That’s hunger and thirst for righteousness. That longing for two people to find their way back… that’s a desire for shalom.

And sometimes the hunger is the most personal thing in the world. Maybe it’s not something out there or between two people. Maybe it’s inside you. The habits you keep circling back to. The patterns you’ve tried to break more times than you can count. The quiet voice that wonders if this is just who you are now. And yet… underneath all of that… there is still something in you that hasn’t given up. Something that still wants to be whole. Something that still longs for things to be made right.

Even when it’s tired. Even when it feels worn down. That longing… that refusal to settle… that is hunger and thirst for righteousness.

And Jesus looks at that person — not cleaned up, not finished, not figured out — and says makarios. Not “happy.” Not “fortunate.” Something closer to… God is with you. God is on your side.

Right there in the hunger. Right there in the longing. Right there in the place where you know things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be, and you haven’t stopped caring.

Which means maybe that moment at the gas station wasn’t just something to feel bad about and move past. The hunger itself is an unlikely altar.

Maybe the ache you feel when you see something broken — in the world, in others, in yourself — is not something to avoid or explain away, but something to pay attention to.

Because that ache might be the very place where God is already at work in you. The place where your soul is learning to want what God wants. And maybe being filled doesn’t always mean everything gets fixed all at once.

Maybe sometimes it looks like this:

You don’t stop noticing. You don’t stop caring. You don’t stop longing for things to be made right.

And somewhere in that hunger… you find that you are not alone.

You never were.

The Bunt

Fri, 10 Apr 2026 20:31:44 GMT

There’s a certain kind of strength that tends to get most of the attention in this world, and you don’t have to look very hard to recognize it. It’s the voice that fills a room without asking permission, the kind that makes people turn their heads before they’ve even decided if they agree. It’s the swing that tries to send the ball over the left field fence, preferably with enough distance to make people stand up before it even lands. That kind of strength is visible, measurable, and makes for good highlights. Somewhere along the way, most of us quietly absorbed the idea that this is what strength is supposed to look like.

But every now and then, if you’re paying attention, you’ll notice a different kind of strength moving through the very same space, and it’s easy to miss because it doesn’t announce itself. It shows up in the person who could say something sharp and decides not to, or in the moment when someone clearly has the upper hand and realizes that winning isn’t actually the most important thing happening in the room. It’s the kind of strength that doesn’t need to prove anything because it already knows what it’s carrying, and if you blink, you can miss it entirely.

Baseball has a way of revealing that kind of strength, usually when nobody is expecting it, and I remember one of those moments pretty clearly. It was Game 7 of the 2001 World Series, bottom of the ninth inning, with the Yankees leading by two runs and Mariano Rivera on the mound, which in those days felt about as close to automatic as baseball ever gets. When Rivera came in, games didn’t so much continue as they slowly came to a conclusion.

Arizona managed to get a runner on base, which was already more hope than most teams found in that situation, and then Jay Bell stepped in to pinch-hit for Randy Johnson. He was a guy who knew how to swing the bat, fourteen home runs that year, over seventy runs driven in, and enough experience to understand exactly what October pressure feels like when it settles into your chest.

And somewhere in that moment, whether it came from the dugout or from some instinct inside him, he squared around and bunted.

It didn’t work the way you might draw it up. The runner was thrown out at third, and if you just glance at the box score, it probably looks like a mistake. The kind of decision that makes you wonder what he was thinking.

Except the inning didn’t end, and that matters.

Because the next batter, Tony Womack, doubled and tied the game, and a few moments later, Luis Gonzalez ended the World Series with a soft single that barely made it out of the infield. Everybody remembers the Gonzalez hit, but almost nobody remembers the bunt, which is often how this kind of strength works.

Sometimes the strongest player on the field is the one who knows when not to swing. Even when everything in you wants to, even when it doesn’t work out cleanly, and even when it looks, at least for a moment, like you got it wrong.

And it turns out Jesus had something to say about that kind of strength.

“Blessed are the meek.”

Most of us hear the word "meek" and picture someone who gets overlooked or pushed around. We often think of someone who doesn’t have much presence, while louder people take up all the oxygen in the room. But that’s not what Jesus was describing. The word He uses is praus , a word that was used in the first century for a wild horse that had been trained, not broken or diminished, but still strong. A horse still capable of running full speed, still a warhorse, just one that had learned when to run and when to stand still.

And Jesus looks at that kind of person and says makarios . Not “happy” or “fortunate,” at least not in the way we usually mean those words. Something closer to this: God is with you . God is on your side . Not because you are the loudest or the strongest or the one who swings the hardest, but because you have learned something the world keeps forgetting.

Jesus lived that kind of strength. He didn’t avoid conflict, but He also wasn’t interested in winning it the way everyone else was. And there’s a difference there that’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. He carried power without needing to prove it. That might be the clearest sign that it was real to begin with. Somehow, Jesus knew not only what He could do but when not to do it.

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.”

Not conquer it, which is how we usually imagine strength working, but inherit it, which means it comes as a gift rather than something you muscle your way into.

I’ll be honest with you, this is one of the Beatitudes I am still learning how to live into, because the bunt does not come naturally to me. My first instinct is usually to swing away, the kind of swing that either clears the fence or leaves you walking back to the dugout wondering what just happened. Restraint is something I have to choose, and I don’t always choose it well.

And that might be the clearest sign that it was real all along.

Maybe “blessed are the meek” isn’t describing people who have already figured this out so much as it’s inviting the rest of us to keep learning how to choose differently, even when the swing feels more satisfying and even when we have every reason to let it go.

The Unlikely Altar for the meek isn’t something you can photograph or circle on a map, because it doesn’t stay still long enough for that. It shows up in the space between what flashes through your mind and what finally comes out of your mouth, in that quiet moment where you realize you could go one way and, almost gently, decide to go another.

And more often than we notice, that’s exactly where God meets us, not in the noise of the moment but in the choosing of it, in the restraint that nobody else may ever see but that somehow still changes everything.

Blessed are the meek, not because they are weak, but because they know they could swing and choose what matters more.

Because sometimes the strongest thing you can do is not swing at all.

The Grave

Sat, 04 Apr 2026 14:29:16 GMT

Over the years, I have stood at countless gravesides, either as a pastor or as a celebrant, I have learned a profound truth. Every family handles grief differently. And you can see it in the way they stand and in the silence that sits over them like a pall.

And even though I have witnessed it many times, I am never ready for the parents. I have watched a mom and dad lower a casket so small it breaks something in the air around it. There are no words. No theology can make sense of it. The flowers on top of the casket seem almost cruel in their brightness. And the dirt - well, it is just dirt. Then there are the parents who stand on the edge of that hole, trying to make sense of the senseless.

When I watch the family and friends standing at the grave, I feel the full weight of what it means to be human, which is to say, the full weight of what it means to love something you cannot keep.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, in those moments, I hear a question I have never been able to answer, standing there in the grass:

What does God say to this?

Now when Jesus saw the crowds, he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him, and he began to teach them…Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

If you have ever stood at a grave and someone turned to you and said those words, I imagine you might have felt something catch in your throat. Please understand, not because the words are wrong. But because in that moment, with the dirt still fresh and the flowers still bright and the people you love still unable to make their feet move toward the car, comfort feels very far away.

And if someone had leaned over and whispered, "Happy are those who mourn,” — you might have said a few words you would regret later, then walked away. And you would have had every right to.

But please know that is not what Jesus said. He said makarios . And makarios doesn't mean happy. It never did. It means something closer to — God is with you . Right here at the grave. Right now, in the midst of the hurt and the questions. In the moment when no words can make any sense. Jesus says, Makarios …

He doesn’t say, "Let's wait till the grief gets easier. ” He doesn’t say, “Time heals all wounds.” And He doesn’t say, “You will get over this.” He simply says, “Blessed are those that mourn…”

The theologian Frederick Dale Bruner said that when Jesus used the word makarios , which is translated to blessed , he was reminding the people that God is with them. It is as if God taps you on the shoulder and whispers in your ear, “I am with you.”

And you know what I hold onto every funeral I stand with families? I hold on to the belief, in ways I can’t fully understand or explain, that those words are true. Okay, maybe God doesn’t just whisper them, He proclaims them in a big voice, bigger than the smallest casket even. He states them in such a way that they echo through every graveyard and every tomb. “Even in this moment, especially in this moment, I am with you. I am on your side!”

You see, I believe that because the God of Easter is not a God who watches grief from a distance and then sends an email. He is a God who came down, who stood at His own Son's grave. Who knows what those parents are feeling — not as theology, not as doctrine — but from the core of His being.

That is what Easter means even at the hardest grave. Not that death didn't happen. Not that the pain disappears with the sunrise. But that the God who walked out of the tomb on Sunday morning did it for exactly this moment. For the parents at the smallest grave. For the widow who can't make her feet move. For everyone standing in the grass, wondering what God could possibly say to this.

He says, "I am with you." Even now. Maybe especially now.

And I'll tell you something I don't always say out loud. When I get in my Jeep after a graveside service and drive away, I sometimes wonder. And I hope. I hope that God does more than whisper.

But then I remember Easter.

It doesn't look like holy ground. It doesn't feel like it either. But it is.

But maybe that is exactly where the God of Easter shows up. Not after the grief passes. Not when the marker is finally in place, and the grass has grown back, and people have stopped bringing casseroles. But right there in the silence that sits over a family like a pall. In the moment when love has nowhere left to go.

The grave is an Unlikely Altar . But Easter was an unlikely morning.

On this Easter, may we know, may we remember, may we never forget — we have a God who doesn’t watch from a distance. Our God comes down and stands at the grave. And in a voice bigger than any casket, bigger than any grief, bigger than any question we have ever carried, He proclaims: I am with you. Even now. Maybe especially now.

He is risen. And that changes everything.

The Bench...

Fri, 03 Apr 2026 01:03:01 GMT

There is a particular view from the dugout bench that only the not-so-good know well.

It's the view from the end of the bench. The splinters you've memorized. The dirt at your feet you've studied longer than the game itself. You can see everything from there — the field, the action, the players who belong — but you are not in it. You are watching. Waiting. Wondering if your name will ever be called.

I spent a lot of time on that bench. Last one picked. Wrong end of the dugout. The kid coaches sighed about and teammates learned not to throw to. You don't forget that feeling. The quiet ache of not measuring up. The sense that some people just get it — and you don't.

You don't have to play baseball to know that bench. Most of us have sat on some version of it.

That's exactly where the people on that hillside were. Not metaphorically but literally. The religious system of the first century had a very clear pecking order — and most of the people who followed Jesus to that hillside weren't anywhere near the top of it. They were fishermen, farmers, and tax collectors. They were the people who'd been told, quietly and not so quietly, that God had higher standards than they were meeting.

Then Jesus sat down.

And He looked at that crowd — that tired, hoping, half-believing crowd — and said: Blessed .

Blessed are the poor in spirit. Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are the meek, the hungry, the merciful, the pure in heart. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the ones who've been pushed around for trying to do right.

The Greek word is makarios . And no matter what you have heard, the word does not mean happy. These people weren't happy. They were worn down and wondering if God had forgotten them.

Theologian Frederick Dale Bruner called the word, Blessed, as if God is whispering: I'm with you . And that is what Jesus was doing on that hillside.

He wasn’t handing out merit badges. He was declaring something that the whole religious system around him refused to say: You are already loved. God is already on your side.

Please understand that, in saying that, Jesus was making an extremely radical claim. It was an expensive thing to say.

That's the part we can easily miss when we read the Beatitudes, especially when we read them in any other season but Lent and Good Friday. We hear blessed, which makes us feel warm. And maybe we should. But Good Friday asks a question the Beatitudes don't answer on their own: What did it cost Jesus to make that claim?

Because grace isn't cheap . It never was, and it never will be.

When Jesus said, " Blessed are the poor in spirit " — He knew what was coming. When He looked at that crowd of people the world had written off and said you belong to the kingdom of heaven — He knew the price of that declaration.

He knew that He was the One who was going to pay it.

Every person He called blessed — every fisherman, every grieving mother, every doubter sitting in the back of that hillside crowd — the grace extended to them had a cost. And Jesus carried it; He carried it alone. To a hill less pastoral than the one where He preached. Then to a cross and eventually to three hours of darkness and a cry that still echoes: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Love isn't cheap. It's the most expensive thing there is. And on Good Friday, we don't look away from that cost; we have to sit with it. We let it be as heavy as it actually was.

The cross isn't a footnote to the Sermon on the Mount. It's the answer to it. Jesus could say blessed to the last-picked, the overlooked, the not-good-enough — because He was willing to pay what it cost to make that true.

You know, if I am honest, there are still more days than I would like to admit when I feel like I've been sent back to the bench. The world says that I am too old; it loves to remind me of every mistake, every error, I have ever made. Or maybe it's not the world, maybe it’s me telling myself that I am not good enough anymore; that I am damaged goods. Maybe there are days when you feel the same way.

The Unlikely Altar just might be the thing I disliked the most — t he bench . Splinters and dirt. The wrong end of the dugout. But maybe that's exactly where we meet the God of Good Friday. Not in the robes and the formality. Not in the times we had it all together. But in the waiting. The wondering. The hurt. The loneliness. The not-quite-good-enough.

Shhh…do you hear it? That voice is calling you and me — not because we are good enough, but because Someone chose to pay the price and declare to the world: you matter. I matter. We matter.

And can you imagine what would happen if you actually believed that?

On this Good Friday, may we know, may we remember, may we never forget that there is nothing you can do — nothing — to ever make God love you less. Because when God sees you, He doesn't see the mistakes you have made. He simply says you are nothing but the best of the best of the best.

Hey Dad, Wanna Have a Catch?

Wed, 25 Mar 2026 19:44:37 GMT

Every year, the week of Opening Day , I watch the movie, Field of Dreams . It's a ritual and it is pretty non-negotiable. And because I am going to cry, I watch it alone.

When I say cry, I am not talking about some polite tear or two. I am talking about the kind of crying that sneaks up on you even though you know exactly what's coming — because you've seen it more times than you can count and it wrecks you every single time.

You probably know the ending. Ray Kinsella, standing in a cornfield in Iowa, realizes the young ballplayer who has walked out of the corn is his father — his father as a young man, before life got complicated, before things went wrong. And after everything — after all the wondering and the waiting and the not knowing — Ray looks at him and says, voice barely holding together:

"Hey Dad... wanna have a catch?"

I lose it every time -- I mean every single time. Because I know that question. I have carried it my whole life. I just never had anywhere to put it.

My father's name was Larry. He left when I was very young — so young that I have no memory of him. I don’t remember his voice or his face or the smell of him or his laugh. I mean he was there (I guess), and then he wasn't, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn't come back.

You can't grieve what you don't understand. And for a long time I didn't understand what was missing. I just knew something was.

Baseball found me somewhere in that emptiness. I can't explain it exactly — the game just had a steadiness to it that nothing else did. Maybe it was the long season; the fact there was always another game the next day. Or maybe it is the way failure is built right into the game's DNA, and you're considered great if you succeed three times out of ten. There was grace in that. There was room in that for a kid who was still figuring out what he was made of without a father around to tell him.

You know, I never had a catch with Larry. Not once. He was gone before that could happen, and there was no cornfield waiting for us, no magic that could bring him back across the years to stand in my backyard on a summer evening and throw me the ball.

For a long time I thought that was simply the wound I would carry. The unanswered question. The catch that never happened. And maybe it is. Some absences don't fill — they just become something you learn to live alongside, like a room in your house you don't go into very often but never quite forget is there.

I've written about THE glove before — Larry’s glove . ( Some of you know this story. ) But Opening Day has me reaching for it again, the way you reach for certain things when the season turns. It’s a worn left-handed glove that I found years ago in a box among papers and old certificates — the only thing he left behind besides the questions. It sits in my office now. I see it every single day. It never fit right. It never could — he was a southpaw and I never knew that about him until I slipped my hand inside and felt the wrongness of it. A left-handed glove for a right-handed boy whose father never stayed long enough to find out which hand he threw with.

That glove is my Unlikely Altar . The one I didn't choose and can't seem to put away. The one that sits there quietly every morning when I come in to write, or get on the phones, holding all the questions I never got to ask, reminding me of the catch that never happened.

But then one afternoon, not so long ago, something happened. I was in the backyard with one of my adult sons. We grabbed gloves and I tossed him a ball. He threw it back. And just like that, without any ceremony or swelling music or ghosts emerging from the corn, we were having a catch.

No soundtrack. No magic. Just a dad and his kid, the ball moving back and forth between them in the late afternoon light.

That backyard didn't give me my dad. It didn't fix the absence or answer the question I've been carrying since before I knew I was carrying it.

But it did something else. It rewrote the ending. It said the story that started with a father who left doesn't have to end there. That I get to choose something different.

The catch I never had with Larry became the catch I get to have with my boys. And somewhere in that exchange — the ball leaving my hand, crossing the space between us, landing safe in his glove — I felt something I can only call grace. Grace found in reconciliation. Not with the man I never knew, but with the story itself. With the fact that it didn't break me. With the fact that I'm here, throwing the ball, showing up.

Maybe that is why I love Opening Day so much. It is like the Resurrection itself. It gives us the chance to rewrite our story . You see, on Opening Day every single team is in first place. There are no losers yet and no broken hearts. No October collapses to recover from. Just thirty ball clubs and thirty sets of fans walking back in through the gates believing — fully, without reservation — that this is the year.

The slate is wiped clean, the thing you were sure was finished turning out to not be finished at all. Hope springs eternal, they say — and they've been saying it for years because it keeps being true. Every Opening Day, the whole beautiful impossible season begins again.

It is all about grace and second chances. But more than that, it is like a right-handed boy who spent a lifetime reaching for a catch he thought he'd never have — and then one ordinary afternoon, in a backyard with his son, discovered he already had everything he'd been looking for.

Happy Opening Day. Go find someone to have a catch with. I have a feeling somebody out there needs it as much as you do.

Both Ends of the Rope

Tue, 24 Mar 2026 00:44:30 GMT

I wasn't expecting it, but then again the best moments rarely announce themselves. I posted something on Facebook and, Atticus, one of my favorite young people from my years doing youth ministry in College Station left a comment that made me think. He called his generation the Sandwich Generation — squeezed from both ends, caring for aging parents while still raising their own families — and something that stayed with me long after I put my phone down.

I've known this kid since he was a teenager, back in those College Station days when youth ministry meant late nights, bad pizza, and conversations that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and surprisingly deep all at the same time. He was one of those guys you just knew was going to turn out well.

And now here he is, grown, living in the middle of exactly the kind of season that doesn't show up on anyone's life plan. Caring for parents who need more than they used to. Raising his own family while trying to hold both ends of the rope without letting either one slip. I looked at his comment for a long time. Not because it surprised me that life had brought him here, but because it reminded me that the hard seasons find everyone eventually.

The S andwich Generation doesn't get talked about enough, and when it does it usually gets reduced to logistics. The doctor's appointments and the school pickups. The phone calls from a parent that come at inconvenient times and the homework that still needs checking after a long day. The calendar that never quite has enough room for everything that needs to fit inside it.

But the logistics are actually the easier part. So what is the hard part? It's the emotional weight of standing in the middle of two kinds of love at the same time. The love that looks backward toward the people who raised you, watching them need you in ways that feel unfamiliar and perhaps a bit frightening. And the love that looks forward toward the people you are raising, trying to give them enough of you when you are not always sure how much you have left.

Both of those loves are real and they are both sometimes demanding. Most days you are doing your best to honor both of them without dropping either one, which is its own kind of exhausting that is very hard to explain to someone who has never stood exactly where you are standing.

And here is what I have learned from watching people carry this particular weight. The squeezing feeling — that sense of being needed from both directions at once — is not a sign that something has gone wrong in your life. It is actually a sign of something that has gone very right.

You are exhausted because you love people who are worth being exhausted for. The parent who needs more of you than they used to is the same person who showed up for you before you knew enough to be grateful for it. The kids who need more of you than you sometimes feel like you have are the same people who will one day carry your story forward into a world you will never see.

The sandwich is not a burden that landed on you by accident. It is the shape that love takes in the middle of a life well lived.

And maybe that is the Unlikely Altar hiding in plain sight. Not in a sanctuary or a quiet moment of prayer, though those matter too. But right there in the middle of the calendar that has too much in it. Right there in the phone call from your parent that came at an inconvenient time. Right there in the homework that still needs checking at the end of a long day.

Grace has a way of showing up exactly where love is working hardest . And you, standing in the middle of all of it, are standing on holy ground whether it feels that way or not.

Someone Has to Go First

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 21:33:56 GMT

Most of us don't see it coming. You're sitting across from your mom or dad at the kitchen table, or riding somewhere together with the radio doing most of the talking, or just watching them move through a room they've lived in for years — and something catches you. Maybe it's the way they reached for the counter without thinking about it. Maybe it's a name that took a little longer to find than it used to. Maybe it's nothing you could even point to, just a quiet feeling that settles in your chest somewhere between dinner and dessert.

And most of us do the same thing with that feeling. We set it aside. We let the moment pass. We tell ourselves there's still time, that today is a good day, that bringing it up would just make things heavy when they don't need to be.

But that feeling doesn't really go away, does it. It just waits. And somewhere underneath the waiting, love is already asking the question you haven't figured out how to say yet.

