June 13, 2025

As I am writing this, Day 4 of Summer Stretch, Saint Anne's week-long day camp for youth in grades K - 8th grade has just finished up. It has been a wonderful week with some pretty amazing kids! Summer Stretch is focused on Micah 6:8: "What does the Lord require of you? Do justice; love kindness; walk humbly..."  We have done all of the above and more this week. 

On Monday, we worked with staff from Harvest Pack on an equity exercise and discussed the difference between "equal" and "equitable". On Tuesday, we practiced showing love to our neighbors by visiting residents at Southview Acres Senior Center. On Wednesday, we explored what it means to walk humbly through a visit to the wonderful SoulSpace Farm Sanctuary. On Thursday, we added in "Self-care" as another spiritual practice, and we wore pajama pants and stayed cozy at Saint Anne's all day with art projects, friendship bracelets, and movies. Friday, as you read this, Summer Stretch will be engaging with our final spiritual practice, "Have Fun!", at the Minnesota Zoo. Also in the mix each day this week were morning prayer practices, visits to different area parks, work on a Little Free Library for Saint Anne's, games, crafts, snacks, singing, whole lot of laughter.

Am I tired? So very! Is my heart full? So very! And so grateful for RaeKell, a true partner from start to finish, amazing Senior Counselor Ramona, wonderful Junior Counselors Myles and Anna , and some really fantastic support from Andy Lambert, Carolyn, Jeff and Mary Holland, Sandy Rude, and Nancy Fuenffinger. It takes a village. And oh, we have such a beautiful one!

My prayer for you this week is to follow the lead of the youth of Saint Anne's and find ways, large or small, to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. And then may you find space to rest, to care for yourself, and to have fun, not as an afterthought, but also as spiritual practices. And may we all be stretched a little more, in compassion, in love, and in laughter.

June 6, 2025

When looking at Pentecost artwork this week, I came across this icon I don't think I've seen before, of the disciples on the Day of Pentecost, with flames over their heads.

For some reason, the gloomy expressions on their faces, as they remain seated and unmoved by the presence of the Holy Spirit, struck me as very humorous. Most Pentecost-associated artwork is quite dramatic with large flames and swooping doves, and people dancing in the streets with awe. But not our disciples. When I first saw this rendition, I really did laugh a little. There's such a stark contrast between this and the later depictions of those dancing and celebrating. Certainly, The Church today encourages the Dancing With Fire end of the spectrum. But the more I thought about it, I think both approaches to Pentecost are telling the truth. The celebrating shows what happens after the Spirit comes—when fear gives way to courage, and the disciples spill out into the world, speaking hope in every language. That’s the outward explosion of Spirit. It’s messy, beautiful, and alive.

But the icon captures the moment before it all hits them. They're still in the upstairs room, waiting for who-knows-what. The weight of the loss of Jesus is still heavy. Maybe the disciples aren't glum, but serious, because they feel the gravity of it all. Spirit doesn’t always just come along and zap us with joy and delight. It sends us out into unknown places, toward situations that require our best, toward people we never expected to love, into a life that might be harder (even if holier) than we imagined. Maybe the disciples needed to wrap their minds around that. The work really was in their hands now. That's a lot to process.

I can feel both of those things. Sometimes I’m the street-celebrator, caught up in the energy and urgency of the work we're called to, and ready to get to it. Other times, I’m just sitting, open but unsure. Not feeling quite adequate, or quite prepared. Wanting things to be a little more clear and certain before I jump in. This work is in my hands? Are you sure, Jesus??

My prayer this week is that we don’t let uncertainty keep us from greeting Spirit where and when that fire finds us. We might feel ready—or not even close. The disciples weren’t sure either, but the flame still rested on them, and they were still sent. The Spirit doesn’t just show up to comfort us; it gives us a push—into courage, into love, into showing up right where we’re meant to be. May we rise to meet her, ready or not, trusting the fire to light our way

May 23, 2025

I love sharing small snippets of life with you—those quiet, everyday stories where I’ve caught a glimpse of God during the week. A neighbor’s lost cat showing up on the porch. A brief conversation with a stranger in the grocery store parking lot. The sound of rain against the window when there’s time to sit and listen. I have to rein myself in from talking about my dogs too much! But whatever the story is, knowing I’ll be sharing something with you keeps me attuned to those soft, sacred moments of the week. It’s a practice I’ve come to cherish. We really do find what we’re looking for.

