September 12, 2025
On our Monday Adventure this week, William and I took a nice long hike at one of our favorite places: Crosby Farm Park, along the Mississippi River. It's a quiet, calm, peaceful place, and we often walk in silence, just soaking it all in. At one point our favorite trail becomes sandy and narrow, as it follows the river. This time of year the brush and flowers along the path are thick and tall, and it's hard to see around the curves of the trail. It was in a spot like this, when William was up ahead a little bit, and out of sight due to the thick brush, that another hiker came up behind me. Before I even realized she was coming, she called out, "I'm right behind you!". I turned to say thank you, and she said, "I didn't want to scare you." I thanked her again and then kept reflecting, for the rest of our hike, on how much I appreciated her simple act of consideration.
In a world that can feel so broken sometimes, in yet another week marked by violence across our nation, maybe we can learn something from a moment like the one offered by my fellow river-trail-walker. Maybe if we can't yet manage to love like Jesus did, with endless grace, radical welcome, and gentle peace, we can at least take a first step.
We can try not to scare one another.
We can speak gently. Approach with care. Give warning before we round the metaphorical corner. We can try to remember that everyone, even strangers, deserve care and compassion. A bit of putting ourselves in their shoes. Even if we can do no more than that, maybe it will be enough. At least for now. At least it's a start.
My prayer for you this week is that you find a few moments of quiet and calm for yourself - a place to breathe, a place where green things grow and God meets you in peace. And may you also be that place for someone else, reflecting God’s love and light by moving gently, speaking kindly, and offering a bit of warmth and calm in a world that so desperately needs it.
September 5, 2025
Over Labor Day weekend, William and I decided it was finally time to tackle our garage. After 20+ years in the same house, with three kids who played every sport imaginable and countless home projects, the garage had become a catch-all for just about everything. Even more than we'd realized, because what we thought would be a one-day job turned into the full three-day weekend, and included three carloads to the dump, two to the thrift store, and the installation of a new storage system when we discovered the old one was in worse shape than we realized.
I will never argue that ignorance is always bliss, but in this situation, it certainly was. If we had known what we were getting into, we might never have started. But standing in a clean, organized garage three days later, I realized how powerful it can be to simply begin - not with a master plan, but with the intention to “just do a little.”
And I don’t just mean with garages.
In life, too, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed by everything that needs attention. There are habits we want to change, relationships that need extra attention, and goals or dreams we’ve put off. Getting started can be intimidating. But in the stories of Scripture, God rarely reveals the full path upfront. More often, there's just a nudge to take the next small, faithful step.
Maybe we should take better note of that.
My prayer for you this week is that you remember you don’t have to have everything all figured out to begin. You just need to start with one step, one act of faith, one conversation, one small decision. One drawer at a time, so to speak. God will walk with you the rest of the way.
August 29, 2025
“Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted, for they are no more.” —Jeremiah 31:15
In this passage, Rachel symbolizes the grieving mothers of Israel, weeping for their children, who are being taken into Babylonian exile. The verse is part of Jeremiah's "Book of Consolation" that foreshadows the future restoration of Israel after their suffering and exile. It honors their deep losses, offers God's message of comfort, and promises a time to come when their struggles will be over.
In our time, Rachel is still weeping. As for me, I am at the "refuses to be comforted" stage. As yet another act of gun violence has torn through our community, and lives of even more precious children have been taken, I find myself heartbroken, of course. I also find myself furious. Why do we, as a society, allow this to continue, when there are things that can be done?
For those who have not seen it, here is an excerpt from Bishop Loya's statement yesterday, which is likely far more helpful to you than my anger:
The fact that we live in a nation where children are shot and killed while at worship or in school would be unimaginable if it wasn’t so common. Over decades, our elected officials have proven unwilling to take even the smallest steps toward addressing the fact that in many parts of our nation, it is easier to purchase a gun that is designed only to kill large numbers of humans than it is to get a license to drive a car. As a nation, we have chosen access to guns over the ability to assemble in our most sacred public spaces without fear. This crushing grief is simply what that collective choice costs.