Most of us keep putting it off for reasons that make complete sense when you're living inside them. We don't want to seem like we're rushing anything, or that we've already started thinking about what comes after. So we stay quiet because quiet feels kinder, even when it isn't. We tell ourselves they've earned the right to not have to think about hard things, that they're doing fine and we should just let them be fine.

But here's something I've learned from years of sitting with families in the middle of their hardest moments. Most parents have already thought about it. Many of them have been waiting for someone to open the door. They just didn't want to be the one to bring it up and worry you, so they've been carrying it quietly the same way you have, each of you waiting for the other one to go first.

And then there's the reason most of us admit last, if we admit it at all. We don't want to have the conversation because having it means we have to look directly at something we've been keeping in the corner of the room. Starting the conversation makes it real in a way that the quiet feeling in your chest at the kitchen table does not.

So the conversation waits. And if we're honest, we're not entirely sure which one is doing the waiting — the love or the fear. Most of the time they're sitting in the same chair. I've been in rooms on both sides of this conversation. Rooms where it happened in time, and rooms where it didn't.

When it didn't, grief arrives with a companion nobody invited. The casseroles come, the flowers arrive, the people fill the house — and somewhere in the middle of all of it someone has to start asking questions that feel impossibly practical for a moment that is so deeply human. Is there anything in place? Where is the paperwork? What did they want? Those questions don't come from greed or impatience. They come from love trying to keep moving when it doesn't know what to do with itself. But they are heavy questions to carry in an already heavy room.

When it did happen in time, something is different. Grief is still there — love always makes it heavy, and nothing changes that. But there is a little more breathing room. A little more space to just be sad without also having to be frantic. I have watched families in those rooms too, and what I notice is not the absence of pain but the absence of panic. Someone thought ahead. Someone had the conversation. And now, in the hardest moment, that quiet act of love is still speaking.

The difference between those two rooms is almost always that hard conversations either happened or they didn't. The conversation that wasn't easy to begin actually was begun, and decisions, desires, and wishes were shared.

So if you've been carrying that quiet feeling around, the one that showed up at the kitchen table or in the car or just watching your parent move through a room — maybe it's time to stop waiting for the perfect moment, because the perfect moment is not coming. What is coming, eventually, is the moment when the conversation can no longer happen at all.

You don't have to have all the answers before you begin. You don't need a folder full of documents or a checklist or a plan already in place. You just need a way in. And sometimes the simplest way in is also the most honest one. Something like: I've been thinking about you, and I want to make sure we've talked about some things while we have the chance. Not because I'm worried, but because I love you and I want to get this right.

That's enough to open the door. The rest of the conversation will find its own way.

And if somewhere along the way you'd like some help thinking through the practical side of things — the financial piece that love sometimes needs in order to do its job — I'm always here for that conversation too. No pressure. No script. Just two people talking about taking care of the ones we love while we still can.

Because here's what I know after years of standing with families in their hardest moments. The conversation you're afraid to start is very often the one your parent has been hoping someone would begin.

Love just needed one of you to go first.

When Morning Comes...

Sat, 14 Mar 2026 15:30:10 GMT

I told you about the nights, but nobody really warns you about the mornings. And the more I think about it, the more I suspect the morning might actually be the harder of the two.

At night, at least, you know what is coming. You learn that the dark has teeth, that the quiet begins to grow loud somewhere around two in the morning, and that the other side of the bed will be cold in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Night is difficult, but in a strange way it is also predictable. After a while you begin to recognize its rhythms, and you can brace yourself for it.

Morning is different. Morning sneaks up on you. It arrives in that fragile space between sleep and waking, that thin moment when your mind has not quite caught up with your life yet. For just a moment, maybe half a moment, you forget. And then you remember.

That remembering, every single morning, carries its own kind of loss. It is a small grief inside the larger one, like being told the news again, quietly and without ceremony, just long enough to knock the wind out of you before the day has even properly begun. Nobody warns you about that moment, the brief forgetting followed by the sudden remembering. It might last only ten seconds, but it can feel like the loneliest ten seconds of the whole day.

Eventually you get up anyway, because what else is there to do. And once you do, you begin to notice that morning has its own geography of grief.

The coffee pot is usually the first place it appears. If you spent years sharing life with someone, the coffee pot seems to know the story before you do. It is still set for two. You may find yourself reaching automatically for two mugs before your hand stops in midair. Or you make a full pot because that is what you have always done, and now half of it goes cold on the counter.

The bathroom carries its own quiet ambush. His razor still rests on the shelf. Her robe still hangs on the hook. You have not moved them yet, partly because moving them feels like a decision you are not ready to make, and partly because leaving them there allows you to pretend, just for another day, that nothing has changed. The problem, of course, is that leaving them there means you see them every single morning.

There is no good option, only the one you can manage today.

The chair at the kitchen table that nobody sits in anymore. The second toothbrush. The voicemail you have not deleted because it still carries her voice, and you are not ready for that silence yet.

Morning is full of objects that used to mean nothing and now mean everything. Over time they begin to feel like something else entirely. Monuments, maybe. Small ones. Quiet ones. Devastating ones.

Here is something else about morning that takes a while to notice. The world does not pause for it.

At first that can feel almost cruel. The birds outside the window continue singing as if nothing has changed. The neighbor pulls out of the driveway at the same time he always does. The mail still arrives in the afternoon. Someone down the street is mowing the lawn, and for a moment you want to step outside and ask how it is possible that ordinary life is still happening.

Life just keeps moving. The audacity of it can feel almost offensive.

And yet, after standing at enough gravesides and sitting with enough families during the early days of their loss, I have begun to notice something about mornings. Morning is often where the story quietly begins to turn. Not because the grief has disappeared. It has not. Not because the pain suddenly lifts with the rising sun. It does not, at least not for a long time.

But morning carries a kind of stubbornness that night does not have. A quiet persistence that shows up whether you invited it or not.

There is a story in the Gospel of John that has always stayed with me. Mary goes to the tomb at dawn. Not midday when the sun is high, and not later in the afternoon when the world might feel a little less fragile. She goes at dawn, in that earliest and most uncertain light, when it would have been easier and perhaps more sensible to stay home. But she goes anyway, carrying her grief like something she cannot set down.

And it is there, in that dim morning light, that she discovers the story is not finished. That moment did not erase any of it — the tomb was real, the death was real, the grief was real — but morning held something she could not have imagined while the night was still heavy around her.

I am not going to paper over anyone’s grief with a resurrection metaphor. Your loss is real. The empty chair is real. The cold coffee is real. But I do believe that morning carries something within it. It carries a stubbornness and with that, a quiet insistence that the story is still being written.

Maybe that is what grace looks like in the early days of loss. Not comfort exactly and not answers. Certainly not the feeling that everything is suddenly okay, because everything is not okay and pretending otherwise helps no one.

Sometimes grace simply looks like morning. Morning arriving again, uninvited and persistent, refusing to not show up. The coffee pot still working. The birds outside the window completely unaware of your pain. The light coming through the same window it always has, landing on the floor in the same place as yesterday, as if it has not yet heard the news.

At first that can feel like cruelty.

But maybe it is not.

Maybe it is the world quietly insisting that there is still a day here. And that day, however fragile it feels, still belongs to you.

You do not have to be okay in the morning. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. You are allowed to sit with the second mug still resting on the counter. You are allowed to let the coffee grow cold. You are allowed to stay in the chair by the window longer than is practical, watching the neighbor mow his lawn and feeling the strange distance between his world and yours.

You are allowed to let morning be hard.

But here is something I have learned from watching people carry this weight. Morning keeps coming back. Every single day it arrives without asking permission and without checking whether you feel ready for it. It simply appears again, faithful in a way that almost feels stubborn.

And somewhere inside that stubborn return there is a kind of grace. Not the grace that fixes things, but the grace that stays. The grace that quietly says, I know you did not sleep well. I know you forgot for a moment and then remembered. I know the coffee pot broke your heart again this morning.

Here is a little more light anyway.

The Unlikely Altar this time might simply be the window, the same window the light comes through every morning, landing in the same place on the floor.

It does not know your grief. It cannot fix your grief.

But it shows up anyway.

And maybe, just for today, that small and stubborn light is enough to help you begin again.

The Day I Realized I Wasn’t Selling Insurance

Sat, 28 Feb 2026 00:25:28 GMT

Every now and then I sit through a really good Final Expense training. The presenter is knowledgeable, the information is solid, and the systems being explained clearly work for the people who are using them successfully. Someone is talking about lead flow, objection handling, follow-up strategy, and how to guide a conversation toward a decision, and I find myself nodding along because I understand the importance of all of it.

And then, somewhere about halfway through, usually when everyone else seems energized and ready to conquer the world, a quiet thought slips into my mind:

What exactly am I doing here?

It is not disagreement. I am not rolling my eyes or dismissing the training. In fact, most of the time I respect the people teaching it and appreciate what they are sharing. It's like suddenly realizing you are wearing someone else’s jacket. It fits well enough, but you are aware every few minutes that it was not originally tailored for you.

For most of my adult life, people invited me into their lives as a pastor. I spent decades sitting in hospital rooms where time felt suspended, standing beside families at gravesides trying to find words when there really were none, and sharing conversations around kitchen tables where life’s hardest questions were asked without rehearsal. People asked me to listen, to pray, to help them make meaning, and sometimes simply to sit quietly so they would not feel alone.

So when I hear training language about moving a client toward commitment or learning how to handle resistance, something inside me shifts just a little. Not because the ideas are wrong. They are practical and necessary in any business. But a small voice inside me starts asking uncomfortable questions.

Am I becoming a salesman? Am I pretending to be someone I am not? Do I actually belong in this room? And that is usually the moment the word shows up.

Fraud.

It feels strange to admit that, because I believe deeply in the work of Final Expense planning. I have seen too many families living through grief while also trying to figure out how to pay for a funeral. I have watched spouses quietly panic over finances while still trying to hold themselves together emotionally. I have seen delayed services, difficult decisions, and the heavy burden that falls on families who never expected to be making financial choices at the same moment they are saying goodbye.

I know preparation matters. I know this work helps people. And yet the language of the industry sometimes feels foreign to instincts shaped by ministry rather than sales. Pastors learn to listen longer than they speak and to walk at the pace of the person in front of them, while sales training naturally emphasizes direction and outcomes. Those approaches are not enemies, but learning to live in both worlds creates tension.

I am beginning to understand that the discomfort may actually be a sign that something important is still intact within me. Many people enter this field learning empathy as a professional skill. I am coming from the opposite direction. Compassion has always been the starting point. The real challenge is learning how preparation fits inside that compassion without losing its heart.

I am not trying to sell peace of mind as a slogan. I am trying to help families avoid unnecessary suffering later.

When I look at it that way, the work begins to feel familiar again. I am still sitting at tables listening to stories. I am still helping people face realities they would rather postpone. I am still walking with families through conversations about mortality, love, responsibility, and legacy.

The difference is that now the care I offer happens before the funeral instead of after it.

Maybe the reason I sometimes feel like a fraud is not because I do not belong in this work, but because I will always remember that there are real human stories behind every application and policy number. The tension I feel may simply be the growing edge of learning a new language while holding onto an old calling.

I suspect that feeling may never disappear completely, and honestly, I hope it doesn’t. The day this work becomes only about production numbers instead of people is probably the day I should step away. Until then, I will keep learning the business side of things while remaining grounded in the part of me that believes this is, at its heart, an act of love.

I may never sound like a traditional insurance agent, and perhaps that is exactly as it should be. Maybe I am simply a pastor who now helps families prepare for the moment when love has to carry on without them.

I am still learning this work. Some days I sit in training taking notes and wondering if I am behind everyone else. Other days I sit with someone who tells me about their children, their health, or their quiet worry about becoming a burden someday, and in those moments the purpose becomes clear again.

T he titles have changed over the years. Pastor. Celebrant. Now Final Expense Specialist. But the calling underneath those titles feels remarkably familiar. It has always been about helping people face hard realities with a little more peace and a little less fear.

So I will keep showing up. I will keep learning. I will keep listening for the stories behind the paperwork and remembering that this work is not ultimately about policies or premiums. It is about love planning ahead.

And if someday a family is able to grieve without financial panic, if a spouse can focus on remembering instead of worrying about bills, if peace arrives just a little sooner because a conversation happened in time, then maybe this work does belong to me after all.

So...Are You an Insurance Salesman?

Tue, 24 Feb 2026 05:17:05 GMT

There is a moment in almost every conversation when someone tilts their head and asks the question carefully, like they are not quite sure if they might accidentally offend me. “So… what do you do now? ”

This used to be an easy answer. Depending on your faith background, I was a pastor, minister, preacher, or sometimes priest. Then I retired from the United Methodist Church and suddenly the answer got a little complicated.

Now I have to think about it. I usually start by saying I am a celebrant, which means I then have to explain what a celebrant is. Yes, I officiate weddings and funerals, but it is different than being a minister. I even wrote a blog to explain that part of my life. It would probably be smarter if I just smiled and stopped talking, but I usually add that I also help families with final expense planning. That is often the moment their expression turns into polite confusion.

People understand weddings and funerals. But final expense? That phrase floats in the air like a balloon nobody is quite sure who should grab until someone finally says it out loud. “So… are you a life insurance salesman? ” I smile and nod. Short answer: yes. Longer answer: yes, but not the version you are picturing. When many people hear “life insurance,” their brain pulls up the image of a pushy salesperson with a stack of forms ( think Ned Ryerson from Groundhog Day ) and a conversation nobody wanted to have in the first place. I understand why that picture exists. I really do.

But my version of this work did not start like that. It began in churches and funeral homes, in living rooms where families were exhausted, at kitchen tables covered with paperwork, and in quiet conversations that began with the sentence, “ We didn’t realize how expensive this would be. ”

I officiated hundreds of funerals before I ever helped anyone buy a policy, and there was a pattern you could almost set your watch by. Some families were grieving and remembering, telling stories that somehow held both laughter and tears in the same breath. Other families were doing math. Hard math. The kind that sends people checking account balances and calculating what can wait and what cannot. Those are two very different kinds of grieving, and they lead to two very different funerals.

I will never forget the first time that difference really hit me. A widow told me, very quietly, that she had managed to scrape together enough money to bury her husband. She said it like someone describing a marathon they had barely finished. Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Now I’m not sure how I’m going to pay the rest of the bills.” That moment followed me home. It sat with me at my desk and rode shotgun in my car for a long time, because grief is already heavy. Watching families carry financial stress on top of it felt like watching someone try to carry groceries, luggage, and a piano all at once. Something in me kept thinking there has to be a way to move the piano ahead of time.

Final expense planning is not really about death. It is about the people who will still be here. The spouse who should not have to start a GoFundMe while planning a funeral, and the adult children who should be able to focus on saying goodbye instead of opening credit cards. It is the quiet gift of leaving things a little easier than we found them. I sometimes call it the Last Love Letter. Not the poetic kind, the practical kind. The kind that says, “I thought about you. I prepared for you. I wanted to leave you one less burden.”

These days I talk with people who requested information, sometimes months ago. I make a lot of phone calls, leave a lot of voicemails, and send a lot of texts that begin with, “Hey, this is Marty…” Often they do not answer. Sometimes they hang up. Sometimes they say no. Sometimes they say, “I’ve been meaning to take care of this.” And occasionally someone says, “I’m really glad you called.” Those moments matter more than the rest combined, because every once in a while a future funeral gets lighter, and that feels like a continuation of the same calling I have always had, just from a different angle.

When I was a pastor, I walked with families after a loss. Now, sometimes, I get to help them before one. The tools look different, but the heart behind it does not. If you ever find yourself wondering whether this is something you should think about, I am always happy to have a conversation. No pressure, no scripts, just a human conversation about taking care of the people we love.

Just Manifest It!

Thu, 12 Feb 2026 05:34:55 GMT

Jason, a good friend on the team, has a mantra he shares with me when I am hitting a point of frustration. He smiles and simply says, “ Manifest it Marty! ”. He hasn’t said it just once, and when he says it, it isn’t meant as a joke. It really might be his mantra. Sometimes I wonder if I visited him in his home in South Carolina if those words would be hanging in the kitchen, the living room, and his office. Nike has their slogan. Jason has his. Just Manifest it!

I’ll be honest. The first few times I heard it, I didn’t know what to do with that sentence. My theological side thought it sounded too much like the prosperity gospel. You know, if you have enough faith blah blah blah. It seemed to treat God and the universe like a giant vending machine. Put your money in, press B7, and get the outcome you ordered.

But I have sat with too many families in funeral homes, in hospital waiting rooms, or simply in my office as they share their grief, frustrations, and pain to believe God works that way. The life I know about is too messy. Too hard.

And yet, this other part of me couldn’t just roll my eyes either. Because I have seen the power belief has to change people. It doesn’t change them instantly or magically, but the change is real and too hard to ignore.

I have watched people who believed they were loved begin to live like they were loved. I have watched couples who believed their marriage could heal start doing the small, uncomfortable work of healing. I have watched grieving families who believed they would make it through the worst season of their lives take the next step.

Belief didn’t remove the pain. Belief didn’t erase the struggle. But it did change how they moved through it. It changes posture. It changes tone. It changes attitude. And over time, those small decisions quietly change outcomes.

I have discovered that belief changes behavior. It changes the choices we make when no one is watching. It changes what we try. It changes how long we keep trying. And over time, behavior has a way of changing outcomes.

But I still needed to understand better. And as I was mulling over Jason’s mantra, it hit me. My brain started thinking about a movie. Not just any movie, but probably one of my top ten of all time: The Shawshank Redemption.

When people talk about manifesting, they picture vision boards and affirmations. My brain pictured a Raquel Welch poster and a rock hammer. If you know the movie, you get the image.

If you know the movie, you also know the tension between the two main characters. Red believes hope is dangerous. He says hope gets men hurt. Hope, according to Red, has no place in prison.

But Andy sees it differently. Andy believes that, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”

And because of that belief, Andy lives like a free man long before he becomes one. He writes letters asking for library money. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. He helps the guards with their taxes and helps inmates get their GEDs. He plays opera over the loudspeakers because beauty still matters, even in prison.

And at night, when no one is watching, he chips away at a wall. One tiny piece at a time. For decades. Andy doesn’t sit on his bunk visualizing freedom. He behaves like freedom is possible.

As I thought about that movie, I finally could reconcile the idea of “ manifest it ” with my theological understanding. Maybe manifestation isn’t about magic or the prosperity gospel. Maybe it is about living like the story is not over yet.

Because if we are honest, most of us have a wall somewhere. Maybe it is a situation that feels stuck. A time in our lives that feels heavy. A future we cannot quite see yet. Or maybe, like me, it is a phone call we are not sure anyone will answer.

It would be easy to decide nothing will change. Close the book. Roll the credits. But Shawshank hope says keep showing up. Keep doing the small things that move life forward one inch at a time.

Hope is not wishful thinking. Hope is action. It is the quiet refusal to believe the story is finished. Sometimes hope looks like prayer. Sometimes it looks like a phone call. And sometimes it looks like a man with a rock hammer, patiently chipping away at a wall.

And maybe that is the Unlikely Altar hiding in plain sight.

A Bingo Card Filled with Beginnings

Sat, 07 Feb 2026 19:21:41 GMT

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

So...Are You a Minister?

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 03:02:16 GMT

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.

Altars Built from Honesty, Not Perfection

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 17:43:27 GMT

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.

Dial After Dial

Sat, 24 Jan 2026 19:09:56 GMT

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.

Grace Bingo

Fri, 23 Jan 2026 02:00:08 GMT

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.

Why We Keep Showing Up

Sat, 10 Jan 2026 06:57:49 GMT

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.

What I've Learned Standing at Gravesides

Wed, 07 Jan 2026 22:05:52 GMT

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

When the House Goes Quiet

Tue, 06 Jan 2026 17:05:07 GMT

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.

The Case: Die Hard as a Christmas Movie

Sat, 20 Dec 2025 23:07:53 GMT

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! ��

The Letter I Never Meant to Send

Fri, 19 Dec 2025 18:08:24 GMT

I don’t know your name, but I know this moment.

You opened the conversation. You hesitated. And then life stepped in. You know, that happens more often than you might think.

I’ve sat at kitchen tables where someone said, “ We meant to do this .” I’ve stood beside families who whispered, “ They kept saying they’d get to it. ” I’ve watched love carry grief—and then watched grief carry bills, decisions, and questions that felt impossibly unfair.

This isn’t a letter written to rush you. It’s written because I’ve seen what happens when no one ever circles back.

I once stood with a family the morning after a death. The house was quiet in that way only grief can make it. Coffee untouched. Phones buzzing with questions no one wanted to answer yet.

Someone finally asked, “ Is there anything in place? ” But there wasn’t

What followed wasn’t just sadness. It was scrambling. Credit cards. Awkward conversations. A weight added to a moment already heavy with love and loss.

But there are those times when I have seen another scene. I’ve been with families where one small thing was already taken care of. Not everything. Just enough. And in those rooms, grief was still heavy—after all, love always makes it heavy—but it wasn’t tangled up with panic or uncertainty.

That’s why this matters to me.

Not because I sell final expense insurance. But because I’ve watched what happens when love prepares the way—and when it doesn’t get the chance.

If you paused because the conversation felt heavy, I understand.
If you paused because life got loud, I understand that, too.
If you paused because you told yourself, “ I’ll come back to this ,” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count.

This isn’t about fear. It’s about care. It’s about peace. It’s about love.