This week, my heart’s in a different place. I can’t stop thinking about how the House voted to cut Medicare and SNAP benefits. I keep seeing the faces of people I know—real people, not statistics—who rely on those programs to get their medications, buy groceries, or just stay afloat. Week after week, we hear about loving our neighbors, caring for the sick, feeding the hungry, tending to those in need. We work toward that kind of world. And yet here we are, watching safety nets pulled apart in the name of a political game where no one will win. It’s hard to write something gentle when my heart feels heavy with sorrow. Hard to get past the thought that we seem to be moving farther away from the Kingdom of God.

These aren't just bad policies that don't even balance our national budget. It's also cruel. And anti-Christian, in the most literal sense. Jesus didn’t draw lines around who deserved help, he erased them. He didn’t ask people to prove their worth, he proved it for them by showing up where they needed him. He healed and fed and loved without abundance. And without checking IDs.

So this week, I’ve been feeling the heaviness. And yet. And yet, as I sit down to write to you—with no light story coming easily to mind—what does come to mind is you. This community. The ways you keep showing up with compassion and courage.

We had our most successful Blood Drive to date just a week ago. Our youth led us in worship with joy last Sunday and boy did Spirit show up! Your Vestry gathered for a vulnerable and important conversation about how we can be visible about loving boldly in the world. Members of your Peace & Justice team are organizing our June 1st Snack Pack for elementary-aged kids who might otherwise go hungry. The current Being Withgroup continues to meet and share stories of connection and faith. Summer Stretch is just around the corner. The Solar Team is back at it. And we’re planning for parades and PRIDE—ways we can let our neighbors know who we are.

Even when words are hard to find, you remind me what compassion looks like. You remind me that hope is something we practice. We’re just a small corner of the world, but we’re here—the quiet persistence of people who still believe we’re meant to care for one another. People who are doing our best to follow Jesus, with one foot in front of the other. For that, for you, I’m deeply grateful.

So no little story today. Just these thoughts, and a hope that what feels broken now might be healed by that steady, stubborn love we show up with, especially when it’s hard. My prayer for you this week is that you know how clearly I see the love of Christ in each of you. Thank you for shining so brightly, the world needs your light.

May 16, 2025

My dog Roger got his summer haircut this week. Roger is a bit of an anxious boy (he's a full on whackadoodle) and to get his hair cut he needs to go to the vet, go under sedation, and get fully shaved down. Because the process is so extensive, the vet recommends he only have this done two times per year. This means when Roger gets "groomed", he goes from extreme shagginess to completely shaved. One day he’s a tumbleweed, and the next he’s sleek and sassy.

Roger is not exactly a fan of the process — and neither am I, to be honest. There is always a risk with sedation and I really dislike the feeling of walking out of the vet's office and leaving him there for a good portion of the day. But he always comes out the other side looking a little more comfortable, and seeming to feel a little more himself.

And isn’t that a bit like our spiritual lives?

Sometimes, many times, the things that bring us renewal aren’t easy. They can be awkward, uncomfortable, or even downright scary. Renewal can require us to let go of old habits, to release control, or to go through a change we didn’t sign up for. It might look like slowing down when we’d rather keep moving, or stepping out when we’d rather hide. There can be risk.

But underneath everything that has overgrown in us, there is often something beautiful waiting to breathe again. Maybe it's clarity. Maybe it's joy. Maybe it's peace. Maybe it's that feeling of “Oh, there I am,” when the clutter clears and our true self, the one God created and delights in, can stretch out and feel the spring sunshine again. Clearing away what no longer serves us is holy work. It's not just self-care; it's soul-care, and it's one of the quiet ways God continues creating in and with us.

Roger reminds me that renewal isn't always a simple process, but that we all benefit from a fresh start now and then. My prayer for you this week is to be able to experience some type of renewal, if needed. To find a way to shed something that's been hanging on, blocking your view of the world and the world's view of you. And then to bask in the sun for a minute, just you and God and unencumbered joy.

May 9, 2025

I have heard from some of you have already noticed, and I imagine others will soon: the Black Lives Matter sign that has stood on Saint Anne’s front lawn for over four years was taken down this week. I want to be clear that this is not a change in our values or convictions. The sign was removed simply because it had become too weathered to remain standing safely, and if we hadn’t taken it down it would have fallen on its own.

Denny Thompson, who originally made the sign for Saint Anne’s, shared this update:

The plywood was really warped, some rot on the 2x4s, and the paint was flaking off in long strips. I was embarrassed to have it out there in that condition. It needs more than just a coat of paint. I’ll gladly make another if that’s what the community wants.

This sign has meant a great deal to many of us. For me, it’s always been a clear and faithful expression of what we mean when we say, “Love Boldly.” If that’s truly part of who we are — and I believe it is — then we’re called to live it out visibly, publicly, and with conviction.

