Unlikely Altars

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 .

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.

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.