Final expense planning isn’t about planning your death. It’s about caring for the people who will still be here when you’re gone. It’s about making sure grief doesn’t have to carry more than it already will.

Love will always make grief heavy. A plan simply keeps other burdens from piling on.

If you never come back to this conversation, I hope you still hear the heart behind it. And if someday you do return, I hope you know the door was always open.

Because this work—this quiet, unseen preparation—is one of the last ways love shows up.

And that is no small gift.

The Day After

Tue, 16 Dec 2025 14:58:08 GMT

The service is over. The thank-you notes have been started. The flowers are starting to fade. Most of the company has travelled home. And the casseroles are stacked in mismatched containers, names written on blue tape.

This is what the day after looks like. It’s the morning when the house is too quiet. When the adrenaline wears off. When everyone else has returned to their lives, and you are left standing in the middle of a room, wondering what happens next.

Because grief is heavy enough.

Not only is the day after quiet, but it is also the kind of silence that invites questions. And those questions can overwhelm you.

Who do we call now?
What needs to be paid?
Is there insurance?
Where is the paperwork?
What did they want?

These questions don’t come because people are being practical. They come because love is trying to keep going in the middle of loss. And because grief is heavy enough, those questions can feel overwhelming.

I’ve spent years standing with families in these moments. As a pastor. As a celebrant. As someone who knows that the hardest parts often come after the service ends. I’ve seen families gathered around kitchen tables, coffee gone cold, paperwork spread out in quiet confusion.

I’ve also seen something else.

I’ve seen what happens when one small thing is already taken care of. Not everything. Just one thing. A simple plan. A clear answer. A quiet assurance that one question does not have to be asked today.

Because grief is heavy enough without financial questions layered on top of it.

When that piece is in place, something shifts in the room. Shoulders soften. Breathing slows. People are allowed to be exactly what they are in that moment— sad, tired, grieving, human.

Final expense planning doesn’t take away grief. Nothing does. But it can take away one weight that doesn’t belong there.

Because grief is heavy enough on its own.

Planning ahead is not about paperwork or policies. It’s about peace. It’s about leaving behind one less burden for the people you love. It’s about making sure the day after holds space for tears instead of tension.

If you’ve ever thought, I should probably take care of this someday, you’re not being morbid. You’re being loving.

Because grief is heavy enough. Love will always make it heavy.

Planning ahead just keeps other burdens from piling on — so families can grieve without also having to guess.

And that is no small gift.

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

Standing Side By Side

Sun, 14 Dec 2025 14:55:07 GMT

Joy doesn’t usually look like what we think. We imagine joy as bright, effortless, bubbling up like champagne. But Paul writes about joy from a prison cell, not knowing whether he’ll live or die, and he chooses a very different word for it.

Not cheerfulness. Not positive thinking. Not “chin up.”

Joy, for Paul, is courage. Joy is steadfastness. Joy is the deep, quiet strength that comes from knowing you’re not alone.

He says: “Stand firm in one spirit, striving side by side… not intimidated by your opponents. For you are having the same struggle you saw I had and now hear that I still have.” ( Philippians 1:27–30 )

This is joy that stands its ground. Joy that refuses to bow. Joy born not from ease, but from solidarity. When Paul wrote these words, the world was filled with “Neros” — leaders who demanded allegiance through fear, intimidation, and spectacle. They ruled by threat.

Paul’s readers knew the pressure well. In their world, refusing to bow wasn’t just countercultural. It was dangerous. Yet Paul tells them: Stand firm. Don’t flinch. You’re not standing alone. You’re sharing the same struggle.

This is where joy enters the story — not as celebration, but as resistance.

Joy is what rises when fear doesn’t get the last word. Joy is what grows when we stand side by side. Joy is what happens when courage becomes contagious.

There was a season not too long ago when I was shifting out of full-time ministry into whatever this next chapter was supposed to be. I didn’t have language for it then; all I knew was that my old identity didn’t fit anymore, and the new one felt unfinished. I wasn’t “Pastor Marty” anymore, but I wasn’t sure who Marty was either.

People don’t tell you how disorienting that kind of transition is — how it feels like losing your spiritual address. I remember telling a friend, “I don’t know where I belong right now,” half-expecting him to hand me a pep talk or a Bible verse.

He didn’t. He just nodded and said, “Yeah… that season was hard for me too.”

That was it. No solutions. No sermon. Just solidarity.

But somehow, knowing someone else had lived the same struggle — and survived it — gave me a quiet kind of courage. Joy didn’t show up as excitement. It showed up as “me too”. As proof that being in the in-between wasn’t a sign I was lost — just a sign I was on my way. That moment carried me more than I realized.

This is Paul’s point exactly: Joy grows where struggle is shared. Joy takes root where we realize we don’t have to stand alone. Joy becomes possible when someone else’s courage spills over into us.

This is the Third Sunday of Advent — the Sunday of Joy. But Advent Joy isn’t naïve. It doesn’t ignore the darkness. It doesn’t pretend everything is fine.

Advent Joy is defiant. It’s the joy of people who believe the Light is coming even when the night is long. It’s the joy of refusing to bow to fear, cynicism, or despair.

It’s the joy that whispers:

It might look like Friday… but Sunday is already on the move.

Paul’s readers lived in a world where bowing was the only safe option. Paul invites them — and us — to stand instead. Not alone. But side by side, bound together in Christ’s love.

Joy becomes possible not because the struggle disappears, but because we discover we’re in it together.

Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a candle or a choir singing “Joy to the World.” Maybe it’s the moment someone says, “I’ve been there too.”

Maybe it’s the courage that rises when you realize you don’t have to face your fear alone. Maybe it’s the quiet joy that comes from standing shoulder to shoulder, hearts beating the same hope.

Maybe the altar is the shared struggle itself — the place where Christ meets us, strengthens us, and binds us not by our victories, but by our vulnerability.

Paul’s words remind us: Joy isn’t something you feel. It’s something we carry — but we carry it together.

Grace and peace, friends. And know that we are one Sunday closer to Joy that won’t be denied.

My Deliverance

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 00:54:54 GMT

I meant to share this last week for the Second Sunday of Advent — Peace — but maybe it landed right on time. Advent has a way of teaching us that God shows up even when we’re running behind.

My Deliverance

A Reminder That We Don’t Walk Through Anything Alone

Paul is sitting in prison, chained to the floor, waiting to find out whether he’ll live or die — all for saying “Jesus is Lord” in a world where Caesar insisted on that title.

He doesn’t know how the trial will go. He doesn’t know if he has weeks or hours. He doesn’t know if he’ll walk out free or be carried out. And yet he writes these impossible words:

“And because of this, I rejoice… for I know that what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance.” ( Philippians 1:18–19)

Rejoice? Deliverance? Now?

Paul isn’t delusional. He’s anchored. And there’s a difference.

When Paul says, “This will turn out for my deliverance,” he’s quoting Job — the sufferer who stood in the rubble of his life and still said, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

And honestly, I understand that move. You see, there are days when I can’t find the right words to pray. I start, stop, stare at the ceiling… and nothing comes out the way I mean it. On those days, I borrow someone else’s words.

Sometimes it’s Niebuhr and his Serenity Prayer — that quiet nudge to accept what is and release what isn’t mine to carry. Then there are days I borrow from St. Francis, asking God to make him an instrument of peace when everything inside me feels anything but peaceful.

Many times, I turn to Mother Teresa — who heard Jesus whisper, “Come be my light,” and responded with a simple, steady, “I will never refuse you.” She promised to “do something beautiful for God” and spent her life carrying a small flame into the darkest places on earth. On the days when my own light flickers, I borrow a little of hers.

And often, it’s St. Patrick’s Breastplate — my favorite. That long, old prayer that wraps Christ around you like armor:

Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ beneath me, Christ above me…

A reminder that deliverance doesn’t always remove the danger, but it does surround you with Presence.

When my voice shakes, I lean on theirs. Their prayers steady me when my own run out. It isn’t cheating. It’s community — across generations and stories.

That’s exactly what Paul is doing: borrowing strength from saints before him until he can feel his own again.

When Paul talks about deliverance, he uses the word soteria — but he doesn’t mean escape. He isn’t saying: “Don’t worry — I’ll be home for dinner.” Or “These chains are about to fall off.”

He knows deliverance might mean life but it also might mean death.

What he is saying is: “Whatever happens, I will stay true. My hands will be clean. My heart will be steady. I won’t lose myself.”

That’s deliverance. Faithfulness that survives circumstances. He refuses to let despair be his narrator. He refuses to say something he’ll regret just because he’s tired and afraid. That is its own kind of freedom.

Paul is quite clear how he will make it: “Through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ.” If he runs out of strength, someone else’s strength will carry him. If he runs out of hope, someone else’s hope will cover the bill.

This is Paul’s theology of community: none of us gets through anything alone. Imagine if we lived that way. It would change everything.

That reminds me of what Advent Peace is all about. Advent Peace isn’t calm circumstances or a detour around uncertainty. It’s Christ-with-us — the Presence that keeps your heart from unraveling even when your world is.

Paul isn’t peaceful because prison is comfortable. He’s peaceful because he isn’t alone. And that is Advent’s promise. Not escape. Something better – Presence.

Maybe the Unlikely Altar this week isn’t a manger or a star. Maybe it’s the prayers you borrow when your own run out. Maybe it’s the saints whose words help you breathe again. Maybe it’s the people whose strength carries you when yours is gone.

Maybe deliverance isn’t being rescued — but being carried.

And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again:

“ This will turn out for my deliverance.”

Not because the road is easy. Not because we’re strong. But because we are held.

The Hardest Part Isn't Always Goodbye

Sun, 07 Dec 2025 23:24:26 GMT

Let me start with something honest and maybe a little surprising:

I didn’t step into final expense because I wanted to sell anybody anything. If you know me — if you’ve sat beside me at a graveside or in a church pew — you already know that.

For years, serving churches and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood with families in their most fragile hours. I’ve been in living rooms where grief and paperwork sat at the same table. I’ve seen tears that weren’t about death — but about cost. About decisions. About not knowing what mom or dad would have wanted. I’ve watched loved ones look at one another and whisper the questions no one ever wants to ask:

"How do we pay for this?"

" Who has the money?"

"What do we do now?"

The hardest part about death isn’t always the goodbye — Sometimes it’s the weight left behind. And that weight — when carried by the people left behind — can be heavy.

Final expense insurance isn’t really about funerals or policies or paperwork. It’s about relief. It’s about compassion with a plan. It’s about love — still speaking long after the voice is gone.

I’m not a big company. I don’t read from a script. I don’t do pressure or fear tactics. It’s just me — one human being who has watched this play out more times than I can count.

And I’ve seen the difference a plan makes.

I’ve watched families breathe easier because arrangements were handled and decisions were clear. I’ve seen tears of gratitude instead of panic. I’ve seen love carry forward — quietly, gently, faithfully — because someone cared enough to prepare.

And here’s something I’ve learned: most people want to plan — they just don’t know where to begin. You don’t have to make every decision today. You don’t need a file cabinet or a color-coded binder.

You just need a first step. A conversation. A plan that whispers to your family one day: “You’re not alone in this. I took care of you.”

That’s what preparation does — it lifts the weight before it lands. That is why I do this work.

So let me be clear:

I’m not selling final expense insurance.
I’m offering peace of mind.
I’m offering dignity.
I’m offering love — prepared, thoughtful, lasting.

I know these conversations aren’t always comfortable. Death rarely is. But neither is leaving our people with a burden they never asked for.

If you want to talk about a way to make those hardest days softer — no pressure, no pitch, just two humans talking about legacy and kindness — I’m here. We can explore options. We can ask honest questions. We can plan ahead with courage, tenderness, and hope.

Because the way we leave matters. Not in dollars. But in love.

The Last Love Letter

Sun, 07 Dec 2025 04:38:16 GMT

Let’s be honest. Nobody wakes up in the morning thinking, “ You know what I really want to talk about today? My funeral.” It’s not exactly coffee-and-donuts conversation. But here’s the truth: every one of us will eventually reach that moment, and when it comes, somebody has to deal with the details—and the bills.

I’m not a big company with a fancy call center or a script that gets recycled from one family to the next. It’s just me—one person, on the phone, talking about something that really matters. And here’s what I’ve learned in my years of walking with families: t he hardest grief isn’t just about losing someone you love, it’s about losing them and being left with unexpected financial stress on top of the heartbreak. That’s why I do what I do.

Final expense insurance, sometimes called burial insurance, is simple. It’s not about leaving behind a pile of paperwork or a big confusing policy. It’s about making sure the people you love aren’t scrambling when you’re gone. The average funeral these days costs between $7,000 and $12,000—sometimes more. That’s a lot of money to come up with quickly, especially when emotions are raw. Without a plan, families often have to dip into savings, pull out credit cards, or pass the hat. I’ve seen it happen. And I’ve seen the relief on people’s faces when they realize they don’t have to put their loved ones through that.

Think of final expense insurance as your last love letter. It says: I thought of you. I planned for you. I don’t want my leaving to mean stress for you. To me, that’s not just insurance—that’s legacy.

Now, I know talking about this can feel awkward. Some people joke, “I’m not planning to die anytime soon!” and I always smile and say, “Well, me neither—but the truth is, none of us get to schedule that.” Humor helps, but compassion carries us through. My promise to you is that our conversations will always be straightforward, respectful, and never pushy. I’ll answer your questions, explain your options, and help you find a plan that fits your life and your budget.

This isn’t just business for me—it’s personal. I’ve seen families struggle, and I’ve seen families breathe easier because someone they loved made a wise choice ahead of time. I want your story to be the second kind. When the day comes, your family should be able to focus on what really matters: remembering your laugh, your stories, your quirks, your love—not worrying about funeral invoices.

And let me say this: final expense insurance isn’t just for the elderly or those with health concerns. Whether you’re 45 or 85, it’s about preparation, peace, and care. Because let’s face it—life is unpredictable. You don’t need a million-dollar policy to show your family you love them. You just need something simple, something solid, something that says: I cared enough to make this easier for you.

So yes, it’s just me—no sales force, no big office. Just one person who believes in helping others prepare for one of life’s hardest days with a little grace, a little humor, and a lot of compassion. My role is to walk with you through the options, answer the questions that keep you up at night, and help you create a plan that feels right.

At the end of the day, final expense insurance is about love. Pure and simple. It’s about leaving behind peace instead of panic, dignity instead of debt.

Let’s talk. I promise, it won’t be as heavy as you think—and by the end of it, you might even feel lighter.

Abound

Sat, 29 Nov 2025 02:45:26 GMT

If you’ve ever played Guitar Hero, you know it can trick you into believing you’re one power chord away from the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. My boys played for hours — Freebird, Sweet Child of Mine — and honestly, they were pretty good.

But hitting colored buttons on a plastic guitar isn’t the same as playing a real one. There’s knowing about, and then there’s knowing — the kind that comes from touch, repetition, and experience.

Paul is praying for that kind of knowing in Philippians 1:9 -11:

That your love may abound more and more

in knowledge and depth of insight…

“Abound” — perissos — means to grow past the edges. To spill over. Paul isn’t praying for love that stays where it started. He’s praying for love that keeps going, that wakes up tomorrow and chooses generosity again.

And honestly, that’s Advent: the season when light grows in the dark, slowly and steadily. Advent doesn’t rush. It invites us to let hope grow one small flame at a time.

Love works the same way.

Paul uses another word — epignosis — the kind of knowing that comes from participation. From actually doing love, not just talking about it. You can know the stories and still not know love in a Christ-shaped way.

For Paul, knowledge isn’t worth much unless it leads back to love. That’s what Advent calls us to a faith that moves from the head into the hands, from theory into practice, from information into incarnation. God didn’t send a lecture. God sent a baby — love in its smallest form — growing, growing, growing.

I’m in a brand-new career — final expense insurance — something I never imagined after years in the pulpit. Some days I’m hopeful. Other days I’m sure I’m in over my head. And on those days, God keeps using someone to teach me about abounding love. Her name is Lauryn. She’s my mentor in this new world, but honestly, “mentor” doesn’t quite cover it.

What she really is… is steady. She doesn’t get much out of my success. She doesn’t benefit if I stay or go. But she keeps showing up — offering encouragement when I’m discouraged, clarity when I’m confused, and a nudge forward when I start looking for the exits.

Her support isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s not flashy. It’s faithful. It’s Advent in human form — a small light that keeps showing up, growing stronger, enough to help me take one more step.

She’s teaching me that love abounds not through grand gestures, but through consistency — the quiet determination to keep choosing one another. That’s how love grows “more and more.”

Paul adds another phrase: that we might be “ pure and blameless. ” Not spotless. Not perfect. The Greek word — proskopto — is about stumbling. Paul is praying that our love would grow in such a way that we don’t cause others to trip over us.

We trip people up when we talk a big Jesus talk but don’t live it. When we choose fear over compassion. When we forget we’re supposed to be servants, not gatekeepers.

But when love grows — really grows — people breathe easier around us. That kind of love is what Advent asks of us: wake up, light one candle, and let that small flame shape how you treat the world.

With the first Sunday of Advent upon us, this feels like the season’s invitation:

to let love grow a little more. Not perfectly. Not instantly. Just steadily — the way we trust that one candle means more light is coming.

Maybe the Unlikely Altar this time isn’t a manger or a sanctuary. Maybe it’s the small place where someone helps you keep going — where their steady encouragement becomes grace, where you learn in real time that love grows by being practiced.

Maybe the Unlikely Altar is the moment you realize that God is teaching you how to love through someone who keeps showing up. And maybe the prayer Paul prayed from prison is the one Advent whispers to us again:

May your love abound more and more.

One small flame at a time. One act of compassion at a time. One steady step at a time. Because the world doesn’t change in a day. But love grows — quietly, faithfully — until the light is strong enough to see by.

All of You

Fri, 21 Nov 2025 01:50:43 GMT

There’s a phrase Paul repeats three times in two verses, and it’s the kind of line you skim past until it taps you on the shoulder:

“All of you.”

He’s writing from prison. Chained. Cut off from almost everything familiar.

And yet he says it like a benediction: I hold all of you in my heart… I long for all of you… I care for all of you.

Really, Paul? All of them?

Even the difficult ones? The ones who drain the room? The ones who argue, complain, or test your last nerve? And Paul answers with that stubborn, beautiful certainty: Yes. All of you.

Our English translations make it sound like Paul is describing emotion — “I feel this way about you.” But the word he uses, phroneō, is deeper than feeling. It’s the mindset, the orientation of the whole self — the place where decisions are made and loyalties formed.

Paul isn’t saying, “I feel warmly about you today.” He’s saying, “My whole being leans toward you. You matter to me. My life is tied to yours.”

That’s not sentiment. That’s love with roots.

Then Paul uses another word — koinos — meaning “ shared ” or “ held in common. ”

He’s reminding them (and us) that grace creates its own kind of family.

Not the tidy, polite version — the beautiful, annoying, complicated version.

We don’t get to choose who grace binds us to.

We only get to choose whether we show up to it.

Finally Paul reaches for the deepest word he can find — splagchnon .

The gut. The bowels. The place where your deepest feelings live.

We might say it like this: “ I feel this love for you in my gut. ”

But even here, Paul refuses to make the love about himself. He doesn’t say, “I long for you with my gut.” He says, “ I long for you with the splagchnon of Christ.” As if to confess: “ I’m not loving you out of my own strength. Christ is loving you through me.”

And honestly — that’s the only way “all of you” ever becomes possible.

There’s a line in this passage — “ all of you ” — that I didn’t fully understand until much later in life. And strangely enough, I didn’t understand it completely until after my biological father died.

I spent years trying to sort out how to feel about a man who refused to acknowledge my existence. I wanted some kind of reconciliation — or at least some inner peace — but it never came. Not from him, anyway.

And now his ashes sit in my closet.

That’s its own kind of unfinished story — one I never quite know what to do with. How do you hold someone in your heart who never made space for you in theirs? How do you love someone who kept the door closed? How do you make peace with a relationship that never even had the chance to begin?

For a long time, I couldn’t.

But after he died, something shifted — slowly, quietly, almost without my permission. Not forgiveness wrapped in a bow or tied up neat.. Not closure. Just a loosening. A softening in a place I’d kept boarded up.

And I realized the compassion that began to grow in me wasn’t mine. It wasn’t something I manufactured through effort or maturity. It was Christ doing something in me I could never do on my own.

The love I couldn’t find while he was alive began to take shape only after he was gone.

Maybe that’s what Paul meant when he said he longed for the Philippians from his splagchnon — that deep, gut-level place where Christ’s transforming work actually happens . Because sometimes the hardest people to love become the very places where Christ does His most surprising work.

Maybe “ all of you ” even includes the ones who ignored us, or hurt us, or never became who we hoped they would be.

Maybe the altar this time isn’t a table or a church. Maybe it’s a closet holding ashes and questions — a place where grief and grace sit side by side.

Maybe it’s the place where Christ heals a relationship we never got to finish, and teaches us how to love someone we never fully knew.

Maybe that is the Unlikely Altar.

Because the sacred shows up there too — in the tension, in the ache, in the deep-down places where Christ is still doing the good work.

And if Christ can create love in a prison cell, and in a grieving heart,

He can create it in us, too.

A Good Work

Sun, 09 Nov 2025 16:45:09 GMT

There’s something both hopeful and haunting about unfinished work.