The Wardens and the Gardens and Grounds Team are already in conversation about what’s next, and we'll discuss at our next Vestry meeting as well. Whether it’s a new BLM sign, a sign that broadens the message, a mural, or something else, this message will return, as a visible and faithful witness to our call. Our dedication to racial justice and to the sacred dignity of every human being, and to proclaiming that publicly, remains as strong as ever.

This moment also invites a larger question for all of us: How do we make it clear to the world outside Saint Anne's walls just who we are as followers of Jesus? How do we communicate, in just a second, to and with people speeding past Saint Anne’s at 60 miles per hour? More broadly, what does it look like at all to proclaim the Gospel with boldness and clarity in this time? I’d love to hear your thoughts. 

My prayer for you, as you read this, is that you feel both the weight and the promise of these questions — and that you feel yourself drawn deeper into the work of love, justice, and public witness that Jesus calls us to share. (Emphasis on public and share! It's not easy, but was never meant to be.)

May 2, 2025

Back in the Covid days, when it became clear that things were going to be, um, "disrupted" for more than two weeks, my husband (likely tired of me yelling from the basement, "I AM RECORDING A SERMON, NO ONE WALK UPSTAIRS OR MAKE ANY NOISE FOR THE NEXT 30 MINUTES!!") turned the old ramshackle shed in our yard into an office space. He thought it would take "two weekends" to be completed; it took about 6 months. But hey, luckily we were still in lockdown! And it is still a favorite work spot for both of us today - it's quiet, and has no distractions, perfect for Zoom meetings, sermon writing, and general focus time. 

Earlier this week, I noticed a few baby bunnies hoping out from under The Shed, as we call it, to nibble on some new grass, and then quickly scooting back under. A smart mama rabbit must have built a nest under there (William, if you're reading this, no you aren't) to keep her little fluffs warm, safe, and dry. As I stood and soaked in their cuteness, it occurred to me that there was something of God in that little moment.

What started as a desperate scramble for a quiet place to work turned into a sacred space—not just for work, but for slowing down. For noticing. For glimpsing tiny miracles like baby bunnies chewing on new grass in the spring sunlight. And not just a sacred space for us, but for other creatures as well. A space of safety and refuge in a world that can probably be a little scary for baby bunnies and other tender critters.

The Shed was born out of frustration, built during a season none of us would have chosen. And yet, here it stands, a reminder that sometimes helpful and lasting things can come from the wreckage of our plans. As we continue in this Easter season, it was a sweet little reminder for me that God can show up like that - as blessings in the middle of chaos, weaving goodness through inconvenience, showing up in unexpected places. Even hidden under work sheds in the form of baby bunnies. And possibly hidden in us, too.

My prayer for you this week is to find God in the middle of all of it - the joyful blessings, the mess, even in the pain. Especially there. My prayer is that you remember you are never without a miracle around the corner. (Or under the shed, as the case may be.)

April 25, 2025

From waving our palms to foot-washing to the heartache of the cross to stories told around the fire at the Vigil to the celebration of Easter morning, Holy Week was wonderful, beautiful, rich, and deeply moving. My heart is filled to the brim. And there are so many people to thank for their (your!) support in helping it all happen that I don't even know where to begin.

Thank you to all who moved tables and chairs, arranged hospitality, brought food, cleaned up, and ran and then emptied the dish washers - at least 5 times over the course of the week!  Thank you to Garden setter-uppers and labyrinth lay-er-outer. Thank you to all who filled and re-filled footwashing pitchers. Thank you to those who helped with Palm Sunday Bingo and those who made sure kids were included in everything else all week, too. Thank you to our readers, our preachers, to all who sang so beautifully in the choir and to those who shared other musical gifts. To all who wrote Vigil skits and performed the skits; and thanks to Mother God, the MC of the Vigil! Thank you to our ushers, our vergers, our acolytes, our candlelighters, our nursery caregiver, our livestreamers, our bulletin printers, our donations counters. Thank you to our bread bakers, our flower arrangers, and all who made the sanctuary sparkle and shine. To all who filled Easter eggs and to the bunnies that hid them. Thank you to all who arrived early and all who stayed late and all who asked if more help was needed. 

Thank you to all who showed up (or who emailed to say they were there in spirit!) to step into our Great Story and take your place in it. Thank you for bringing your children, your laughter, your tears, your hearts, your faith, your hope, your hearts.

An extra special thank you to Charlie Prokop who MADE (yes, made, by hand!) our gorgeous new Paschal Candle stand; which we will be blessing and dedicating this Sunday at church.

