The Ride Continues
When the Journey Becomes Its Own Kind of Grace
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 stretches 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.
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.