A story that ran out of words.
A prayer that’s still waiting on an answer.
A dream that stalled halfway between vision and reality.

We all have a few of those, don’t we? Places in our lives that feel like construction zones — full of sawdust and scaffolding, promises we meant to keep, and prayers that haven’t yet found an answer.

That’s the space where Paul writes his letter to the Philippians — from a Roman prison, talking about a good work that God had started and would somehow finish.

“I am confident of this,” he writes, “that the One who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Jesus Christ.”

If anyone had reason to question that promise, it was Paul. He was chained to a guard, his freedom gone, his ministry on pause. Yet his words breathe confidence, not despair. He looks at his friends in Philippi — people who had risked their safety to stand with him — and he sees evidence of God’s goodness still unfolding.

He doesn’t say, “I hope you can finish what you started.”

He says, “The One who began this work in you will finish it.”

There’s a difference. One puts the weight on us; the other reminds us whose hands hold the hammer.

Paul’s language echoes the creation story — the God who began the world with light, called it good, and didn’t stop until it was complete. That same creative rhythm, Paul says, is alive in us.

The God who started something beautiful in you isn’t walking away halfway through. Even when you can’t see the plan, even when all you’ve got are pieces on the floor, God is still building something that will one day make sense.

From the first sunrise in Genesis to the flicker of a lamp outside Paul’s cell, that has been the way God has always worked:

Begin. Call It Good. Complete.

Paul’s confidence wasn’t built on theory — it was built on relationship. The Philippians didn’t just send thoughts and prayers; they sent food, support, and friendship.

They were what Paul called partners in the gospel — not in a business sense, but in the kind of companionship that costs something. They stood with him when others wouldn’t. And in their faithfulness, Paul saw proof that God’s good work wasn’t stuck just because he was.

That’s often how grace works — through people who quietly show up, carrying a little hope when ours has run dry.

If you’ve ever looked at your life and thought, “This isn’t what I imagined,” you’re in good company. Paul’s letter reminds us that unfinished doesn’t mean abandoned.

Sometimes God’s work looks less like building and more like waiting. Less like progress and more like perseverance. But make no mistake — even the waiting rooms can be altars. Because maybe the sacred work isn’t what we’re doing for God, but what God is still doing in us — shaping patience, humility, and trust.

Maybe the Unlikely Altar this time isn’t a table or a church. Maybe it’s the half-built part of you — the one still covered in dust and duct tape — that God refuses to give up on. That's the Unlikely Altar.

After all, the sacred shows up there too — right in the middle of the mess.

A Roman prison doesn’t seem like the ideal spot for a letter about confidence and joy — but that’s where Paul wrote it. And maybe that’s the point.

If grace can write from a prison cell, then it can certainly keep writing in us. The same hands that shaped light out of darkness are still working on you and on me, still carrying the good work forward — even on days when we can’t see it.

So take heart. The work isn’t done yet.

And that’s good news.

Grace and Peace

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 03:44:28 GMT

Paul starts his letter to the Philippians the way he starts almost every letter he ever wrote — with two simple words that sound like a benediction and a blessing all at once:

“ Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. ”

Grace and peace.

It’s easy to glide right past them. After all, Paul says it so often it can sound like his version of, “ Dear friends, hope you’re doing well. ” But those words are anything but filler. They’re the opening line of a letter written from prison — a man in chains sending light through a keyhole.

That’s the thing about grace and peace. They don’t wait for better conditions.

When Paul writes, he doesn’t start with complaints about the guards or the food or how cold the nights are. He doesn’t list his injuries or beg for sympathy. Instead, he offers what he himself most needs: grace and peace.

I’ve come to believe that the words we offer the world when we’re hurting reveal what’s deepest in us. For Paul, it was this stubborn conviction that God was still at work, even in confinement — that grace still flowed and peace was still possible.

Grace and Peace

Paul begins with two words that still have the power to stop me in my tracks: grace and peace.

He could’ve opened with something more ordinary — Dear friends , or Hang in there . But instead, from a cell that smelled of iron and damp stone, he chooses a blessing. He leads with joy.

Grace — that wild, unearned love that shows up even when we’ve done nothing to deserve it. Grace is the quiet voice that says, “ You’re still min e.” It’s the kind of love that doesn’t wait for you to get your act together. It just walks right into your mess and sits down beside you.

And peace — not the fragile kind that depends on calm seas or perfect days, but the kind that holds steady when the waves are high. The kind that whispers, “ You’re okay, even here .”

I love that Paul links the two together, because grace without peace feels unfinished, and peace without grace feels forced. Together they form a rhythm — grace that reaches, peace that remains .

And maybe that’s what Paul was really offering: a new way to begin.

Can you imagine if those were the first words we spoke to each other every morning?

Joy to you. Peace to you. Every kind of good to you.

How different a day might feel if it started there — not with headlines or hurry, but with blessing.

Maybe that’s the secret of Paul’s letter: that even in a place built to break him, he still believed goodness could find a way through the cracks.

So what would it look like to practice this?

Maybe it starts small — whispering “grace and peace” toward the people you don’t even like. Or toward yourself when that inner critic starts its sermon again.

So what would it look like to practice this?

Maybe it’s learning to pause, breathe peace, and offer grace instead.

When gossip starts — grace and peace .
When the argument heats — grace and peace.
When you replay the hurt that still stings — grace and peace .

Interrupt the old patterns with blessing.

The early church actually practiced this. In Acts 14 and 20, believers would commend one another to God’s grace before sending them out. They’d gather, pray, lay on hands, and say, “You are given over to God’s grace and peace.”

What if we did that? What if we treated every conversation, every cup of coffee, every parting at the door as a small commissioning — giving one another over to grace and peace before we go back into the world?

A Roman prison doesn’t sound like much of a sanctuary, but Paul found one there. Maybe that’s the invitation — to find our own Unlikely Altars , the places where grace still surprises us and peace somehow holds.

If I’m honest, I’m preaching to myself here. I could use a little grace and peace most mornings before the second Mountain Dew.

So wherever you are today — in traffic, in grief, in the middle of a week that feels like too much — hear this old, stubborn greeting again:

Grace and peace to you.

Not someday. Not when you’ve earned it. Right now

The Best Letters Come from Prison

Sat, 01 Nov 2025 19:46:39 GMT

Some of the best letters ever written came from prison.

Not cozy writer’s retreats, not beach houses, not corner offices with ocean views. Prisons.

Paul’s letters from Rome.

Bonhoeffer’s from Tegel.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s from Birmingham.

Each penned behind locked doors, on borrowed paper, with hope that somehow the words might slip past the guards and make it into the world. And they did.

What fascinates me is not just what they wrote, but where they wrote it from. It’s one thing to talk about faith or freedom or joy when you’re standing on a stage. It’s another when your only audience is a damp wall and a single beam of light.

Paul starts his letter to the Philippians with the same two words he used so often: grace and peace. Not resentment. Not a plea for bail. Grace and peace. As if he’s saying, “Yes, I’m chained up—but I’m free where it counts.”

That’s what hooked me.

Because I’ve learned that “prison” doesn’t always have bars. Sometimes it looks like grief. Or waiting rooms. Or a quiet house after someone’s gone. Sometimes it’s a job that’s lost its meaning, or a season when God seems to have stepped out for coffee and hasn’t come back yet.

We’ve all got our versions.

And maybe—just maybe—the letters we write ( or live ) from those places are the ones that matter most. The ones we didn’t plan on writing. The ones that bleed a little truth and hum with hope in spite of it all.

When Bonhoeffer wrote from his cell, he wasn’t trying to be profound—he was trying to stay human. He wrote about missing his fiancée, about books he wished he had, about the longing to see the sky. And in between the lines of the ordinary came the sacred: “ Only the suffering God can help .”

When Dr. King wrote from Birmingham Jail, he wasn’t crafting a masterpiece—he was answering a letter from fellow pastors who told him to wait. “ Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, ” he replied, with chains on his wrists and conviction in his voice.

And Paul—well, he wrote to say thank you. To encourage. To remind a fledgling community that joy doesn’t depend on circumstances. He wrote about grace, love, partnership, deliverance, and struggle—words that still breathe life into our own small confinements.

Maybe the best letters come from prison because that’s where honesty and hope have to share the same cell.

And maybe that’s what makes it an Unlikely Altar . A place where faith is stripped to its bones, where prayers sound less like poetry and more like breathing, and where grace shows up in the least graceful places imaginable.

Over the next few posts, I want to walk through Philippians chapter one—slowly. Not to decode it, but to dwell in it. To listen for the heartbeat behind the bars.

We’ll start where Paul starts: with grace and peace . Then move into gratitude for the good work God’s still doing ( even when it feels like He’s on break ). We’ll talk about what it means to hold people in your heart, to let love abound, to trust in deliverance, and to find solidarity in struggle.

You don’t have to be in prison to get it. You just have to know what it’s like to feel stuck—to long for something freer, deeper, truer.

This series isn’t about how to escape. It’s about what you can discover when you can’t.

Because maybe the sacred still writes letters from the places we’d rather forget. And maybe the God who showed up in Paul’s cell still shows up in ours—reminding us that grace can grow in concrete cracks, and peace can find a way through iron bars.

Grace and peace! Let’s open this letter together.

The Ride Continues

Sun, 19 Oct 2025 19:45:07 GMT

There’s a sound every cyclist knows — the click of clipping in. For me, it’s one of the most satisfying sounds in the world. That tiny, metallic click says, You’re connected. You’re ready. Let’s ride.

It’s also the sound I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear again after my crash. A patch of slush, one bad angle, and an ankle full of hardware later, I found myself grounded for months — and eventually years — before I was able to really ride again. Add Sjögren’s Disease into the mix, and the idea of climbing back on the bike sometimes felt more like foolish nostalgia than wisdom.

But grace has a way of whispering, Try again. And so, I did. The first time I clipped in again, I smiled. Not because it was easy — it wasn’t. But because I realized the road still had more to teach me.

There’s something holy about motion — even slow, hesitant motion. About wind on your face and breath in your lungs. About knowing the ride won’t be perfect but pedaling anyway.

Because the truth is, life rarely gives you tailwinds. Most days, it’s a mix of potholes and headwinds and st retches of rough pavement that test more than your legs. But grace doesn’t wait for the perfect road. Grace rides with you — through the wobble, the pain, the wind, and the weariness.

What does that really mean?

It means grace is the quiet companion drafting just behind you — not pushing harder, but keeping you from quitting. Grace isn’t the coach yelling from the sidelines; it’s the presence that matches your cadence, breath for breath, mile for mile.

Grace doesn’t flatten the hills or calm the wind. It rides beside you through them. It steadies your shaking hands when you hit rough pavement. It gives you the courage to unclip when you need to stop — and the strength to clip back in when you’re ready to move again.

Grace shows up in the quietest ways — a moment of laughter in the middle of exhaustion, a friend who calls at the right time, a peace that comes out of nowhere when you thought you were done. Sometimes it’s not even words. It’s breath. It’s presence. It’s that deep-down knowing that you’re not riding alone, even when no one else is on the road.

And every now and then, grace even lets you coast.

The road has become an Unlikely Altar for me — the place where faith and fatigue meet, where sweat becomes prayer, and where I remember that grace doesn’t mean ease. It means presence.

When I ride now, I don’t measure distance or speed the way I used to. I measure gratitude — for the ability to move, to breathe, to clip in one more time.

Maybe that’s the quiet gift of age, of injury, of illness — you learn that the point was never perfection, but participation. You get back on the bike not because the road is smooth, but because the ride itself is sacred.

So if you find yourself staring at a road that looks long, uneven, or uphill, take a breath. Clip in. Start pedaling.

Grace doesn’t clear the path. It keeps you company on the ride. You’re never alone on the ride.

Headwinds and Grace

Sat, 18 Oct 2025 03:45:28 GMT

Every cyclist knows the feeling. You set out expecting a nice, steady ride—the kind where the tires hum, the sun cooperates, and the wind minds its own business. And then it happens: the headwind.

It’s invisible but relentless, a force of nature with a personal grudge. It hits your chest, fills your helmet with noise, and makes every pedal stroke feel like a test of faith. You shift to the lowest gear, tuck down, and mutter a prayer—or, if you’re honest, a few other words not found in Scripture.

And the worst part? You tell yourself that once you turn around, it’ll become a tailwind. But no—somehow it’s still in your face. I’ve had rides where I was convinced Texas had suspended the laws of physics.

Life has those headwinds too . They don’t knock you over like a crash or startle you like a pothole. They just wear you down, mile after mile. They show up as the quiet resistance that makes everything harder than it should be:

The health issue that lingers longer than expected.
The work that takes more out of you than it gives back.
The grief that refuses to stay in the past.
The waiting—on healing, direction, clarity—that seems to stretch on forever.

Headwinds don’t announce themselves. They just press in. You keep pedaling, but progress feels slow. Some days, grace feels as far away as the next mile marker.

Here’s the strange thing about headwinds: they build strength even when you can’t feel it happening. You may not see your speed on the bike computer, but endurance is quietly forming underneath the strain.

The same is true in life. You can’t always measure spiritual muscle when you’re pushing against resistance, but that’s where it grows. Strength isn’t built on smooth roads—it’s forged in the unseen miles where you just keep showing up.

Grace doesn’t always calm the wind. Sometimes, grace is what leans into it with you.

I’ve had more than a few rides where the wind seemed determined to prove a point. You know the kind—your heart rate’s high, your speed’s low, and your pride’s somewhere in the ditch. You start calculating whether it’s worth just turning around and calling it “training for character.”

But here’s what I’ve noticed: the harder the wind blows, the quieter I get. There’s no small talk in a headwind. You just breathe, push, and listen—to your body, to your thoughts, to whatever’s left when everything else gets stripped away. That silence has a way of teaching you something you’d never hear otherwise.

Headwinds teach humility. They remind you that no matter how strong or experienced you are, you don’t control everything. You can have the best gear, the perfect route, the right attitude—and still face resistance.

And yet, here’s what I’ve learned: the presence of resistance doesn’t mean the absence of grace. Sometimes the two show up together. Grace isn’t the tailwind that makes everything easy; it’s the quiet presence that keeps you moving when you want to stop.

I’ve come to believe that headwinds are their own kind of Unlikely Altar . They test you, humble you, and eventually teach you what’s inside you. They remind you that speed isn’t the point—faithfulness is.

When the ride’s over, you realize that even into the wind, you made progress. You might not have gone fast, but you didn’t quit.

That’s grace, too.

B ecause sometimes the holiest moments aren’t when everything lines up perfectly—they’re when the wind is howling, your legs are tired, and something deep inside whispers, “Keep pedaling.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Crashes, Scars and Resurrection

Wed, 08 Oct 2025 02:14:41 GMT

If potholes jar you and gravel unnerves you, crashes just flat-out take you down.

Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling: one second you’re upright, the next you’re tangled in a mess of handlebars, chain grease, and pride. Sometimes you get up with nothing worse than road rash. Other times, you limp away with scars that last a lifetime.

I know this one by heart.

A few winters ago, the Sunday after the Houston big freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail planning to ride 60 miles before meeting friends for lunch. The pavement looked clear enough, but an innocent-looking patch of slush sent my wheels out from under me. I unclipped but for some reason did it awkwardly, and in a blink my ankle snapped. Just like that, I went from riding free to riding in an ambulance. The 60 miles became 30 miles and the lunch never happened.

The aftermath wasn’t pretty. A bunch of screws and plates held my ankle together for a while. My X-rays looked like something from a Home Depot catalog. Eventually, the hardware had to come out because it caused more trouble than it solved. I still keep the X-ray pictures ( the graphics are of my right ankle that was broken ). They’re not pretty, but they preach. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I healed. Proof that sometimes resurrection comes with plates and screws.

Today, I carry the memories more than the metal—reminders of both the fragility of the human body and the stubbornness of the human spirit.

Life hands us crashes too.

The divorce you never saw coming.
The diagnosis that stops you in your tracks.
The job loss that pulls the rug out from under you.
The phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything.

Unlike potholes or gravel, these aren’t moments you just “ride through.” They take you down. They hurt. They leave scars. And sometimes they leave you wondering if you’ll ever get back up.

Here’s the thing about scars: they don’t lie. They’re honest in a way that words sometimes aren’t. A scar is proof that something hurt you, but it’s also proof that the hurt didn’t win. It tells the whole story—pain and healing, breaking and mending, falling and rising again.

Scars are strange that way. They mark the places of our deepest weakness, and at the same time they become signs of our resilience. They whisper both, “This is where you were broken,” and, “This is where you got back up.”

My orthopedic surgeon was proud that he’d done the surgeries on my ankle without leaving any visible scars. I told him, half-joking, that I kind of wanted the scars—for the stories, of course. He grinned and said, “Well, I could always draw one on for you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Then you can just get a tattoo artist to make it permanent.” For a split second, I almost agreed.

I can laugh about it now, but the point still stands: scars—real or imagined—carry meaning. They’re proof that you’ve been down, but also proof you got back up.

And isn’t that what resurrection really is? Not pretending the crash never happened, but living as proof that it didn’t get the last word.

The first ride back after my ankle healed was equal parts joy and terror. My mind kept replaying the fall, reminding me how fragile the body—and confidence—can be. Every turn of the pedal felt risky. Every shadow on the trail looked like another slush patch.

But slowly, something shifted. I felt the rhythm again. The tires began to hum. The fear started to fade, replaced by the familiar freedom of the ride.

That’s resurrection. Not everything going back to “the way it was,” but the courage to try again after you’ve been broken. Resurrection is about scars that don’t disappear but no longer define you. It’s about grace that meets you in the getting back up.

Cyclists trade crash stories the way kids trade baseball cards. Each one carries a mix of pain, pride, and proof of survival. And maybe that’s part of the healing too—learning to laugh at what once felt impossible.

I still tell mine with a grin: the slush patch, the screws, the hardware catalog X-rays, and yes—even the surgeon who offered to draw me a scar. Sometimes laughter is its own kind of resurrection.

For me, even the crash became an Unlikely Altar. It’s where I was reminded of how breakable we all are—and how much strength we can find in the getting back up. It’s where I learned that scars are more than reminders of pain; they are testimonies of healing.

Life’s crashes will come. They’ll hurt. They’ll mark us. But they don’t have the last word. Sometimes they become the very place where resurrection breaks through, where grace shows up, and where we discover that even broken bones—and broken lives—can be made strong again.

World Communion, Without the Pew

Sun, 05 Oct 2025 20:09:33 GMT

Today is World Communion Sunday. Which means that somewhere, in every time zone and in every language you can imagine, bread is being broken and a cup is being shared.

In a cathedral, a golden chalice gleams in the candlelight. In a village, a clay jug is passed under a mango tree. Somewhere it’s pita, somewhere it’s tortilla, somewhere it’s store-brand sandwich bread stacked on a plate from Dollar General. Somewhere it’s juice poured from a crystal cruet; somewhere else, it’s grape Kool-Aid in a plastic cup. And in every place, somehow, grace shows up.

That’s the beauty of this day. We don’t all look the same, worship the same, or sing the same. But somehow, across all that difference, we are one table.

And even though I won’t be sitting in a pew today, this day still matters to me. Because communion has never only belonged to the altar rail. It shows up wherever bread is broken and barriers are broken down.

In casseroles left on a grieving neighbor’s porch, when words aren’t enough but lasagna might be.
In coffee shared with someone you thought you’d never forgive.
In the chips and salsa that disappear between two friends who haven’t spoken in years, laughter somehow louder than the silence that came before.
In a hospital room where a nurse breaks a graham cracker in half and shares it with a patient who hasn’t eaten in days.
At a kitchen table, where grace is passed not with liturgy but with a smile, a story, and another helping.

Communion is always more than bread and cup. Always more than a line down the aisle. Always more than church on a calendar day.

Communion isn’t just vertical, between me and God. It’s horizontal too. It’s what binds us to one another, even in our doubts, our baggage, and our brokenness. It’s why Paul called us “one body.” One loaf. One world.

I think that’s what I need to remember in this season: God’s table stretches wider than the walls of any church. Wide enough for my stubbornness, my questions, my wandering. Wide enough for saints and skeptics, doubters and disciples, those who are sure and those who are just hanging on.

And communion always points forward. It’s never just about what’s on the table right now—it’s a foretaste of the feast to come. That banquet where nobody leaves hungry, nobody gets left out, and maybe Jesus even does the dishes.

That vision gives me hope. A messy, beautiful, stubborn hope.

Because let’s be honest: communion has always been messy. There are crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints on the chalice. There are juice stains on white linens and laughter in the line. But that’s exactly what makes it real. Grace isn’t polished; it’s passed hand to hand, smudged with fingerprints, and still holy. That’s what makes it real.

So today, even without a pew, I’ll watch for the Unlikely Altars . I’ll look for them in kitchens and coffee shops, hospital rooms and sidewalks, backyard barbecues and breakrooms. Anywhere bread is broken and barriers are broken down. Anywhere grace slips in through the cracks of ordinary life.

Because communion is always more than one table. It’s God’s table, stretching as wide as the world. And somehow—by some mystery greater than I can explain—we all fit.

The crumbs, the spills, the stubborn questions? They’re not proof we’ve failed.

They’re proof that grace has come near. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the communion I need most right now. Maybe it’s the communion many of us need most right now.

Maybe that is the true meaning of communion. Maybe that is what the bread and juice are really saying: You belong at the table, even when you doubt. You are part of the feast, even when you feel empty. Grace will m eet you here, crumbs and all.