And to Tony, Naomi, RaeKell, and Kathy, who all put in extra time, and talent, and effort

April 11, 2025

In some churches, all the stories of Holy Week are read on Palm Sunday. That means going from waving palms to that upstairs room with Jesus and his disciples for the Last Supper, and then directly to the cruifixtion, all in one morning. The Book of Common Prayer offers this as an option, recognizing that those who aren't present for the rest of Holy Week will miss hearing the whole story.

I am of a different mind. This is not just a story we tell, we hear, and remember, but a story we live. And that takes time. It takes intention. It takes space. It begins this weekend but we can’t wrap it up into a neat package Instead, I invite us to take one step at a time. No worries if you aren't able to come to church for Holy Week services - you'll be receiving emails on each Holy Day which will offer ways to honor our story at home. But either way, we'll take the whole week to let the story unfold. And for those who are able, here is how the week will unfold at Saint Anne's:

We'll wave our palms this Sunday, and shout our Hosannas as Jesus enters Jerusalem.

On Maundy Thursday, we'll have a drop-in Open House in the Parish Hall from 5–7 PM with different  opportunities to enter this great story on your own time. There will be art to ponder, music to play, the indoor labyrinth to walk. You can pray in an immersive Garden of Gethsemane. There will be some Middle Eastern food. And an optional footwashing station - remembering the night before Jesus died when he washed the feet of his disciples.
 
At 7 PM on Thursday we’ll have a service where we’ll share bread and wine, the way Jesus did the night he told his disciples that his body would soon be broken like the bread they were sharing – that his blood would soon be poured out like wine. Eat. Drink. Re-member me, he said. And so we do.

On Good Friday, we’ll sit in the shadow of the cross, honoring the fact that sometimes the world feels broken. At noon on Good Friday we'll have a traditional Book of Common Prayer service. At 7 PM we'll have a Tenebrae service where we hear the Seven Last Words of Christ from Scripture, and through music and poetry.  

On Holy Saturday, we’ll go back to the beginning of creation and start all over with the Easter Vigil at 7 PM. We’ll start in the darkness and then light a fire which recalls the dawning of time. Then we’ll sit around that fire bringing ancient stories to life.

And then next Sunday, Easter Morning will dawn, with all of its joy and flowers and singing and hope. But we won’t go there just yet; we have a journey to complete first.

This is our story. My prayer this week is for you to have time and space to breathe deeply, open your heart, and feel yourself stepping in. Hosanna in the highest!

April 4, 2025

I had a different note to share with you today. It was just a little story, and I'll share it another time. But, as you'll see below, Saint Annian Joan Stovall and her family experienced a deep tragedy yesterday, when Joan and Doug's son-in-law, married to their daughter Liz, died unexpectedly. There is nothing I can do to make it better. No words I can offer that will make their pain lift. But, sharing a light little story here doesn't feel right at this moment. So for just a moment, let’s just sit quietly with Joan, Doug, Liz, and their kids, offering them our presence and our love and our prayers for comfort and peace. Let's call on the angels and archangels, and all the company of heaven, to sit with them too. 

Love God, love your people, share that love with the world. This is my prayer for you this week. There is nothing more important than this.

March 28, 2025

Last year at this time, we were in the middle of Holy Week: Easter Sunday was March 31, 2024. While that timing felt just right last year, this year it feels right to me that we’re still waiting. My body and soul aren’t quite ready to fully embrace all that Easter brings yet. I’m savoring the gradual return of light, taking note of how the sun sets just a bit later out the Sanctuary windows each Lenten Wednesday. Watching the grass perk up just a little with each upward temperature swing, rather than that burst of sudden green we get some years, feels like the right pace. Even the back-and-forth temperatures, and the chance of snow this weekend, feel fitting.Tentativematches my emotions, and, maybe for the first time ever, I appreciate that Creation is taking her time, offering lightness and promise bit by bit. How is it for you? Are you taking it slow this year, too, or are you ready for Spring to break wide open?

Speaking of a slow Spring, I discovered a new-to-me poem by Mary Oliver this week, and wanted to share it with you:

In the north country now it is spring
and there is a certain celebration.
The thrush has come home. He is shy and likes the evening best,
also the hour just before morning; in that blue and gritty light he climbs to his branch,
or smoothly sails there.
It is okay to know only one song if it is this one.
Hear it rise and fall;
the very elements of your soul shiver nicely.
What would spring be without it?
Mostly frogs. But don't worry, he arrives, year after year,
humble and obedient and gorgeous.

You listen and you know you could live a better life than you do.
Be softer, kinder.
And maybe this year you will be able to do it.

Hear how his voice rises and falls.
There is no way to be sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are given,
no way to speak the Lord's name often enough,
though we do try,
and especially now, as that dappled breast breathes
in the pines and heaven's windows in the north country,
now that spring has come, are opened wide.

— Mary Oliver

My prayer for you this week is for the coming of Spring to feeling like a certain celebration in your heart and soul. My prayer for you is that, despite everything, you are able to hear the one song that makes the very elements of your soul shiver nicely, and that you feel heaven's windows open wide.

March 21, 2025

It's that time of year again. Lent? Sure. March Madness? Always entertaining. But what I'm talking about is my Jackie and Shadow obsess....er, interest. Jackie and Shadow are a bald eagle pair who live in Big Bear Valley, California, inside the San Bernardino National Forest. A nonprofit organization called Friends of Big Bear Valley has offered 24-hour livestream footage of their nest for the last seven years, and late winter / early spring is an exciting time at the nest: egg-laying and hatching time!

Last year, Jackie laid three eggs that did not ever hatch, though she sat on them for 80 days, long past the 35-day incubation period for Bald Eagle eggs. This year, she again laid three eggs, all of which hatched right on schedule. Sadly, one of the chicks did not make it through a subsequent snowstorm that brought two feet of snow to the area, but the other two chicks are thriving. Hearing Jackie and Shadow squawk over their chicks is like watching proud parents. Seeing them feed their little ones, with tiny necks wobbling to keep their beaks open, is pure joy. Their teamwork, feeding and guarding their chicks day and night, is powerful and beautiful. The nest itself is majestic and watching their movements in and out of it is calming and peaceful. 

Our national life has been chaotic lately, with uncertainties fueling fear and a lot to worry about. I feel it, and many of you have shared that you're feeling it too—body, mind, and spirit. While stress and anxiety is a natural response to turmoil, it's crucial that we balance ourselves with things that bring life. Jesus promises, "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." Though it's not always easy, I find comfort in the reminder that the world is bigger and more beautiful than my worries. There are always examples of strength, hope, and joy to be found. There is always peace to be found. For me, Jackie and Shadow are a living, squawking, life-affirming, reminder

My prayer for you this week is that the peace Jesus spoke of settles in your heart. It's not the absence of challenges, but a peace that assures you that no matter what comes, all shall be well. The peace of wild things. The peace of perspective. The peace that passes all understanding.

March 14, 2025

Earlier this week, I had coffee with a wise and wonderful Saint Annian who shared a new prayer practice that I absolutely loved. Whenever they're waiting in line at the store or for an appointment—basically, any time they would normally reach for their phone—they use that moment to pray instead. It could be just 30 seconds, but they’re choosing to turn those little "in-between" moments into chances to nurture their spirit and connect to Spirit. Such a simple, yet powerful, idea.

Also this week, I’ve been traveling with my son Nolan for a few days; I’m writing to you from the Phoenix airport as we head home. It’s been a joy to have this time to refresh together. Going into our trip, I planned to savor these rare moments and to be fully present with him. But as soon as we got to our gate at MSP, I found myself scrolling through emails and checking social media, trying to get just one last thing in, reacting to breaking news, fussing about this or that. When I remembered the prayer practice the wise and wonderful Saint Annian had shared, I put my phone away. I prayed a little - for all of you, for our country, for the people in the airport around me. I also just sat. I chatted with Nolan, looked out the window, let my mind wander. It felt spacious, peaceful, connected. 

As I continued this practice this week, I found taking these little pauses in the rush of life helped me stay grounded, and appreciative of the present moment. I recommend trying it next time you’re waiting or between tasks. It doesn’t need to be complicated, just putting your phone in your pocket and instead offering a simple prayer for someone you know, the stranger next to you, or yourself; or maybe taking time for a moment of gratitude for a blessing in your life.

In a world that’s constantly pulling at our attention, taking moments to pray is like a little act of rebellion against the noise. It’s a gentle way to reclaim our time and our thoughts. My prayer for you this week is a reclaiming of your time, your thoughts, your peace, your connection with something bigger than yourself. May you feel the gentle peace that comes from taking time to pause, breathe, and simply be.

March 7, 2025

Someone asked me recently where I am finding hope these days. My immediate thoughts were pretty generic, even to my own ears. The sunshine we've had lately. Daylight saving time approaching. The turkeys on Dodd Road. Those each do bring me joy, but is that really where I'm finding hope right now? I found myself thinking about the question for the next few days. 