Gravel and Uncertainty

Sat, 04 Oct 2025 04:06:20 GMT

If potholes jar you, gravel just unnerves you.

Every cyclist knows the feeling. You roll onto a stretch of loose gravel and suddenly your bike has a mind of its own. The tires skitter. The handlebars wobble. You grip tighter, slow down, and pray you can keep your balance. Even the smoothest ride can turn into a nerve-wracking shuffle when the ground beneath you won’t hold.

Life has those stretches too - - the seasons when nothing feels steady.

When the GPS of your life suddenly says, “Recalculating…”
When the bills keep coming but the paycheck doesn’t.
When the path you thought was smooth suddenly shifts under your feet.

Gravel moments leave you wondering if you can hold it together.

When your road bike hits gravel and starts to slip, the key is to stay relaxed. Tensing up and overcorrecting almost guarantees a crash. The trick is to let the bike move slightly under you, maintain your momentum steady, and make subtle shifts in body weight until you regain your balance.

Life asks for the same thing. When the ground feels unsteady - - when the diagnosis isn’t clear, when the job is shaky, when the future feels uncertain - - the temptation is to panic, to overcorrect, to grab the bars of life with a white-knuckle grip. But that only makes the wobble worse. What helps is loosening your grip just enough, trusting that balance can come back, and moving through the uncertainty one steady breath at a time.

I once hit a patch of gravel on a bayou bike trail - - a trail I thought I knew well. One second, everything felt fine, the next, I was wobbling like a circus clown. My instinct was to clamp down on the bars until my knuckles hurt. Somehow, I stayed upright. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous - - half praying, half growling, all nerves. But I made it through. Slowly. Carefully. One shaky pedal stroke at a time.

And here’s the thing: gravel often shows up in the most unexpected places. A shoulder you thought was smooth, a bike lane that looked clear - - suddenly it’s loose, unstable, sketchy. One second you’re cruising, the next you’re praying you don’t slide out. Life feels the same way. The uncertainty sneaks up when you least expect it.

I’ve felt that same wobble in life. When I was first diagnosed with Sjögren’s Disease, it was like the pavement turned to gravel overnight. The routines I counted on didn’t work the same way. Energy came and went unpredictably. Plans had to be adjusted or abandoned. My instinct was to muscle through. But the harder I pushed, the shakier I felt.

And the truth is, it doesn’t matter which part of your life hits the gravel - - your health, your career, your relationships, or your finances. The wisdom is the same: slow down, breathe, and do whatever you can to stay upright.

That’s also why I’m writing this. On group rides, gravel isn’t just your problem. If you see it up ahead, the right thing to do is point it out so the riders behind you don’t get caught off guard. A quick finger to the ground, a small gesture - - it’s a way of saying, “Heads up, this could take you down if you’re not ready.”

Ride enough shoulders and bike lanes and you learn quickly: loose gravel is everywhere. Calling it out isn’t about being polite - - it’s about keeping people safe.

Life works the same way. When you’ve been through uncertain seasons - - health scares, job shifts, grief, or change - - you can point them out for the people coming behind you. Not to scare them, but to say, “You’re not crazy. This road is rough. Slow down. Keep your balance. You’ll get through.”

That simple act of looking out for each other? That’s its own kind of grace.

Gravel also exposes our illusion of control. On solid asphalt, I can trick myself into thinking I’m in charge. On gravel, I’m reminded just how fragile balance really is. Life’s uncertainties do the same thing. They peel back the illusion and force me to admit: I never had as much control as I thought.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s the place where trust grows - - not on smooth pavement, but in the loose stones where I learn to lean on something bigger than myself.

The good news? Gravel doesn’t last forever . Eventually, the road smooths out. You breathe a little easier. The tires hum again. And when you get there, you don’t take it for granted. You savor it.

Life’s uncertainties are like that too. They teach us to slow down, to pay attention, to trust that the uneven stretch won’t last forever. And when stability comes back, we see it as the gift it is.

For me, even gravel becomes an Unlikely Altar . It’s where I learn to loosen my grip, to slow down, to breathe. It’s where my prayers sound less like sermons and more like whispers: “God, just get me through this stretch.”

And often, that’s enough. The road may still feel shaky, but grace shows up in the very act of staying upright.

Dressing Down to Meet God

Thu, 02 Oct 2025 02:37:39 GMT

I magine standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands. Ten days of fasting, soul-searching, and prayer have led to this moment. All eyes turn to one man—the High Priest—who disappears behind a curtain to stand before God on behalf of the people.

It’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Jewish year. A day of forgiveness, humility, and a fresh start.

But here’s something easy to miss: before the High Priest can carry the sins of the people, he has to reckon with his own. He begins not with the sins of the nation, but with the sins of his own heart. He offers a bull as a sacrifice for himself. He admits his own failures. Even the holiest person in Israel isn’t holy enough to walk into the presence of God without first acknowledging his humanity.

And then comes a second striking detail. On this one day, the High Priest takes off his elaborate, jewel-covered vestments—the outfit that signals his status, his sacred role, his authority—and dresses down in plain white linen. Simple clothes. Humble clothes. Human clothes.

Can you imagine the scene? After days of fasting and prayer, the crowd holds its breath. The High Priest—no longer dazzling in gold or gemstones, but ordinary, like everyone else—steps into the Holy of Holies. The message is clear: before God, no one comes dressed in status. Only humility. Only honesty. Only as we really are.

That moment—the stripping away of status, the exchanging of gold for linen—became its own altar. An unlikely altar. Not the stone altar in the Temple courts, but the altar of humility, honesty, and humanity. That was where the sacred met the ordinary: in the plain clothes of a man admitting he was just like everyone else.

And maybe that’s the point. We spend so much of our lives dressing ourselves up—not just with clothes, but with titles, résumés, curated social media feeds, even the smiles we wear when our hearts are breaking. We signal to the world: “I’ve got it together. I’m fine. I’m in control.”

But forgiveness and healing rarely come when we’re dressed up. They come when we dress down. When we admit we’ve messed up. When we show up with nothing to hide. When we strip away the roles and the armor and stand there, vulnerable, waiting for grace.

I see this again and again in my work. At funerals, grief strips people bare. No one cares about résumés or bank accounts in that moment. What matters are the words left unsaid, the love given—or withheld—and the memories that linger. The sacred comes rushing in, not when we’re polished, but when we’re painfully real.

I’ve seen it at weddings too. Beneath the formal clothes and pretty settings, the most powerful moments aren’t scripted. They happen when someone tears up, when a nervous laugh escapes, when the couple realizes this is bigger than their plans. It’s holy, precisely because it’s human.

Yom Kippur reminds us that God doesn’t meet us in our perfection. God meets us in our honesty. In our need. In our humility.

Tomorrow, Jewish communities around the world will mark the Day of Atonement by fasting, praying, and asking forgiveness—from God, from one another, and maybe even from themselves. For many, it will be a day of deep seriousness. For others, a day of relief, of release, of starting over.

But even if you’re not Jewish, the pattern holds: forgiveness, humility, fresh starts. We all need those. We all need moments when we stop pretending we’re fine and admit we’re human. We all need the grace of beginning again.

Maybe holiness isn’t found in dressing up, but in dressing down. Not in pretending to be more than we are, but in owning exactly who we are. Because that’s where the unlikely altar waits: not on a stage or in a temple, but in the ordinary, vulnerable moments when we finally get honest enough to let grace in.

Potholes and Setbacks

Thu, 25 Sep 2025 20:06:14 GMT

If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually meet a pothole. Sometimes you see it too late and hit it head-on. Sometimes you try to swerve and still clip the edge. Either way, the result is the same: a jolt that rattles your teeth, jars your confidence, and makes you wonder if your wheels are still true.

On a bike, potholes are a given. Roads crack. Asphalt crumbles. Weather wears things down. Even the best-maintained streets have weak spots. And the thing about potholes? You almost never hit them when you’re expecting to. They sneak up on you, hiding in the shadows, waiting just past the last curve.

Life has its own potholes.

The job loss you didn’t see coming.
The diagnosis that drops in out of nowhere.
The phone call that changes everything.

Setbacks jar us the same way a pothole does. They shake our sense of control. They remind us how fragile things can be. And if we’re not careful, they can throw us completely off balance.

I remember one ride in EaDo when I let my mind wander. I was in the zone, legs spinning, enjoying the day—and then wham. My front wheel found a crater I hadn’t seen. The jolt nearly knocked me over. I pulled to the side, heart pounding, and checked my bike. The wheel held, but the hit had me rattled the rest of the ride.

That’s the thing about setbacks—they echo. After you’ve been jarred, even small bumps make you flinch. It takes time to trust the road again.

And I’ve felt that same echo in life. I’ve been blindsided before—times when everything seemed smooth and then suddenly, the bottom dropped out. Ministry shifts I didn’t expect. Friendships that cracked. Health challenges that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit. Just like on the bike, those potholes left me cautious, hesitant, scanning the horizon for the next crack in the road.

When I hit a pothole on the road, my first reaction is usually not very holy. I grumble about the city workers who should’ve filled it. And if the jolt is especially bad, well… let’s just say a few words come out that you won’t find in the hymnal.

But the truth is, we do the same thing in life. Something knocks us off balance, and our first instinct is to point a finger. Sometimes we turn it on ourselves, replaying the “ what ifs ” and “ should haves ” until we’re dizzy. Sometimes we turn it on others, blaming people who hurt us, failed us, or just happened to be standing too close when things fell apart. And sometimes—if I’m honest—we even point it at God, wondering why the road wasn’t made smoother in the first place.

Here’s the problem: blame never fills the hole. It doesn’t fix the wheel. It just keeps us stuck, staring at the crack in the road instead of finding a way forward. Blame feels satisfying for about five minutes, but it doesn’t heal anything. What actually helps is taking a deep breath, naming the hurt, learning what we can—and then pedaling on.

Here’s something every cyclist figures out sooner or later: if you lock your eyes on the pothole, you’re probably gonna hit the pothole. It’s like your bike reads your mind and says, “Oh, that’s where you’re looking? Great, let’s go there.” And worse, if you stare too long at what you’re trying to avoid, you might miss the car, the curb, or the rider right in front of you. Suddenly, the pothole isn’t your biggest problem anymore.

Life works the same way. If all I can see is the setback—the thing that went wrong—I’ll end up running headfirst into it again, or crashing into something else entirely. The better move is to lift my eyes, find my balance, and look for a smoother path forward. Sure, potholes sting. They can bruise your pride or even bend your rim. But they don’t have to end the ride.

Looking back, I realize potholes have taught me something important: smooth pavement is nice, but it rarely makes me stronger. It’s the potholes that remind me to stay alert, to pay attention, to appreciate the stretches of road that are even and kind. In life, setbacks can do the same. They teach us resilience, humility, patience. They remind us that perfection isn’t promised, but perseverance is possible.

For me, even the pothole becomes an Unlikely Altar. It’s the place where frustration turns into prayer—sometimes an angry prayer, sometimes a desperate one, sometimes a simple sigh. The jolt in the road reminds me that I am not in control, but I am not alone. And somehow, grace shows up in the shaken balance, the deep breath, the steadying of hands on the bars.

Road Hazards and Life

Sat, 20 Sep 2025 21:53:46 GMT

The road is never perfectly smooth. Not when you’re riding a bike, and not when you’re living a life.

I love to ride. My Trek Domane road bike isn’t just a machine—it’s my sanctuary on two wheels. There’s something holy about the rhythm of pedaling: lungs filling, legs burning, tires humming on the pavement. On a good day, it feels like prayer in motion. The wind in my face becomes grace I can feel. Out there, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is rhythm, movement, and presence.

But let’s be honest: every ride comes with hazards.

There are potholes that sneak up out of nowhere, big enough to swallow a small child—or at least rattle your fillings loose. There’s loose gravel that suddenly turns you into a circus act, wobbling and praying you stay upright. There are dogs who seem to believe it’s their sacred duty to chase cyclists, even when they have no real plan for what they’d do if they caught you. There are squirrels with a death wish, darting across the path like my front wheel is the finish line of their personal Olympics. And there are headwinds—those invisible walls of air that make you wonder if you accidentally signed up for a spin class called Despair on Wheels.

And then there are the crashes. I know this one by heart. After a winter freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail when my wheels found an ice patch. I didn’t unclip quickly enough, and in a blink, my ankle snapped. Seventeen screws and plates later, I had the kind of X-rays that could stop a conversation. For a while, all that hardware held me together. But it also caused its own complications, so eventually it had to be removed. The scars remain, both visible and invisible—a reminder that sometimes the repairs leave their own marks. Still, the bone is stronger for having been broken.

And here’s why I’m writing about all this now: I’m finally back on the road. Sjögren’s Disease makes riding harder than it used to be—my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I want it to. But I’ve missed it more than I can put into words. There’s nothing like that moment when I swing a leg over, settle in, and hear the sharp click of my shoes clipping into the pedals. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. That little snap always makes me smile, because it means I’m moving again. It means the ride is starting, no matter what the road holds.

For me, the bike has become an Unlikely Altar. Not a marble table in a sanctuary, but a frame on two wheels, carrying me down cracked asphalt and winding trails. Each ride is an offering of breath and sweat, joy and pain. The sound of clipping in feels almost sacramental, like lighting a candle or whispering a prayer. Even the hazards—the potholes, the gravel, the crashes, the scars—become part of that altar. They remind me that God shows up not only in smooth pavement, but in the rough patches too.

Cyclists learn quickly: hazards are part of the ride. You can’t avoid them all, but you can learn how to face them. And the more I’ve ridden, the more I’ve realized that life works the same way. We all face hazards that throw us off balance: setbacks that jar us, seasons of uncertainty where nothing feels stable, full-on wrecks that leave us scarred, and invisible headwinds that sap our strength.

Here’s the truth that keeps coming back to me: hazards don’t mean the ride is ruined. They mean the ride is real.

That’s what this series is about. Over the next few weeks, I want to share what the road has taught me about life:

Potholes and Setbacks – the jolts that come out of nowhere.
Gravel and Uncertainty – when you have to slow down and find your balance.
Crashes, Scars, and Resurrection – the wrecks that leave you marked, but not finished.
Headwinds and Grace – the invisible resistance that tests your strength and teaches dependence.

Cycling strips things down to the essentials. You can’t control the road, the wind, or the dog with a bad attitude. All you can do is keep your balance, keep your eyes ahead, and keep pedaling. Life’s the same way. Smooth pavement is nice, but it’s the hazards that teach us, shape us, and remind us we’re still moving forward.

So clip in, take a deep breath, and join me. The road ahead won’t be perfect—but it will be full of grace, laughter, and maybe even a few good stories about dodging squirrels.

A Wedding. Some Wine. And a Promise.

Sat, 13 Sep 2025 01:38:14 GMT

A couple of weeks ago I attended a Jewish wedding. The music was lively, the laughter contagious. But what caught my attention first wasn’t the dancing or the glass. It was the chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stands. Four simple poles, cloth stretched above, open on all sides.

The chuppah isn’t just there for decoration. It is one of the most important symbols of the ceremony. It recalls the story of the Exodus, when a cloud led God’s people by day and fire by night. The Hebrew word shekinah describes that presence—not just glory, but the very dwelling of God among the people. Standing under the canopy, the couple is reminded that they are not alone in this covenant. Their love is sheltered, covered, surrounded .

But the canopy carries more meaning still. Some rabbis say its four open sides recall Abraham’s tent; a home always open to strangers. In that sense, the chuppah is about hospitality—marriage as a space of welcome, a household where others are received. Others say it represents the sky itself, stretched above the couple like creation’s ceiling. Either way, the chuppah whispers that love is not private property. It is held within something larger, and it is meant to spill outward in welcome.

And if the canopy over their heads spoke volumes, so did the calendar on which the day was marked. John tells us the wedding at Cana happened on “ the third day .”

For first-century Jews, that wasn’t a throwaway detail. Weddings were often held on the third day of the week—Tuesday—because in the creation story, Tuesday is the only day God called good twice. A double blessing. Even today, some Jewish couples choose Tuesday for that reason.

But “ the third day ” carried even more resonance. Again and again in Hebrew scripture, the third day was the day God showed up. Abraham saw Mount Moriah on the third day. God descended on Sinai on the third day. Esther put on her royal robes and went before the king on the third day. To say something happened on “the third day” was to say: expect God to arrive, expect deliverance, expect blessing.

So John knew what he was doing when he set the Cana story on that day. It wasn’t just about the calendar. It was a signal: this is the kind of moment when heaven leans close.

And when heaven leans close, the ordinary becomes charged with meaning. Even the wine.

Wine is central at Jewish weddings, not just as refreshment but as covenant. The ceremony begins with blessings over the kiddush cup, sanctifying the marriage. Wine marks both betrothal (kiddushin) and marriage (nissuin). It’s more than a drink—it is joy, covenant, and abundance poured into a single cup.

That’s why running out of wine at Cana wasn’t just awkward. Without wine, the celebration itself felt incomplete. So when the jars were filled and the steward tasted new wine, it wasn’t just about quenching thirst—it was about joy restored, covenant renewed, abundance overflowing.

What I love most is that wine in Jewish tradition always carries both sweetness and seriousness. It’s laughter and gravity in a single sip. The sweetness of joy, the weight of commitment. Every toast raised holds both—celebration and promise mingled together. ( And really, it’s one of the few times in life when no one complains about being poured a second glass. )

All these details—the canopy overhead, the blessing of the third day, the wine in their hands—remind me that weddings were never just social events. They were sacred rehearsals of older stories, echoes of covenant, reminders that life itself is stitched together with meaning.

Which brings me back to the wedding in Cana. John could have begun with something more dramatic: a healing, a resurrection, a thunderous sign. Instead, he begins with a wedding. A family gathering. A table that was about to run dry. It turns out he knew that the extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary. That the presence of God shows up not just in miracles, but in music and laughter, in promises and canopies, in glasses lifted high.

Standing there that night, watching this couple under the chuppah, I realize the altar doesn’t have to be stone or wood. Sometimes it’s laughter under a canopy. Sometimes it’s a circle of dancers clapping to the beat. Sometimes it’s a blessing whispered in Hebrew, or a glass of wine raised in joy.

And sometimes, for those who remember the old stories, it’s a promise that echoes even deeper: “I go to prepare a place for you.” Like a bridegroom building an addition onto his father’s house, love prepares room for another. That’s the heart of covenant—making space for someone else, not just in your home but in your life.

A wedding. Some wine. And a promise.

An unlikely altar, reminding us that love’s promise is always to prepare a place.

Not So Fast, My Friend

Sun, 31 Aug 2025 20:32:03 GMT

Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing.

When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast.

We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is.

In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were.

I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time.

This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again.

And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening.

Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend.

The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy.

I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table.

When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room.

These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them.

Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction.

So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward:

Not so fast, my friend.

Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over.

Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter.

Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day.

Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.

The Margarita

Thu, 28 Aug 2025 15:00:57 GMT

True confession: when I bartended my way through college, I hated cleaning the frozen margarita machine. Hated it. Sticky, messy, impossible to get right. I used to slip the busboy an extra tip just so he’d clean it for me. Maybe that’s why to this day I still don’t care much for frozen margaritas.

But even beyond that, it took me a long time before I’d drink a Margarita at all — even on the rocks. Too many painful memories of the bar. Too many nights when the clink of glasses was covering up loneliness, or when laughter at the counter didn’t quite reach the heart.

And then there were the Wednesday nights. At one bar I worked, it was “upside-down margarita night.” Ugh. Messy, noisy, and honestly, kind of humiliating. Tips usually sucked. Maybe that’s part of why the Margarita carried more sting than sweetness for me.

So for me, the Margarita isn’t just about refreshment — it’s about redemption. A Margarita on the rocks, with a salted rim and freshly squeezed limes, became something different. Something honest. A reminder that joy can be real, not forced. That sweetness can hold its own, even alongside the sour. That salt doesn’t have to ruin the glass, but can frame it.

Because the Margarita isn’t just a party drink — it’s a paradox in a glass. Sweet and sour. Joy and sting. Celebration rimmed with salt. It’s laughter with friends while tears are still fresh. It’s the reminder that life doesn’t come to us neat and tidy, but mixed — with both the ache and the joy in the same moment.

I think about that every time I hear the phrase “ Celebration of Life .” That’s what we used to call funerals. And I’ll be honest — I chuckle to myself whenever I read that title. Because the truth is, very few people are celebrating in those moments. There are still plenty of tears, because someone we love is no longer with us.

When my mom died, and later my stepdad, in many ways it was a blessing. They had both been sick for a while, and I was grateful their suffering was over. But did I celebrate? No. It was sad in so many ways. There were tears and stories and laughter, yes — but celebration? That word didn’t quite fit.

I see it often when I lead funerals. Laughter breaks out as the stories are shared, as we remember the quirks, the good times, the little moments that made someone who they were. And then, just as quickly, the tears come. Because those same memories remind us there’s now an empty seat where they once sat, a silence where their voice used to be.

It’s both at once — laughter and tears, sweetness and salt. And maybe that’s what the Margarita reminds us: life is mixed. You can’t sip only the sweet and ignore the sting. You take them together. And when you do, you discover even the salt rimmed around the glass has its place.