The truth is, this is a difficult time in our common life. The systems we count on to hold steady are not very steady at the moment, and some of the safety nets we count on have some rather large holes in them. If not you yourself, then someone you love is probably hurting or at least pretty worried right now. The division is eating away at us. Cries for decency feel like shouting into the wind. I can’t blame anyone who is struggling to find hope at the moment. And yet, in pondering this question, I realized I really do hold hope...

On Ash Wednesday we stand before God and acknowledge that we are people who make mistakes, sometimes big ones, over and over again. We acknowledge that we fall short of the teachings of Jesus, sometimes in big ways, over and over again. We acknowledge that we're all broken in some way, we’re all in need of forgiveness for the things we have done and the things we have left undone. 

And if that weren’t enough, on Ash Wednesday we say aloud the honest truth that the rest of society tries to ignore, distract from, and forget: We are dust and to dust we shall return. We are mortal beings and each of our lives will end one day. But as followers of Jesus, we believe life and death are both of God, and both are holy. On Ash Wednesday we dare to speak that truth – we wear it, in fact, right on our foreheads.

In ashes, we remember that we are loved. In looking honestly at our own faults and failings, we are invited to encounter that love more deeply. In ashes, we remember we belong to God. In the acceptance of our mortality, we proclaim that this belonging doesn't end when we die. And as we begin to walk with Jesus through Lent once again, we seek, once again, to be people who live in this kind of love and this kind of peace – and then reflect that to the world.

And that is where I find hope right now. In claiming the burned remnants of something destroyed as a symbol of cleansing and renewal. I find hope in the knowledge that even as we walk with Jesus through the desert of Lent, the heartbreak of Holy Week and the pain of Good Friday, we know Easter morning will come, and Love will rise from the ashes. I find hope in proclaiming defiantly to a world that likes to linger in the destruction, that we won't linger there with them.

Love will always win, every time. If Love hasn't emerged triumphant yet, it's not the end of the story. This is the essence of our faith. It is where I find my hope. My prayer for you this week is to be able to hold this hope, too. Remember that you are love, and to Love you shall return.

February 21, 2025

On the very coldest day of this week - I think my phone told me it was -11 without wind - a pair of deer visited me at church. It was a quiet afternoon, I was the only one in the building at the time, and they came right up to my office window and peered inside. It was so unusual - and so delightful! After we looked at one another for a while, the deer started walking up the sidewalk, taking their time and peering in other windows. For some nonsensical reason, the thought came to me that they must be hungry and that I should get something for them to eat. I quickly found some carrots in the kitchen fridge. By this time the deer were up near the Narthex and I very slowlyyyy and carefullyyyy opened a door to toss out the carrots. Clearly my idea of slow and careful was not a match for the deer's sharp eyes and ears; they saw me immediately and ran off toward the outdoor chapel. I tossed the carrots out onto the sidewalk anyway, and went back to my office.

I felt terrible about scaring them away. I may have lingered on feeling bad about it longer than I should have, but it was absolutely frigid outside. I kept wondering if they had come near the building to be warm, and then, rather than leave well enough alone, I scared them back out into the open. I thought about those (in my mind) poor, cold deer for the rest of the afternoon. 

The first thing I did when I got to church the next day was check to see if the carrots were still there. They were. Darn. I checked again several times throughout that day. Still there. Still there. And then a final check late in the afternoon, just before I was leaving for the day. The carrots were GONE. And not only were the carrots gone, but there were deer tracks leading right up to where they had been. Had they waited until they knew I'd be distracted by a Zoom meeting? However they did it, somehow they snuck back up the sidewalk without me seeing them, and grabbed those carrots. Smart deer. Happy me.

It's a silly little story. But during a week where there was a lot of heaviness in the air, the return of the deer to eat their carrots was a moment of joy. And a reminder that there is grace and beauty and balance and joy in the world. Even when we think it's all broken. 

My prayer for you this week is that blessings sneak up on you where and when you least expect them. Especially when you think all is lost. In fact, in those times may blessings peer right in your window.

February 14, 2025

The Episcopal Church observes a practice of employees taking a sabbatical every seven years. Many of you have heard me discussing the idea in What If terms, but until now the timing hasn’t felt quite right. Now, in my 8th year as your priest (lucky me!!), the What Ifs are starting to take shape and at this year’s Vestry Retreat we had a For Real conversation about what a time of sabbatical could look like. I’ve decided to write for a grant that might fund some of the ideas floating around, and I want to loop you all in.