Isn’t that life? Always both. The good and the bad, the sweet and the sour, the joy and the sadness. And if this were a country bar instead of a cocktail post, this is probably where someone would cue up Garth Brooks. Because he said it best in The Dance : “ I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance .”

We don’t get one without the other. The tears prove the love was real. The ache shows us the joy was worth it. Grief, after all, is just love with nowhere to go. Or, as Winnie the Pooh so simply put it: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

May the salt on your lips remind you of the tears you’ve shed.

May the sweetness on your tongue remind you of the joy that still lingers.

May the stories you tell bring both laughter and ache —

and may you know that even in the mixture of grief and gratitude,

grace has a place at the table.

Bar Lore

Like many classic drinks, the Margarita’s exact origin is a little blurry. Some say it was first poured in Tijuana in the 1930s. Others claim it was invented for a Dallas socialite named Margarita. Another story points to Juárez in the 1940s. But what most agree on is this: it belongs to the “daisy” family of cocktails — a classic formula of spirit, citrus, and liqueur. In fact, “margarita” is Spanish for “daisy.”

From its hazy beginnings, the Margarita grew into a worldwide favorite. Today it’s one of the most popular cocktails in the U.S. — whether served frozen (God help the poor bartender cleaning that machine) or shaken fresh over ice.

Recipe: The Margarita

2 oz tequila (blanco or reposado)

1 oz Cointreau (or triple sec)

1 oz fresh lime juice

Salt rim (optional, but highly recommended)

Shake with ice, strain into a rocks glass with a salted rim. Garnish with lime.

Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic tequila and orange liqueur alternatives with fresh lime.

A Note of Care:

If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.

The Negroni

Sun, 24 Aug 2025 00:20:13 GMT

I have a confession to make: I’m not a big Negroni drinker. It’s a little too bitter for me. I’ve heard bitterness is a taste you can develop, so maybe one day I’ll get there. For now, though, I’m defintely in the minority. You see, plenty of people love the Negroni. In fact, Drinks International recently asked a hundred bars across 33 countries to list their most popular classic cocktails. For the second year in a row, the Negroni took the crown.

And it’s more than just a drink — it’s become a movement. Back in 2013, Imbibe Magazine launched Negroni Week , both as a celebration of one of the world’s great cocktails and as a way to raise money for charity. What started with about 120 bars has grown to thousands worldwide, raising over $5 million for good causes. Not bad for a drink that began as a twist on the Americano in Florence over a century ago.

Still, I’ll be honest: bitterness isn’t a flavor I usually chase. Sweet, sure. Strong, definitely. But bitter? That one’s harder to love.

And yet bitterness has a way of finding us. It comes with the end of a relationship — no matter whose fault it was. It can creep in when a father walks away and leaves silence in his place. It can root itself in the wounds of an abusive relationship, or in the words you can’t unsay, the moments you can’t undo.

On its own, bitterness can consume you. It narrows your world. It makes joy feel impossible. But here’s the thing: bitterness doesn’t have to have the last word. You can choose to carry it forever, or you can choose — slowly, painfully, bravely — to let grace meet it. To let healing do its quiet work.

That doesn’t mean the bitterness disappears. It will always be part of the story. But it doesn’t have to be the whole story. When it’s held in balance — with sweetness, with strength, with the surprising mercy of grace — bitterness can deepen you instead of destroying you.

But let’s be honest — finding sweetness in life’s bitterness isn’t easy. Sometimes grace feels miles away, and the sharpness lingers longer than we’d like. I know in my own life there are seasons where it’s hard to believe anything good could come out of the pain. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and balance doesn’t arrive with one stir of the spoon.

And yet — sometimes all it takes is one crack in the dam. A song that brings back a memory. A friend who listens without fixing. A prayer whispered when you’re not even sure you believe it. Or even just a single tear finally allowed to fall. In those fragile moments, bitterness loosens its grip. The heart softens. And somehow, the edges of grace begin to shine through.

Grace doesn’t erase the bitterness. It sits beside it, carries it, and whispers that this isn’t the whole story. Over time, sweetness and strength begin to mingle in. And what once felt unendurable can, somehow, become part of a story still worth savoring.

That’s the beauty of the Negroni. It doesn’t try to hide its bitterness. It wears it openly. But when it’s paired with the right companions, what once felt harsh becomes something worth savoring.

And here’s a little fun fact: by the strict 1806 definition, the Negroni technically isn’t even a cocktail. Back then, a “cocktail” meant spirits, sugar, water, and bitters — which makes the Old Fashioned the textbook example. The Negroni? It cheats. Instead of sugar and bitters, you get sweet vermouth and Campari, pulling off the same job in their own way.

Turns out even cocktails don’t always fit the rules. And maybe that’s how life really is — it doesn’t always fit neatly either. It’s a mixture of bitter and sweet, good and not-so-good. Yet somehow, when it’s all stirred together, there’s still something to be savored.

And maybe that’s the unlikely altar the Negroni offers us: the reminder that even bitterness can belong, and even sharp edges can hold grace.

So, may the bitter not consume you. May the sharp edges soften when the tears come. May the cracks in your heart become openings for grace. And may you taste, in time, the sweetness that still waits to be found.

Bar Lore

The Negroni is believed to have originated in Florence, Italy, around 1919. Legend has it that Count Camillo Negroni asked his bartender to stiffen his favorite drink — the Americano (Campari, sweet vermouth, soda) — by swapping soda water for gin. The simple tweak caught on, and soon everyone was ordering their Americano “the Negroni way.”

Even James Bond had one. In Ian Fleming’s short story Risico (part of For Your Eyes Only), Bond orders a Negroni — made with Gordon’s gin — long before the Vesper Martini became his signature on screen. Apparently even 007 wasn’t immune to the drink’s sharp charm.

Recipe: The Negroni

1 oz gin

1 oz Campari

1 oz sweet vermouth

Stir with ice, then strain into a rocks glass over fresh ice (or serve up, if you prefer).

Garnish with an orange peel or slice.

Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic gin, NA bitter aperitif (like Lyre’s Italian Orange), and NA vermouth.

A Note of Care:

The Old Fashioned

Tue, 19 Aug 2025 18:50:44 GMT

Note: This post reflects on a cocktail, but really it’s about ritual and grace. If alcohol isn’t for you, the altar can be tea, coffee, water, or

stillness just the same.

I didn’t develop a taste for the Old Fashioned until Hurricane Harvey. I didn’t lose power, but the floodwaters rose all around me, turning streets into rivers and plans into question marks. For days, I was stuck inside — not in danger, just surrounded. Restless. Grateful.

One slow afternoon, I remembered something I had read — a description of an Old Fashioned, elegant in its simplicity: bourbon, bitters, sugar, orange peel.

So, I made one.

Not to escape, but to pause. To breathe. To anchor myself in something steady. I didn’t know then that I was stepping into a kind of ritual — that the act of making this drink, slowly and with intention, would become a quiet practice for me. A way of creating a small altar in the middle of uncertainty.

Now — before we go any further, let’s talk about the name: Old Fashioned.

It sounds like something your granddad might order right after telling you how gas used to be 29 cents a gallon. Or like your aunt who still writes checks at the grocery store and thinks “LOL” means “lots of love.” But the drink itself? It’s aged beautifully. Simple, steady, and still showing up on menus everywhere. Turns out “old-fashioned” isn’t always an insult. Sometimes it just means tried-and-true.

Later, I learned that the Old Fashioned is considered one of the earliest cocktails, dating back to the early 1800s. Originally called a “whiskey cocktail,” it was just spirits, sugar, water, and bitters. Over time, as drinks got fancier and more complicated, some folks asked for it to be made “the old-fashioned way.” The name stuck. Simplicity became its signature.

There’s something almost liturgical about the process — not in the sense of organ music or stained glass, but in the steady rhythm of it all. The slow swirl of the spoon. The clink of ice settling into glass. The careful peel of citrus, not just for garnish, but as a kind of offering. It’s a ritual that invites you to slow down and pay attention. Like any good liturgy, it’s not meant to be rushed. You don’t chug an Old Fashioned. You honor it. You sit with it. You let it open you up — not for escape, but for reflection, maybe even reverence.

It’s no surprise that so many of us reach for rituals when we’re weary. Whether it’s lighting a candle, saying a prayer, walking the same wooded trail, or crafting the perfect cocktail, there’s comfort in repetition. A sacred rhythm in doing something the old way — not because it’s trendy, but because it tethers us to something older, deeper, steadier.

The Old Fashioned is often seen as a “dad drink,” a grandfather’s favorite, a retro relic. Maybe that’s part of its charm. It connects us to people we miss. To stories we’ve heard at the corner of a bar or the edge of a kitchen counter. It reminds us that presence matters. That slow is sacred.

In some strange way, the Old Fashioned mirrors the gospel.

Because the gospel, like the drink, is simple at its heart — just a few core ingredients: love, mercy, truth. Not flashy. Not complicated. But with power that sneaks up on you. It’s meant to be savored, not rushed. Received, not conquered. Shared, not hoarded.

And like any good ritual, grace is best experienced in community. Over stories. Laughter. Honest confessions. And maybe even a few regrets.

You can’t microwave an Old Fashioned. And you can’t fast-track grace. Both require a kind of patience that modern life resists. You have to show up. Measure things out. Pay attention. Trust the process. Maybe even believe that slowing down isn’t laziness, but holiness.

I’ve come to believe that even small rituals — especially in the moments when no one else is around — can hold us together.

So here’s to the Old-Fashioned.

And to all the unlikely altars we find in things stirred slowly, tasted deeply, and shared freely.

May your glass be full — not just of bourbon and bitters, but of memory, meaning, mercy, and maybe a maraschino cherry if that’s how you roll.

And may you always find God — not just in stained glass or scripture, but in the hush of an evening, the rhythm of a sacred habit, and the grace that still finds us, even when the lights are on and the streets are flooded.

A Note of Care:

Recipe: The Old Fashioned

1 sugar cube (or ½ tsp dark sugar)

Splash of soda water

2–3 dashes Angostura bitters

2 dashes orange bitters

2 oz rye or bourbon (I like James E. Pepper 116 proof rye for backbone)

Garnish: Amarena cherry (never maraschino) and/or orange peel

Method :

Muddle the sugar cube with bitters and a splash of soda water in a rocks glass until it dissolves. Add whiskey and ice. Stir slowly until chilled. Garnish with an orange peel twist or, if you must, an Amarena cherry. Sip. Savor. Do not rush.

Tales from the Bar

Sat, 16 Aug 2025 15:12:00 GMT

Some of the best conversations I’ve ever had happened across a bar. Not the noisy kind where the music drowns you out, but the quiet corners where the ice melts slowly in the glass and people tell the truth they didn’t plan on sharing.

I bartended my way through college. Back then, I thought I was just paying tuition and rent. Looking back, I realize I was also learning how to listen — how to notice the way someone holds a glass when they’re nervous, how a story can shift when you give it enough silence, how the right drink at the right time can feel less like a transaction and more like an act of caring and kindness.

I still remember one of my early solo shifts behind the bar. The manager told me to focus on pouring drinks and not get caught up in customer conversations. Well, you know me — I didn’t listen. There was an older gentleman, nursing a whiskey, staring into the distance. I asked if he wanted another. He just shook his head. But he came in every week, ordered the same whiskey, and little by little began to tell me about his wife who had passed away — how he missed her laugh, how her perfume used to linger in the hallway. I didn’t have answers, but I had time. And sometimes, that’s all someone needs.

I’ll admit — I didn’t learn much about the history of cocktails while bartending. I was young and only cared about talking to people, slinging their drinks, having a good time, and making enough to pay for school. The real history came later, in these last few years, as I’ve been making drinks for friends and family, listening to podcasts, and reading about the origins of the classics. Now I find myself pairing the stories behind the drinks with the stories I’ve carried from the people who’ve sat across from me — in bars, in church pews, and in living rooms.

Years later, as a pastor and now as a celebrant, I’ve stood in other places where people tell the truth — at hospital bedsides, gravesides, kitchen tables. It’s not so different from a bar, really. The lighting changes. The glassware changes. But people still need a place to be heard.

That’s what Unlikely Altars has always been about — those sacred, surprising places where grace shows up without warning. This new series is simply taking that same lens and setting it on a bar top. Because sometimes the altar is a bar top worn smooth by years of conversation, lit by a neon beer sign, and set with a glass instead of a chalice.

This series is about those places — and the drinks that go with them. Some you’ll recognize, some you won’t. Each post will bring you a story, a bit of bar lore, and a recipe (always with a zero-proof option, because the altar isn’t in the alcohol, it’s in the ritual).

There’s a sacred rhythm to making a drink well — the measured pour, the quiet stir, the citrus peel pressed just so. Not because you’re trying to impress, but because you’re paying attention. That’s all most of us want, really. For someone to pay attention.

They’re not sermons. They’re not drink manuals. They’re glimpses of grace served with a story — sometimes in a rocks glass.

So pull up a stool. The first altar is waiting — and it’s Old Fashioned.

May you find your own unlikely altar — whether it’s at a bar, a kitchen counter, or a park bench. May the conversations be honest, the company kind, and the moments slow enough to savor. And may grace meet you there, right where you are, in whatever glass you hold.

Disclaimer: Alcohol can be enjoyed responsibly, but it is not for everyone. If you are in recovery, choose not to drink, or simply prefer another way, every recipe in this series will include a non-alcoholic version. The sacred moment isn’t in the alcohol — it’s in the slowing down, the paying attention, and the company you keep. If you need support, organizations like Alcoholics Anonymous (aa.org) are there to help.

Extra Innings

Tue, 12 Aug 2025 03:26:34 GMT

One of the things I love about baseball is that you can’t run the clock out. There’s no dribbling the ball to kill the last seconds or taking a knee until the whistle blows. Nine innings. No ties. If the score’s even after 9 innings, the game isn’t over - - it just keeps going.

Nine innings can feel like a lifetime when you’re losing and like a blink when you’re ahead in the ninth and the other team is down to their last strike. But then there are those special games - - the ones that refuse to end. You know the kind: both teams have had their 27 outs, the score is still tied, and the air is thick with tension. Welcome to extra innings.

Every pitch, every swing, every foul ball becomes part of a slow-burn drama. The script is gone. The game starts writing itself in real time, and you’re never sure if the next swing will be the last.

Just ask Carlton Fisk.

It was Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - - Boston Red Sox vs. Cincinnati Reds. The game had already gone past midnight, deep into extra innings. Fisk came up to bat in the bottom of the 12th, the crowd on edge. He swung, connected, and sent the ball soaring toward the foul pole in left field. As he ran down the first base line, Fisk famously waved his arms, willing the ball to stay fair. It did. The crowd erupted. The game was over, and that single swing became one of the most iconic moments in baseball history.

Extra innings carry both the weariness of the battle and the thrill of possibility. And life is a lot like that.

Grief can be an extra innings game. You think you’ve made it to the end; the funeral is over, the casseroles are eaten, the thank-you cards are mailed. And then, months later, a song plays, or an empty chair catches your eye and the ache rushes back like it’s brand new. But sometimes, even in the later innings, there’s a flicker of beauty a memory that makes you smile through tears, a reminder you’re not as alone as you feel.

Relationships have extra innings too. Sometimes you’re still in it, but it feels like the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Conversations that once flowed now work against the count. Every word matters. Every silence feels louder. And yet… you’re still on the field together. Still showing up.

I’ve seen it in families keeping vigil in a hospital room - - hours blurring, fluorescent lights humming, burnt coffee lingering. Then, in between the beeping of machines, someone cracks a joke. Soft laughter rises in the middle of exhaustion. It’s not denial - - it’s survival.

I’ve seen it in people whose “Plan B” career became the thing they were made for all along. What started as a detour became the road they were meant to walk - - a calling they wouldn’t have found without the curveball that sent them there.

Extra innings can be exhausting. They can feel like a test you never signed up for. But they can also be holy ground - - Unlikely Altars - - those sacred places where grace meets us long after we thought the story was finished.

Grace doesn’t play by our timing. It stays when we’re ready to pack it in. It keeps showing up in the dugout, ready to step to the plate one more time.

When we whisper, “I can’t do this anymore,” grace says, “Just one more pitch.”

Sometimes the win we’ve been hoping for doesn’t look the way we pictured it. It’s not always a walk-off home run. Sometimes it’s just enough light to see through another inning. Sometimes it’s the hand on your shoulder reminding you you’re not alone.

The breakthrough doesn’t always come in regulation. Sometimes you have to hang in for a few more pitches, a few more sleepless nights, a few more honest conversations.

Extra innings aren’t just about winning — they’re about discovering what you’re made of. And about the grace that keeps showing up, even when you’re ready to quit.

If you’re in extra innings right now - - in your health, your work, your relationships, your faith - - remember Yogi Berra’s words: “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The story’s not over. Not yet.

Because sometimes, the most sacred stories are the ones that go into extra innings. And sometimes, the most Unlikely Altars are built right there - - in the long wait, in the stubborn hope, in the space where grace refuses to leave.

Failing into Grace

Sat, 09 Aug 2025 20:20:00 GMT

In the 1960s, the Mets were terrible. Not just bad - - lovably, inventively, heartbreakingly terrible. And in the middle of all that losing, one fan kept the faith with a marker and a message. He was known as Sign Man , Karl Ehrhardt. Always seated in the box seats on the third base line at Shea Stadium, derby on his head and a folder full of signs at his feet. He brought 60 to every game, handpicked from a collection of 1,200, each ready for a moment. Some were clever, some were brutal, all were honest.

One of his signs read: 

“To err is human. To forgive is a Mets fan.”

I remember seeing him when I was a kid. He was a legend; part cheerleader, part critic, part poet of the bleachers. And that sign? That one stuck with me.

Because baseball is a game of failure. Even the greats fail more than they succeed. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs - - and struck out 1,330 times. Cy Young won 511 games - - and lost 316. That’s the rhythm of the game: t ry, fail, recover, repeat.

But not every error gets that kind of turnaround.

Sometimes the error becomes the moment - - the one you carry, the one who have to learn to live with. Just ask Bill Buckner.

Game 6. 1986 World Series. Red Sox vs. Mets. Bottom of the 10th. The ball trickles through Buckner’s legs at first base, and the Mets go on to win. That single play cost him years of peace. Boston needed a villain. Buckner, a solid player with a long career, became the face of failure. He stayed away from Fenway. The city stayed mad.

Until 2004.When the Red Sox finally won the World Series, fans held up a banner that read:  “Forgive Buckner.”

It took 18 years - - but grace caught up.

That’s the thing about errors. They don’t define the whole game. They’re part of it. Part of us. Not just on the field but in the living rooms and hospital rooms and quiet conversations that never quite go the way we hoped. We all make errors.

We speak too quickly, or not at all. We say things we wish we could take back, and leave other things unsaid until it's too late. We mess up relationships, drift from people we love, miss the mark as parents, partners, friends. There are divorces, estrangements, and phone calls we still haven’t returned. And sometimes we wear our errors like a jersey - - as if that one play, that one failure, is the whole story.

Grace remembers differently - - not to condemn, but to redeem. Its voice doesn’t shout; it whispers hope.

Grace is stubborn - - holding your hand through the long nights, offering a clean slate in the morning, and whispering, “You’re still welcome here,” even after the mess. It’s not just forgiveness, it’s so much more. It’s restoration. A reminder that we are not the sum of our failures, but the beloved bearers of a story still unfolding.

Grace is God’s way of saying, “I see all of you — and I’m not going anywhere.”

Grace shows up not to excuse what happened, but to help you stand up again. It’s the banner in the crowd after 18 long years. It’s the walk-off home run you never saw coming. It doesn’t erase the past, but it refuses to let the worst thing be the last thing.

In The Dark Knight , Alfred says to Bruce Wayne, “Why do we fall? So, we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

That’s grace. Not the absence of failure but the courage to rise again, story still unfolding.

We all miss the grounder. We all make the wild throw. We all have those plays we’d rather forget. But grace doesn’t show up after perfection - it shows up in the middle of the mess.

Sometimes, the most sacred stories begin in failure. Often, the most unlikely altars are built right there - - in the rubble of regret, in the shadow of a mistake, in the space where grace rushes in.

And sometimes, the loudest cheer comes after the biggest mistake.

Just ask a Mets fan.

The 7th Inning Stretch

Mon, 04 Aug 2025 01:03:59 GMT

Legend has it that we have President William Howard Taft to thank for the 7th-inning stretch.

The story goes that on April 14, 1910, during Opening Day at Griffith Stadium in Washington, D.C., President Taft stood up to stretch his legs. It was a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics. Taft wasn’t trying to make a statement or start a tradition. He was just - - uncomfortable. The wooden seat didn’t exactly accommodate his 300-pound frame. But when the President stood up, the crowd instinctively rose with him - - out of respect, maybe confusion, maybe relief. And just like that, a ritual was born.

That same day, Taft also tossed out the very first ceremonial first pitch by a sitting U.S. president - - starting yet another baseball tradition that continues to this day.

Now, historians will argue about whether that’s really how the 7th inning stretch started. There are earlier mentions, of course. But either way, I love the image: a moment of discomfort turned into tradition. A small pause that became sacred, not because it was planned, but because people stood together.

The 7th inning stretch isn’t just a break in the game. It’s a shared breath. A reset. A moment where the music plays, fans stand up, arms go skyward, maybe someone sings off-key, maybe someone grabs a hot dog. And then… we sit back down, ready for what’s next.