The idea of a sabbatical comes from Scripture, where God instituted a rhythm of work and rest. A day of rest each week is actually a commandment, a reminder that our hearts, minds, bodies, and souls need rest as much as anything else. Similarly, the concept of a sabbatical for a priest is time set aside to rest and refresh, both spiritually and physically.

The grant writing has required me to dream concretely about what I want from this possible time of refreshment. What keeps coming to me is an exchange between Jesus and the disciples that appears in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. The disciples, trying to figure everything out, ask Jesus, “Who are you?” Jesus responds by saying, “Who do you say that I am?” A version of this question has been swirling in my head and heart for some time: Who does God say I am right now? 

During seminary, there was time to ponder that question. As life unfolds, I joyfully spend time on many other aspects of who I am: a priest, a mother, a wife, a daughter, sister, friend, a person who wants to show up in and for our wider community. I focus a lot on who I am in relation to other people, but I wonder if I may be forgetting a bit of who God says I am, as just me. When I look back to the time I first remember feeling God knew me, I think of being a little girl, living in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Those are my earliest memories of church, and of connecting to the Divine. If I receive the grant funding, I imagine going back to Puerto Rico for at least part of the sabbatical time. Immersing myself in the culture that was formative for me. Worshipping at the church I attended as a little girl. Getting my Spanish back. Having time and space to ground myself again in who God says I am. 

This grant also encourages the church to do some spiritual exploration during the sabbatical time, and my invitation for you is to ponder the same question: Who does God say you are, as individuals, and as a community. There are many ways to delve into the question. Maybe there are some who would like to go on a retreat together. The Episcopal House of Prayer and Camp Du Nord both offer time and space to connect with the Divine. Closer to home, maybe prayer walk gatherings, a speaker series, or some form of community artwork. A Parish Hall mural, anyone?! Perhaps re-build a labyrinth on our grounds. The grant provides funding for activities like this. Rebekah Dupont will be in the Parish Hall on Sunday with some more information and to capture some of your ideas for how Saint Anne’s might engage with the sabbatical time. I can hardly wait to hear your thoughts.

And I want to be clear: I absolutely love being in community with all of you. I am on fire for all that Saint Anne’s is and all we can be together. If I do take this sabbatical time, I will be back, with bells on. I am here, and all in, for as long as you’ll have me.

January 31, 2025

A few years ago when my mom and I were talking about how much we both dreaded the early winter sunsets, we came across the Danish/Norwegian concept of "hygge". If you haven't heard of hygge, you can click the link to read about it, but essentially it is the concept of making things cozy and inviting during the dark winter months. Things like keeping soft throw blankets on couches and chairs, stringing fairy lights even inside, and lighting candles. My mom and I decided to do everything we could to "hygge" the long dark nights of winter, and specifically that we would each - she in her home in Madison and me right here - light candles at sunset each night. 

The first night of our Great Hygge Plan, I got a text right around sunset from my mom, with a picture of her lit candles. I texted her back a picture of my lit candles. Soon our sunset ritual included not just lighting the candles, but texting one another photos of our candles. We often didn't even say anything in the text, just sent each other a little light. Pretty soon, early sunsets evolved from something I dreaded to something I found cozy. And instead of the early darkness feeling isolating, we found more connection and an element of sacredness.

This Sunday at church, we'll celebrate a holiday known as Candlemas, at which we'll bless lots and lots of candles. Candlemas is connected to the Feast of the Presentation and the declaration of Jesus as the "Light to enlighten the nations". And both of these occur on the very day that is the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox. Any which way one looks at this day, it's all about Light, Light, Light. Sacredness we can invite into our every day lives.

In ancient days, whole communities would bring their candles and lanterns to church on Candlemas to be blessed so they could then bring "the Light of Christ" home with them. Sacredness. They would light these candles when they prayed, feeling wrapped in safety and warmth. Sacredness. I can almost picture the blessed lanterns hanging outside, lights dotting the dark paths through town, reminding everyone walking by that the Light of Christ guided their footsteps. Sacredness.

My prayer for you this week is that you find at least some moments when you feel yourself wrapped in the sacred Light of Christ. Moments of holy hygge when you feel the sacredness of warmth and connection. My prayer is that you find moments which remind you it takes just one candle to light a room; just a little Light to illuminate the path forward. Simple sacredness. Ours if we choose. Thanks be

January 24, 2025

This week was a long year, wasn't it? If you have not been paying attention to the news, I commend you for protecting your peace. If you have been even catching glimpses of it, chances are you're feeling exhausted. Regardless of one's views on different issues, the week has unfolded at a fast and furious pace. It is a lot to take in.