We don’t talk enough about the holiness of the stretch - - not the physical kind that loosens your muscles, but the emotional and spiritual kind that gives your soul room to breathe.

I’m talking about the in-between kind. The pause between grief and healing. Between questions and clarity. Between what just happened and what comes next. The sacred space where you’re no longer where you were, but not quite where you’re going. And even in that uncertain middle - - something holy can begin to take shape.

Life moves fast. Faster than a fastball. And when fear is driving - - fear of failure, fear of missing out, fear of slowing down - - we tend to barrel through without stopping. We push past our limits, pretend we’re fine, and fill every quiet space with noise. But sacred things happen in the pause.

And let’s be honest - - sometimes we avoid the pause on purpose . Because slowing down means facing the thing we’ve been trying to outrun: grief, regret, exhaustion, or just plain emptiness. It’s easier to keep moving than to sit in what hurts. But even silence can be holy. Even stillness can hold us.

I’ve had stretches in my life where I didn’t know what to pray, or even if I believed half the things I was supposed to. But I knew enough to stop. To breathe. To sit with the ache instead of shoving it away. It didn’t fix everything. But it kept me from falling apart.

When I think about the most meaningful moments in my life, they weren’t always in the big innings - - the wins, the celebrations. Some of them happened in the stretch: sitting in silence with a grieving family, standing still at a graveside, pausing in the middle of a sermon because the lump in my throat wouldn’t budge.

Sometimes the most honest thing we can do is stop.

Maybe that’s why ballparks all over the country honor this odd little moment. It’s not about who’s winning or who’s up next. It’s about giving everyone - - players, fans, vendors - - a chance to exhale. To stand up. To stretch. To remember they’re human.

In the chaos of life, we need our own sacred stretches. A quiet coffee before the house wakes up. A deep breath before returning that difficult call. A walk. A song. A few tears. A prayer whispered through clenched teeth. These aren’t delays - - they’re sacred pauses. They keep us from burning out. They remind us we’re not machines.

So here’s your permission ( not that you need it ):

Take the stretch.
Stand up.
Step away.
Sing off-key.
Reach toward the sky.

Not because you have to, but because sometimes the sacred sneaks in when we stop long enough to let it catch up.

Because some of the most unlikely altars are built in those in-between moments — where the game slows, the noise softens, and something holy sneaks in.

Because the game will go on.

But you? You matter more.

Stepping Up to the Plate

Fri, 01 Aug 2025 20:47:34 GMT

I still remember the first time I stood at home plate. No tee. No coach lobbing soft pitches. Just me, a bat, and a kid on the mound who looked way too confident for someone missing half his front teeth.

I was nervous. More than nervous - - I was terrified. My hands were sweating, my knees wobbled, and I could hear my own heartbeat like a drumbeat in my ears. I didn’t know what I was doing, not really. But there I was, standing in the box, trying to look like I belonged.

I didn’t swing. Didn’t hit. Didn’t strike out either. The pitcher couldn’t find the strike zone, and eventually, I walked. My big debut - - heroic, it was not. But I made it to first base. And weirdly enough, that moment stayed with me, not because of what I did, but because I showed up.

And maybe that’s the sacred part. Not the hit. Not the highlight reel. Just the fact that I stepped in.

Showing up sounds easy until it’s your turn. Until the spotlight finds you. Until fear creeps in and you’re face-to-face with the possibility of failing - - or worse, being seen.

We all have moments like that. The job interview. The hospital room. The hard conversation. The creative leap, the messy prayer, the unsteady yes.

And before we take that step, there’s always a voice whispering, “What if I’m not ready? What if I mess this up?”

That voice isn’t new. It’s ancient. It showed up at burning bushes. In storm-tossed boats. In the questions of prophets and fishermen and ordinary people asked to do extraordinary things.

The pattern shows up over and over again: Fear first. Then the call. Then the trembling yes.

Sacred moments rarely arrive with fanfare. They don’t come dressed in certainty or surrounded by hallelujahs. More often, they show up disguised - - in baseball cleats and a nervous sweat. In trembling hands signing a discharge form. In the silence after a diagnosis. In the cracked voice of someone saying, “I’m sorry,” or “I’m scared,” or “I’m here.”

Sometimes, the sacred looks like:

• An empty page and a blinking cursor.

• A church parking lot you haven’t pulled into in years.

• A difficult conversation you’ve been rehearsing for days.

• A move, a goodbye, a step into something that might not work out.

Sacred doesn’t always feel holy in the moment. It often feels risky. Exposed. Even ordinary. But that’s how grace works — it meets us in the midst, not after we’ve figured it all out.

There’s a reason the words sacred and scared are made of the same letters. They’re that close - - one breath apart. All it takes is a shift in perspective. A different arrangement of the same life.

Because the line between fear and faith isn’t as wide as we think - - and sometimes, the presence of courage in the middle of fear is the holiest thing.

Not loud. Not perfect. Just present.

Courage, in this space, doesn’t mean you’re fearless. It means you show up anyway. You stand there, knees shaking, heart pounding, still choosing to be seen. Courage is the sacred act of staying - - staying with the moment, the truth, the hope - - even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s trusting that grace doesn’t wait for the absence of fear. It moves right through it.

It might mean taking a breath and walking into a room where your grief is still fresh. Or speaking aloud a truth that feels fragile and unfinished. Sometimes, it’s just making it through the day with your heart still open. That, too, is sacred.

Because sometimes the bravest thing isn’t charging ahead. It’s simply not leaving. It’s staying in the box, eyes open, hands trembling, heart wide.

I didn’t hit a home run that day. I didn’t even swing the bat. But I showed up. I stood there, scared out of my wits, and waited. That counts for something. It might not make the highlight reel, but it’s still part of the game.

And let’s be honest - - most of life is not the highlight reel. It’s foul balls and awkward pauses, it’s wondering if your socks match and hoping nobody notices the spinach in your teeth. It’s showing up with your whole self, even when your whole self is a bit of a mess.

That’s where grace does its best work.

So if today you’re standing at the plate - - heart pounding, knees knocking, unsure of the rules - - take a breath. Step in anyway. That’s where the sacred starts.

Sacred in the Sandlot

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 17:41:50 GMT

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.

The Things You Don’t See

Sat, 26 Jul 2025 23:52:02 GMT

Sjögren's Disease 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 tod

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.

An Altar Built From Ashes

Wed, 23 Jul 2025 14:12:54 GMT

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.

Letting Go. Finding Grace.

Thu, 17 Jul 2025 00:14:02 GMT

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.

An Altar Called Thank You

Tue, 15 Jul 2025 23:58:05 GMT

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 .

A Litany for Living

Sun, 13 Jul 2025 00:23:32 GMT

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.

The Last Things We Say

Fri, 11 Jul 2025 19:55:42 GMT

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.

When We're Just Tired

Sat, 05 Jul 2025 18:22:12 GMT

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.

Duck.Duck. Jeep

Mon, 30 Jun 2025 16:30:55 GMT

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.

Here I Stand

Thu, 26 Jun 2025 19:01:54 GMT

I want to be crystal clear about something—because life is too short, and love is too important, to be vague.

If you can’t accept my LGBTQ friends as they are—if you can’t recognize the full humanity, dignity, and worth of my chosen family—then I’m not sure how we can keep calling each other friends.

I know that sounds harsh. I know some will say, “ But I love the sinner, just not the sin. ” To which I respond: “That’s not love. That’s branding.” Nobody feels loved when they’re being quietly (or loudly) disapproved of. And nobody feels safe around someone who prays for them to be someone else.

My partner Dale is a beautiful human and a fierce, protective mom to two amazing kids who are part of the LGBTQ community. And I’m not just speaking up for them - - after all, I love them as my own. I’m also speaking up for Rick, John, MacMichael, Danny, and every other friend who calls the LGBTQ community family. Because they are family. To me. To each other. To God.

So how could I possibly say I love them—and then cozy up to people who think they’re an abomination? How could I claim to follow Jesus and still treat some of God’s children like second-class citizens?

Being an ally means making hard decisions. Not just about what I believe, but about who I stand with. And who I won’t stand against just to keep the peace.

Now, a little history lesson for those of you who like a good Reformation-era mic drop:

In 1521, a German monk named Martin Luther was hauled before a council of religious authorities and asked to recant his writings—writings that called out corruption in the Church and insisted that grace couldn’t be bought or earned, only received.

Faced with pressure, threats, and the full weight of the religious establishment, Luther reportedly replied:

Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me.

It wasn’t just theological defiance. It was moral clarity. A refusal to deny what he knew to be true. A statement that sometimes faith means standing your ground—even when it costs you.

So here I stand.

Now listen, I’m not comparing myself to Martin Luther. Yes, we technically share a name, but only one person ever called me “Martin”—and that was my mother, and only when I was in deep trouble. You’ve never truly felt conviction until you’ve heard your full name shouted from the kitchen in a tone that could part the Red Sea.

So no, I’m not a 16th-century reformer with a hammer and a list of 95 grievances. I’m just someone with a laptop, a good cup of chai or Mountain Dew, and a deep conviction that love should never be up for debate.

I’m not saying we have to agree on everything. We can disagree about the best barbecue, whether it’s pronounced “pee-can” or “puh-cahn,” or whether the Mets will ever win another World Series. ( Let’s just say I’m praying without ceasing. )

But we can’t disagree about this: every single person—gay, straight, trans, nonbinary, questioning, closeted, out and proud—is a beloved child of God, deserving of dignity, belonging, and full inclusion. Not despite who they are. But because of who they are.

So, if you’re unwilling to see that—if you cannot bring yourself to welcome my friends, my family, Dale’s kids, and so many others into your world with open arms—then I’ll be honest: I don’t think we’re walking the same path anymore.

That doesn’t mean I hate you. It just means I choose them.

Because choosing them is choosing love. Choosing them is choosing Jesus. Choosing them is choosing to bless what God already calls good.

So again—here I stand.

Not in judgment, but in solidarity.

Not with bitterness, but with resolve.

Not with fear, but with love.

And if that makes you uncomfortable… maybe that discomfort is holy ground.

Maybe it’s an unlikely altar.

Maybe it’s exactly where God is waiting.

An Altar of Apology

Mon, 23 Jun 2025 02:55:00 GMT

There are moments in ministry that stay with you—not because you got it right, but because you didn’t.

This is one of those moments.

I’ve long considered myself an ally of the LGBTQ+ community. In private conversations, in my own theology, and often from the pulpit, I preached a gospel of grace and inclusion. I said it plainly and often: In Christ there is no Jew or Greek, no left or right, no red or blue, no straight or gay. We baptized the children of LGBTQ+ couples. We welcomed same-sex families into our churches. I tried to live and lead in ways that embodied the wide embrace of God’s love.

But lately I’ve been asking myself the question that won’t leave me alone:

Was it enough? Should I have done more?

Because while I preached inclusion, I also sometimes softened my language to avoid division. I tried to hold tension, to nudge hearts gently. I didn’t always name the harm being done to LGBTQ+ people by the Church—not boldly enough, not clearly enough. I tried to keep the peace, even when peace was a luxury the most vulnerable couldn’t afford.

And the answer I’ve come to is: No. It wasn’t enough.

Because belief isn’t always enough. Preaching isn’t always enough. Quiet welcome isn’t always enough. Not when queer and trans people are being excluded, erased, vilified—by churches, by policies, by people who claim to speak for God.

Some of the churches I pastored later chose to leave the United Methodist Church and align themselves with the Global Methodist Church—a move rooted, in no small part, in opposition to LGBTQ+ inclusion. That breaks my heart. I grieve that my time among them didn’t shift their trajectory. I grieve that my efforts at inclusion, while sincere, may not have gone far enough to counter the pull of exclusion.

I didn’t always speak up when I should have. I didn’t always name the sin of institutional silence or the damage of doctrinal rejection. And I know now that silence is not neutral. Silence protects the status quo. Silence leaves others to do the fighting alone.

To the LGBTQ+ community:

If you ever wondered where I stood—please know I was with you. But if you ever felt unsupported, unsafe, unseen—I am so sorry.

I should have done more. I am trying to do more now.

This blog is called Unlikely Altars because I believe the sacred often shows up in uncomfortable places—in the truth we’d rather not face, in the prayers we don’t know how to pray, even in regret. Maybe this moment is an altar too: a place of repentance. A place to begin again.

To be clear: I believe your love is holy. Your lives are sacred. Your families are real and beautiful and blessed. You have always belonged—in the Church, in the heart of God, and in the story of grace we are still trying to tell.

I can’t change the past, but I can choose the future. I can commit to being louder in love, bolder in solidarity, clearer in conviction. I can use whatever voice I have left to say what should have been said long ago: You are beloved. You are not a disruption to the gospel—you are a living witness to it.

If I have ever failed you with my silence, I hope these words become something more than just an apology. I hope they become a turning point.

This is my altar—not of wood or stone, but of silence laid down and truth picked up. Here, I offer my regret, my good intentions, and my fears. And I make this commitment: to speak with love, to stand with courage, and to never again mistake quiet for faithful.

A Prayer

God of mercy,

Forgive the silence that protected me and not the ones who needed shelter.

Heal the wounds I helped cause by what I left unsaid.

Let this confession be more than words—

Let it be a turning, a re-forming, a re-commitment to love boldly and live truthfully.

Make me braver. Make your Church kinder.

And may all your beloved children—of every orientation and identity—know they are seen, safe, and sacred in your sight.

Amen.

Pride Is An Unlikely Altar

Thu, 19 Jun 2025 03:27:54 GMT

Pride Month is many things.

It’s a celebration of love, identity, joy, and survival. A season for parades and playlists, pronouns and painted crosswalks—not because being loud is trendy, but because being quiet was once the only way to stay safe. For so many, silence was a survival strategy. Visibility is a victory hard-won.

For me, Pride has become one of those Unlikely Altars—a place where the sacred shows up in sequins and protest signs, in drag shows and dance floors. Where holiness doesn’t whisper—it shouts, sings, sparkles, and survives.

It’s color and confetti and community. It’s drag queens and denim jackets covered in buttons. It’s couples holding hands in public without apology. It’s dance floors that feel like sanctuary. It’s laughter echoing where fear once reigned.

But Pride is also a remembrance.

It remembers Stonewall—not as a branding opportunity, but as a riot sparked by the brave defiance of Black and brown trans women who were tired of being harassed and erased. It remembers the queer elders who carved out space where there was none—who built chosen families, underground bars, churches without buildings, and movements that made it possible for so many of us to breathe a little freer today.

It remembers those we’ve lost—to violence, to silence, to hatred and shame. It mourns the holy ones the world never gave a funeral, but whom heaven surely welcomed home with open arms. Pride carries their names in protest signs and candlelight vigils. It holds their memories like sacred relics.

Pride is protest, too.

Because too many are still told they don’t belong. Because too many kids still grow up afraid of their own reflection, unsure if they’ll be loved if they’re honest. Because laws still pass that make it harder for LGBTQ+ people—especially youth and trans people—to live, learn, work, worship, and simply be without fear. Because some pulpits still echo with shame instead of grace.

Because churches still split over the question of whether love is allowed.

And for allies like me, Pride is a holy invitation.

To show up, even when it’s uncomfortable.

To speak up, even when it’s costly.

To listen more than talk, and to learn without being defensive.

To love without asterisks, fine print, or theological disclaimers.

Because every rainbow flag is more than a symbol—it’s a story. Every coming-out is an act of courage. Every chosen name is a declaration of dignity. Every drag performance, every Pride march, every “they/them” pronoun is someone’s sacred truth spoken out loud.

Pride Month is, in its own way, an Unlikely Altar.

A street parade that looks more like the Kingdom of God than many sanctuaries ever have.

A communion of glitter and grace.

A place where the excluded lead the procession.

A celebration that says, “You’re not just tolerated—you’re treasured.”

And in a world that still gets this wrong far too often, that kind of truth?

It’s nothing short of holy.

Better Than a Dragon

Sun, 15 Jun 2025 04:39:51 GMT

When I was a kid, my father was a mystery—real in theory, but invisible in practice. Kind of like the dragons in the storybooks. ( Thank you, Don Miller for this idea ).

I knew fathers were real. I saw them in my neighborhood. At school events. Sitting in the stands. Telling bad jokes over dinner at my friends’ houses. I just didn’t see one in my own home. And for a long time, I assumed that meant there was something wrong with me.

I’ve written before about my biological father and the worn leather baseball glove he left behind. How that glove held more than its shape—how it held absence, too. A reminder of what wasn’t there.

That glove sat packed away in a box for years. Not flashy. Not mysterious. But quietly full of memory. It didn’t hold answers. Just questions.

Who was he? Did he ever think of me? Would we have tossed this ball around, had things been different?

Looking back now, I realize that old glove was the first thing that hinted at something bigger—something sacred hidden in the ordinary. Maybe that’s what theology really is. It taught me that absence can be tangible. That love, even when missing, can still leave a trace. That longing is its own kind of prayer.

But this story isn’t only about what wasn’t there. It’s about what came to take its place.

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. I remember looking up at him and thinking, Is this what it feels like to stand next to a mountain?

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.

He never wore a cape. Never rode a dragon. But he showed up with groceries and grace. With quiet patience and fierce loyalty. And he caught more than baseballs—he caught my older brother and little sister.

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.

Because love like his doesn’t go unnoticed. It sinks in. It stays. It shapes the life it touches - - just like that glove shaped a hand that once wore it.

And now I have two boys of my own. Connor. Zach. They are both dads themselves.

You didn’t come with instruction manuals. You didn’t ask for me to carry all my old questions into fatherhood. But you gave me the gift of becoming a dad—not in theory, not in longing, but in full, beautiful reality.

And I want you to know this: Being your father has been the greatest grace of my life. I hope you know. I think you do.

Because that’s how love works. Passed down not just through blood, but through presence. Through staying. Through choosing. Through gloves handed down and hands held on the hardest days.

This Father’s Day, I’m thinking of the man who stepped into the gap for me—

And the sons who have filled my life with more joy than I could have imagined.

None of it is a fairy tale.

It’s better.

It’s real.

And it’s sacred.

Just Another Saturday Night at the Races

Sat, 14 Jun 2025 04:26:01 GMT

The Belmont Stakes usually comes with less noise.

Unless there’s a Triple Crown contender, it’s quieter. Fewer hats. Less hype. No trumpet fanfare announcing history in the making.

And maybe that’s exactly why it matters.

Because sacred doesn’t require spectacle. Sometimes, the altar isn’t at the front of the crowd, draped in roses, or blanketed in Black-Eyed Susans, or waiting for a crown of carnations. Sometimes it’s in the back row, in the shadows, in the space where no one’s keeping score or waiting for glory. Sometimes, holiness just looks like showing up.

If the Kentucky Derby is the grand stage—fanfare and fever dreams—and the Preakness is the scrappy sequel full of fight, then the Belmont, in years like this one, feels like a regular Saturday that most folks scroll past.

But that’s the unlikely altar, isn’t it?

Not the headline moment—just the kind that quietly holds the whole story together.

The Belmont was run anyway. And wouldn’t you know it—same result as the Derby. Same top three. Same come-from-behind winner who waited until the final stretch to surge past the leaders again.

There’s something sacred in that, too.

Because most of life isn’t Triple Crown moments. It’s ordinary time. Quiet faith. Long, slow miles when no one’s cheering. When you run not because the world is watching, but because the race is yours to run.

I watched the race while babysitting my granddaughter, who was making a glorious mess of the spaghetti I cooked just for her. Not a big night—just a full one. Full of sauce-stained joy, soft wonder, and a little magic spilled across the living room. And after she was tucked into bed, we raised a glass—not a mint julep or a Black-Eyed Susan, but a Belmont Jewel.

And that felt right. The Belmont Jewel has never been the star of the show. It doesn’t come with its own silver cup or folklore. It’s just bourbon, lemonade, and pomegranate. Unassuming. Refreshing. It shows up late in the season, after the crowds have thinned and the stakes have lowered. And yet, somehow, it’s exactly what the moment needed.

Maybe that’s the message of the Belmont itself:
There’s beauty—even blessing—in what gets overlooked.

And maybe that’s why Dan Fogelberg’s lyric landed hard again:
“The chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance.”

It’s not just about chasing big dreams—it’s about noticing small ones. The little flashes of grace that show up in spaghetti smiles, in late surges from behind, in ordinary days when no one’s paying attention. It’s about how sacred chances don’t always come with fanfare.

Sometimes they arrive like a whisper. Sometimes they’re handed to us in the form of a child, or a quiet evening, or a race that doesn’t seem to matter—until it does.

Because maybe the chance of a lifetime is simply the chance to live it.
To show up.
To keep running.
To keep loving.

Especially when no one’s watching.

This Is Still Holy Ground

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 12:56:52 GMT

To my LGBTQ+ siblings and neighbors, whose courage humbles me—

Happy Pride Month.

I want to say something that should’ve been said a long time ago, and said more often: You are loved. Fully. No exceptions. Not in spite of who you are, not as a “God-loves-you-but…” kind of thing. Just… loved. Period.

And while I say this with my whole heart, I’m also carrying sorrow—and yes, heartbreak—again this year. Because in Texas, where I live, lawmakers have passed Senate Bill 12, a law passed earlier this year, set to take effect September 1, 2025. It bans school-sponsored LGBTQ+ clubs—stripping away vital spaces where queer students could gather, be seen, be safe, and know they belong.

My heart is broken. Again. As an ally. As a person of faith. As someone who believes school should be a place for growth, not shame.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t about protecting children. It’s about erasing the ones who don’t fit someone else’s definition of “acceptable.”

And as someone who follows Jesus—the Jesus who welcomed the outcast, who defended the excluded, who never once asked someone to shrink to be loved—I can’t stay quiet. I won’t.

We were called to be people of love and instead, far too often, we’ve chosen fear dressed up in religion. We’ve preached inclusion and practiced exclusion. We’ve claimed grace for ourselves and forgotten to offer it freely.

There are so many ways we’ve gotten it wrong. And if you’ve been hurt—by a church, by a Christian, by a culture shaped by both—I just want you to hear: you did not deserve that. You are not a mistake. You are not a disruption. You are not someone God is disappointed in. You are a gift.

Pride is about joy. About presence. About refusing to apologize for being beautifully, wonderfully, unapologetically you. It’s about surviving when the world said you shouldn’t. It’s about taking up your space in the world—and in the pews, and at the communion table, and under the stars where God saw you and said, “This is very good.”

If the Church or the state has made you feel like there’s no room for you—I want you to know: that wasn’t Jesus. That was us, missing the mark. Again.

Pride Month gives me a chance to say what I should say all year:

You are beloved.
You are sacred.
You belong.

And if no one’s ever said it to you from a pulpit or a pew or a prayer—hear it here, now, from me: I see the holy in you. And I’m standing with you.

Maybe this is the Unlikely Altar: a broken heart that refuses to give up on love.

So, to every LGBTQ+ person—

To those in Texas and beyond…

To those who’ve been made to feel like your existence is “too controversial”
To the ones who wonder if it’s safer not to be yourself at all,
To the ones who’ve lost a safe space but haven’t lost your spirit—

Here is my prayer for you:

May you find allies in unexpected places.

May you never believe the lie that your life is less than sacred.

May your identity never be a source of shame—only of strength.

May you be met with fierce kindness, quiet solidarity, and loud joy.

And may you never, ever forget:

There’s nothing wrong with you.

There’s so much right with you.

With love,

An ally,

A Christian,

And a work in progress

The Glove Left Behind

Wed, 28 May 2025 02:06:31 GMT

I never had a catch with my dad. Not once. Not even close.

He chose to leave pretty much, long before I knew what to do with a ball or how to spell “mitt.” One day he was there, the next—he wasn’t. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn’t come back.

I didn’t even know what I was missing at the time. You can’t grieve what you don’t understand. But as I got older and saw other dads playing catch with their kids—heard the thump of leather in the air, saw the high-fives and the laughter—I started to understand exactly what I didn’t get.

Then one day, years later, I was digging through an old box when I found it. Inside among papers, certificates and other stuff, was a baseball glove. His glove. It was worn and dusty, creased like it had lived a life. I slipped my hand inside. It didn’t fit quite right. No way it could fit, he was left-handed. He was a southpaw. And I never knew.

It hit me, standing with his glove, that I didn’t even know what hand my father threw with. That glove had never been mine and never would be. It wasn’t a gift. It was just… something he left behind.

I kept it. Tucked it back into the box. Closed the box and returned it to the shelf. Funny enough, there’s another box in the same closet. That one holds his ashes. So now I’ve got a box with his body, and a box with his glove. One for the man who left, one for the game he never played with me.

Now, if you know me, you know I love baseball. For me it is the metaphor for life, The long season. The rhythm. The fact that you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great.

That’s probably why Field of Dreams always hits me like a fastball to the chest. Especially the end—Costner turning to his dad, voice a little shaky, asking, “Hey Dad… wanna have a catch?” Every single time, I lose it. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it. That moment wrecks me. Because that was my dream. Always. That was the moment I never got.

But here’s where the story turns.

Not long ago, I was in the backyard with one of my sons. We were messing around; we grabbed gloves (both right-handed ones, thank you very much) and I him tossed a ball. He threw it back. And there it was. We were having a catch. Just like that.

No soundtrack swelling. No ghosts in cornfields. Just a dad and his kid, throwing a ball back and forth. And I’ve gotta say—it was one of the best things ever.

That backyard moment didn’t fix what I missed growing up. But it rewrote the story. It baptized the ache. It reminded me that I don’t have to pass down what was handed to me. I get to choose something different. I get to show up.

That glove—the one that never quite fit—still sits in the box. But lately, I’ve thought about taking it out. Maybe even setting it on a shelf. Not because it’s sacred, but because it tells the truth. That even something left behind can hold a thread of redemption.

It’s a reminder, of the father who disappeared, of the son who chose to stay,

and the backyard catch that said, this story isn’t over.

I never had a catch with my dad. But I get to have one with my boys. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s more than enough.

Because I still believe in baseball. I believe in gloves that don’t fit and grace that does. I believe in showing up—even when it wasn’t shown to you. And I believe that when this life winds down, and the lights go soft, I’ll hear a voice—quiet, kind, and holy—“Hey kid… wanna have a catch?”

And I’ll know exactly who it is.

Gosger

Fri, 23 May 2025 01:35:10 GMT

We watched the Preakness this past Saturday. We didn’t throw a full-on party like we did for the Derby—no fancy hats, no fun foods. But we still honored tradition in our own small way: not with a Mint Julep, but with a Black-Eyed Susan, the official drink of the Preakness. Just a quiet afternoon, and a drink in hand. A little ritual. A little altar, in its own unlikely way.

The weather in Baltimore was perfect—a sharp contrast to the mud-soaked chaos of the Derby a few weeks earlier. And while no one sang “Run for the Roses,” I still found myself humming it—because honestly, what’s a springtime horse race without a little Dan Fogelberg in the background?

One horse in particular caught my attention—Gosger. He was the one I was pulling for. Not because he was flashy, but precisely because he wasn’t. At 20:1 odds, he was the forgotten one—overlooked and underestimated.

But what really made me root for him was his name. One of his owners, a woman named Donna Clarke, chose “Gosger” not for flair or branding, but in honor of a Facebook friend, Jim Gosger. A name I should have recognized—but didn’t.

I’ve been a Mets fan for as long as I can remember. The 1969 Miracle Mets are etched into my memory like sacred scripture—Seaver, Grote, Koosman, Swoboda. But Jim Gosger? Honestly, I had to look him up. He played in 39 games that year. I didn’t remember him—but Donna Clarke did.

And that horse—like his namesake, nearly forgotten—almost made history. He ran his heart out, finishing just a half-length behind the favorite.

It felt right that it happened at the Preakness—the middle child of the Triple Crown. Not the glamorous Derby with its roses and celebrities. Not the Belmont with its history-making potential. Just the Preakness: scrappy, quieter, easy to forget.

And to be honest, the whole story reminds me of my beloved Mets. The Yankees are more like Churchill Downs—steeped in legacy and pageantry. The Mets? They’re more like Pimlico. Gritty. Quirky. Prone to chaos. And yet, every so often, capable of something miraculous.

You don’t root for the Mets because it’s fashionable. You root for them because they make you believe anything is possible. That the overlooked and underestimated still have a shot. That long shots can still run the race of their lives. And sometimes, even when they fall short, they remind you what heart looks like.

There’s something quietly beautiful about that. Because Gosger the horse didn’t run in the Derby. He didn’t get the spotlight. He just showed up at the Preakness—the middle space—and gave it everything he had.

And Gosger the Met? He wasn’t the star. He was one of the many in the background who helped hold the miracle together.

So, where’s the unlikely altar?

It’s in the choosing. In the small but defiant act of remembering someone who could have been forgotten. Donna Clarke didn’t pick a name to impress the crowd. She picked a name that mattered. And in doing so, she built an altar—not out of stone or stained glass, but out of memory and meaning.

Altars don’t always stand in cathedrals. Sometimes, they show up in a name, in a race, in a drink raised quietly on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, they run.

If Love Had A Voice

Sun, 11 May 2025 23:41:46 GMT

Mother’s Day is tender terrain.

For some, it brings joy—a chance to celebrate the women who raised us, nurtured us, cheered us on. But for many, it’s more complicated. It can carry a quiet ache that sneaks up without warning. A scent. A song. A laugh that sounds too much like hers. Or simply the sharp truth: She’s not here.

Some grieve mothers who were a steady presence. Others mourn the absence of that kind of love. Some carry the weight of children lost far too soon—or children who never came. Some made the brave, invisible decision not to become mothers. Others mother daily, without ever being called “Mom.”

And all of it—every version of love and loss—is sacred.

I was part of a gathering Friday evening at Kingwood Funeral Home, a quiet space for those holding heavy things on this weekend. We cried. We laughed. We remembered. And I was struck again by how love never really leaves. It just changes form. It shows up in the way we fold towels, the way we stir our tea, the way we still talk to the air like someone’s listening.

Grief is just love that’s had to take a different shape. And it has a way of leaking out—through stories, songs, silent rituals no one sees. Two cups of coffee when there’s only one person. A contact still saved in the phone. A casserole made without a recipe, because you know it by heart.

It’s funny how stitched into our lives someone can be—until they’re gone, and suddenly we notice everything. The phrases coming out of our own mouths. The craving for a dish we swore we’d never eat again. The way we hold others, the way we were once held. It’s in the towel folding and the soup stirring. In the way we carry their memory like a photo tucked in our chest pocket.

And not every mother was gentle or safe. For some, “Mom” is a complicated word. Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe she hurt more than helped. Maybe she couldn’t show up the way you needed. If that’s your story, you belong in this reflection too. Your grief is no less sacred. Your truth, no less valid.

And those who mothered without the title? They are the quiet heroes in the background. The aunts, teachers, neighbors, chosen family. The ones who packed lunches, listened without judgment, and brought snacks when everything felt like too much. Whether they were related by blood or not, they offered a kind of presence that shaped us.

Mother’s Day is loud in the world—brunch specials and pastel greeting cards. But here, in this quiet corner, we make space for the full truth. The complicated stories. The holy ones. This is an Unlikely Altar

A place to lay down grief and pick up memory. A place to let yourself feel what you’ve been holding in. To cry. To laugh. To remember.

We remember the spicy moms, the loud ones, the unembarrassable ones. The ones who gave advice no one asked for, who made casseroles and life plans in the same breath. The ones with purses that could produce a Band-Aid, a pen, and a snack at a moment’s notice. The ones who stirred tea with a butter knife and never got names right, but made everyone feel like family.

We say their names. We tell their stories. Because remembering is how we keep love alive.

So if the tears come today, let them. If a memory makes you laugh out loud, don’t hold it back. If all you can do is sit quietly and breathe, that’s holy, too.

Grief is not a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of great love. And those we love? They are not gone.

You are not alone.

Love stays. And so do they.

Pope Leo and the Miracle Mets

Fri, 09 May 2025 14:59:20 GMT

They’ve elected a new pope. Leo the Fourteenth.

Now, to some, this might sound like just another line in a history book, another white cassock on a Vatican balcony. But for me—raised Catholic, now a United Methodist elder—it cracked open something sacred. Something nostalgic. Something hopeful.

Leo XIV. Now, if you know your papal history, you know this isn’t just a name. It’s a theological breadcrumb leading straight to Leo XIII, one of the great minds and souls of modern Catholicism.

Leo XIII saw a world changing rapidly with industrialization, worker exploitation, and poverty. Instead of staying quiet, he said, “The Church must speak.” In his 1891 document Rerum Novarum, he emphasized that faith isn’t just belief—it’s about how we live. He argued that work has dignity, the economy should serve people, and justice isn’t optional for Christians.

So, what does it mean that this new pope, this first-ever American pope, has taken on Leo’s name? It means he’s sending a message. One that says: This Church won’t hide from the real world.

It’s a signal that the Church may be ready to speak again about justice, economics, power, and compassion. About the Gospel being not just good news but good news for the poor, the outcast and those pushed to the margins. It’s a name that doesn’t stay hidden in abstract theology but reaches into the real lives of people on the ground.

And speaking of choices that speak volumes, let’s get to the real burning question: Cubs or White Sox? For half of Chicago, this isn’t just about baseball loyalty—it’s a matter of worldview.

If he’s a Cubs guy, we’re talking resurrection hope. Decades of waiting. Suffering that somehow strengthens the soul. A theology of patience, joy, and Ivy-covered walls.

If he’s with the White Sox, we’re looking at gritty reformers. South Side energy. Ecclesiology with a chip on its shoulder. Either way, Chicagoans now have something deeply personal to debate, and I love that for them.

As for me? I'm a Mets fan. Yes, that kind of Mets fan. I still remember the summer of ’69—the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and the Mets were 9.5 games out of first place. And then… the Miracle. By October, we were world champions. Don’t tell me God doesn’t move in mysterious ways.

And maybe that’s what makes this papal moment so moving for me.

Even though I chose to serve the Church under the cross and flame of Methodism, even though my theology has taken on new hues, the white smoke from St. Peter’s still finds its way into my soul. I watched Pope Leo XIV emerge and felt something ancient and holy stir. A memory of incense. Of kneelers. Of prayers whispered in Latin. Of saints, I still talk to in the quiet.

This new pope may lead a Church I no longer belong to institutionally, but he still leads a part of me. And if his name is any clue, that part of me might get to hope again.

Hope that the Church universal will speak clearly for the vulnerable. Hope that courage and compassion can hold hands. Hope that we are not done seeing miracles—not in baseball, not in the Church, not in our aching world.

So welcome, Leo XIV—Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago. May your voice be prophetic, your heart be open, and your baseball allegiance be declared soon—because half of your hometown is holding its breath. And if, in a moment of divine whimsy, you want to say a word about the 1969 Mets, I’ll know the Spirit is really on the move.

*Since the writing of this article, the Holy Father has declared he's a White Sox fan. So, gritty reformers it is. South Side theology confirmed. Cubs fans may need to invoke the intercession of St. Jude—patron of lost causes.

The Altar in the Mud

Tue, 06 May 2025 14:32:31 GMT

It’s been a few days since the Kentucky Derby, and I’m still thinking about it. Not the roses. Not the winner. Not even the finish. (And no, the horse I was rooting for didn’t win.)

What stuck with me was the mud. That heavy, sloshing kind of mud that clings to everything. The kind that makes it hard to run and hard to stay upright. The kind that brings even the strongest down. And the whole time I watched the race, there was something about that mud that felt familiar.

You see, I’ve been there. Not at Churchill Downs, but I have been in the mud. And when I say that I have been in the mud, I mean face-first in the mud. Not just metaphorically. I’ve hit the ground so hard, so publicly, that the only thing louder than the thud was the silence that followed. Or worse—the sound of people judging. Or maybe the quiet satisfaction of those who hoped I’d fall and seemed strangely comfortable with me staying down.

Maybe you’ve been there too.

Then, right on cue, Dan Fogelberg’s voice comes through—aching, honest, and familiar: “It’s the chance of a lifetime / in a lifetime of chance…”

He’s not singing about the win. He’s singing about the try. About the wild courage it takes to step into the unknown. The deep breath before the risk. The moment your heart says, “I’m in,” even though your brain whispers, “This might hurt.” And sometimes, it does.

Sometimes we fall because we mess up—because we made a choice we wish we hadn’t, said something we can’t take back, hurt someone we meant to love. Sometimes we fall because the ground just gives out—because the mud is thick, and life is unfair, and we slipped even though we were doing our best. And sometimes? We fall for no tidy reason at all. Because life is messy, unpredictable, and occasionally brutal.

But here’s the good news:

The fall is still sacred. Not because it feels good—believe me, it doesn’t—but because God didn’t leave us there. He meets us in the mess, and that changes everything.

Yes—there absolutely is an Unlikely Altar here.

It’s not at the winner’s circle. It’s not made of roses or gold trophies. It’s right there in the mud.

The altar is the place where we fall flat on our faces—publicly, awkwardly, sometimes spectacularly—and discover that grace still meets us there. Not in spite of the mess, but in it. Because the mud doesn’t disqualify us. It’s where we find out we’re not alone, not forgotten, and not beyond redemption.

That moment—on the ground, heart bruised, face dirty, ego dented—is holy.

Not because it feels good. But because it’s real. And God always shows up in what’s real.

That’s an Unlikely Altar :

Where your fall becomes the place where love finds you. Where you stop pretending and start healing. Where the song still plays, even when the race didn’t go the way you hoped.

So yes, this post is about the Derby. And Dan Fogelberg. And the deep, bruising humility of falling.

But it’s also about what happens next.

Because I have been there. Face down. Ego bruised. Mud everywhere.

But I’m still here.

Still standing.

Met by grace I didn’t earn.

Still held by a God who never looked away.

The Church of Waffle House

Wed, 30 Apr 2025 21:21:07 GMT

I’ve found a little church that doesn’t look like much from the outside. The sign flickers. The booths are cracked. The coffee is… well, let’s just say “average” is generous. But somehow, grace lives here, and I keep finding my way back.

Welcome to the Church of Waffle House .

On days when I’m preparing to officiate a funeral, I leave early—too early to head straight to the funeral home or cemetery. Houston traffic is unpredictable, and being late is not an option. So, I make a sacred detour: a booth in the back, or a spot at the counter, a plate of scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns “smothered” in onions—because even in grief, a little flavor doesn’t hurt.

At the Church of Waffle House , the choir sounds like clattering plates and laughter from nearby tables. The liturgy is simple: coffee refills, a friendly nod, a server yelling the order in that unmistakable Waffle House way. This church doesn’t care if you’re still half-asleep or wearing yesterday’s clothes. Nobody judges if you're mourning, celebrating, anxious, lost, or just really hungry. You’re welcome as you are—hair messy, heart messy, life messy. Come on in.

There’s a strange holiness in places like this. Thin places, where the space between heaven and earth narrows. Where people show up hungry—for food, yes, but also for comfort, for quiet, for a breath of something bigger.

As I sit with my laptop open and my smothered hashbrowns in front of me, I watch life unfold around me: a toddler taking a bite of a BIG waffle covered in peanut butter, a couple of tired nurses just getting off a shift, a group of teenagers grabbing something before school, and an older man eating alone, ball cap pulled low. Each one carries a story I’ll never know—maybe too heavy for words. But I believe God walks through these doors, too, no matter the hour, no matter the heartache.

This is a church without walls, without programs, and without any agenda but to feed whoever walks through the door. It’s messy, imperfect, and that’s exactly why it feels like a little piece of heaven. Here, I am not a celebrant or a reverend. I’m just a tired soul, eating a simple meal and finding a few moments of peace before I stand between the living and the dead to speak words of hope.

It’s easy to believe that sacredness only belongs in polished places—sanctuaries, cathedrals, or those “holy” moments we’re all supposed to be ready for. But the Church of Waffle House reminds me: holiness happens wherever love refuses to leave. It happens in mourning and in memory. It happens between forkfuls of hashbrowns and heartbeats of hope.

Soon, I’ll pay my check, slide out of the booth, and head toward a family waiting to remember someone they love. But I’ll carry a little bit of this place with me—a full heart, a whispered prayer, and the reminder that even at the edges of loss, grace can still find us—scattered, smothered, and covered.

The Holy Trouble-Maker

Tue, 22 Apr 2025 19:07:39 GMT

Word is, Pope Francis has gone home to God.

And while the world mourns the passing of a spiritual giant, I can’t help but picture heaven trying to get him to slow down. St. Peter probably met him at the gates saying, “Francis—rest.” And Francis, grinning, replying, “Rest? There’s still work to do.”

Because that’s who he was.

A holy trouble-maker . A pastor who smelled like his people. A man who traded red shoes for orthopedic ones and golden vestments for the grit of real life. He was more interested in carrying the wounded than in being carried on anyone’s shoulders.

As a United Methodist elder who grew up Catholic, my memories of the Church are stitched with sacred things: the quiet weight of the rosary in my mother’s hands, the heavy sweetness of incense, the silence of Good Friday that somehow said everything. I may wear a different stole now, but that tradition still lives in my bones. It taught me to reverence the mystery.

And when Jorge Mario Bergoglio stepped onto that Vatican balcony and chose the name Francis , it didn’t just feel like a name. It felt like a signal. A shift. A turning toward the dirt and the poor and the birds and the broken.

He was invoking the barefoot saint of Assisi—the one who kissed lepers, talked to sparrows, and prayed with his feet. And just like his namesake, this Francis pointed again and again to the margins and said, “That’s where Christ is.”

Not in palaces. Not in power. But in the places where people ache and sweat and scrape by. In refugee camps and rehab centers. In storm drains and soup kitchens. In the lives that don't make the news but make up most of the world.

His theology? It wasn’t flashy. Which made it radical.

Love the poor.

Welcome the stranger.

Protect the earth.

Tear down walls.

Build longer tables.

That’s not just doctrine. That’s dinner-table gospel. That’s altar-in-the-wild kind of holiness. We Methodists call it social holiness—faith that doesn’t stay put in pews, but goes walking. Pope Francis lived it. Preached it. Modeled it. Over and over again.

And now? It’s our turn.

We may not be able to canonize him (yet), but we can canonize his way. In our kitchens and classrooms. In voting booths and food banks. In how we listen, how we serve, how we show up and stay put.

We pick up the torch. We live the prayer of St. Francis until it becomes the rhythm of our steps and the shape of our days.

Lord, make us instruments of peace.

Of joy.

Of holy mischief.

Rest well, Francis.

You found the sacred in the unlikely places.

Now it's our job to keep looking.