There is much for us to discuss. Episcopal Bishop, the Rt. Rev. Mariann Budde's, sermon at the National Prayer Service, in which she preached from Scripture and from our Baptismal Covenant, pleading for mercy for all who are struggling and fearful right now  - and for which she has received death threats. There is worry about the safety of LGBTQ people. There is concern for refugees and immigrants in our country. Concern for the systems that have brought stability to our common life. There is wondering from many of you about how you can best live out the call to love our neighbors right now.

Below I will share some of what the national Episcopal church and our own Bishop are offering in this moment. But this is what I'll say to you: In keeping our Baptismal promises to respect the dignity of every human being, our call to do justice, love kindness, walk humbly, and the command to love our neighbors as ourselves, there will be work for us to do in the coming weeks, months, and years. The people of God will need your strength, hope, and loving arms. And. We can only be helpful to others if we are also taking care of ourselves.

I encourage you now more than ever to make time to find joy in your lives. Spend time in nature and marvel at Creation. Spend time with your communities in person, and laugh with friends. Make time for prayer and meditation and for connecting with something bigger than yourself. Go deep into this. Don't forget the "yourself" part of love your neighbor as yourself. Ground yourself. Nurture yourself. Intentionally spend time letting yourself be filled with the love of God and the Light of Christ, each and every day. This is how we can end up to be most helpful to others. And then take all the rest slowly. Episcopal Bishop Steven Charleston puts it this way:

When things feel like they are happening too fast, the elders suggest slowing down your reactions to them. Leaping forward to respond to every new reality can wear you out. Practice mindfulness. You will know when and how to act when your response will have an impact. Do not lose your sense of balance. Choose your own time and place.

My prayer for you this week is that you feel the deep peace of Christ settled in your soul. That you are able to ground yourself in the vastness, and the closeness, of God. In Hebrew the word for breath and Spirit are the same: ruach. Breathe deeply. Let Spirit fill you. Choose your own time and place for the rest. The work, and partners in the work, will always be there when you're ready.

January 17, 2025

I've spent much of this week getting ready for our Annual Meeting (this Sunday at 9:30 AM). It is an event I always enjoy. There is a lot to gather together: numbers and stats and recaps that the national church requires we track and report. I'm usually scrambling for these and sometimes find what I need on some scrap of paper I tucked away somewhere last June... So it makes me a little crazy, too. And I definitely couldn't do it alone - as you'll see in the Annual Report, there are many others who have their hand in this. But even with the scrambling and the lining up of the numbers and making sure Robert will get his Rules, it is an event I enjoy. Looking back at the year that was, and ahead to the year that will be, always fills me with deep gratitude for this community and all we are called to be together.

In a world that values wealth, status, and power, there is something countercultural about coming together each week to feed our spirits and souls. In a world that values independence and individualism, there is something profound about coming together each week to see how we can support one another. In what other places in our lives do we gather simply to experience holiness together? It is not even about what we find, but how we find it—together.

My prayer for you this week is to know how grateful I am for each of you, and for the community we share as the body of Christ.

January 11, 2025

My daughter and I stepped into a convenience store this week to pick up an item she needed. There was nothing remarkable about the day or the stop; we were simply moving from errand to errand, and we were getting gas anyway. Inside the store we got what she needed, stood in a short line, and then checked out. After we paid, we said thank you to the cashier and gathered our item. "Drive safely", the cashier said, and there was something about the way he said it that felt like he really meant it. We both looked up and said thank you to him again. "And may blessings find you today," he added, looking us in the eyes and smiling.

My daughter and I looked at him, at each other, and then we both broke into big smiles. "Thank you so much," we said to him. We kept smiling all the way to the car.

That is it. That is the end of this story. It was a simple exchange, and a quick one, and we were on our way. But we were on our way feeling truly blessed. It lightened our spirits and made the gray day feel a bit brighter. We felt more connected to the people around us. We felt kinder and more generous.

It does not take much to bless those around us. It does not take a special place or a special occasion or a special person. My prayer for you this week is that you both offer and receive blessings, in the most ordinary places, on the most ordinary days. You never know when you'll make someone's day - or allow them to make yours.

January 3, 2025

In this Resolutions Season, I had to share this, that a friend sent to me this week. It is too good not to! (I don't know the source, but if you've seen it and you know, please do share):

I might add a few things. I'm more interested in what you would add, though. Send your ideas my way and maybe we'll compile a Saint Anne's list! But my prayer for you this week is for you to know how very Jesus-like you already are. You with your generous hearts, your courage in speaking truth, your love for the world. I see you; I am grateful for you; I am inspired by you.