In moments like this, we all feel helpless, angry, and afraid. But as followers of a savior who was executed by a broken and corrupt political establishment, we know a few things for certain. First, the resurrection of Jesus that we proclaim week in and week out in our congregations establishes forever that God’s love is the most powerful force for change and healing in the universe, and that love will one day break down and recreate even the most corrupt and broken systems we inhabit. So in the hardest moments, we double down on our commitment to be people who live by the law of love in a world that is ruled by narrow self-interest... Click here to continue reading the Bishop's message.
Saint Anne's Peace & Justice team has plans for a speaker on gun safety to come to Saint Anne's in November (this was pre-planned) and I hope you'll all be able to attend. Meanwhile, our work continues.
I am holding you all close in this tender time. My prayer for every last one of us this week is that one day the weeping will be no more.
August 22, 2025
I've mentioned before that since Mondays are my day off, my husband has arranged for Monday afternoons off as well, and we make it a point to spend time together. Some weeks we try a new hike or check out a local sight we haven't visited before. Other Mondays we just work on house projects or run errands, because those things need to be done sometimes, too. This week, we had a dual plan: we were going to clean the moss that has grown on our patio during this hot and wet summer with our recently-purchased power washer, and then then go to a new-to-us restaurant for a late lunch.
Well. We never got to lunch because do you know HOW MUCH FUN it is to use a power washer? First we blasted the patio. Then we decided to move on to the patio rugs. Then we pulled the rugs from inside our house to clean. And then our siding. Then the gutters... Four hours later, we finished it off with our front walk, with plans for next time. We may not have gone to lunch, but we had the most satisfying day blasting things clean.
I'm not sure what was so strangely compelling about the silly little power washer, but I think it must have something to do with seeing that something can look grimy and hopeless, and five minutes later, it gleams like new. It got me wondering: what if our life problems were like that? What if some of our messes could be washed away with just a little directed energy?
Maybe that’s how God works sometimes. Not always with flashy miracles, but with quiet nudges to pick up the hose and start cleaning. One small mess at a time. A little faith, a little effort, and suddenly you see what's been buried in layer of dust and dirt. Or moss, as the case may be.
My prayer for you this week is to let God nudge you about one small thing - a cluttered thought, a lingering worry or resentment, a little emotional moss - and have your own "power-washing" moment to clear it away. My prayer is that you find unexpected joy in seeing something begin to clear, even just a little: a small reminder that with time and intention, and a maybe bit of grace, all things can be made new
August 15, 2025
I got a text this week from a close friend, who lives in North Carolina. She wrote, "Things are so bad, I had to get an emotional support puppy!" The text was accompanied by a photo of the sweetest, squishiest, little guy you've ever seen.
In a way, my friend was joking. She has always been a dog person - bulldogs, specifically - and when her beloved, beloved, old bulldog died about a year ago, it was just a matter of waiting for her tender heart to be ready again. Which took some time. So this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. Yet, in another way, she wasn't joking at all. After a series of texts back and forth where I needed to know everything (his name is Stanley, named after the Stanley Cup as they are all big hockey fans, and he's 9 weeks old), my friend said, "Maybe love really is the answer after all. It's the most simple, and hardest, thing.
I think she's right.
My prayer for us this week is to continue to do the most simple, and hardest thing: to keep our hearts open. To continue to do our best to love our neighbors. To continue to believe, as Jesus did, that it makes a difference. That it might be the only thing that does.
August 8, 2025
Back in the early days of the COVID lockdown, when no one was going anywhere and we were all looking for new ways to fill extra hours in the day, I started playing a game on my phone for the first time ever. I had avoided the Candy Crush craze and other similar viral games, but for some reason, the puzzle-solving game Two Dotscaught my eye one day, Though it requires some focus, Two Dots is a non-flashy game with a simple concept: there are a limited number of moves to clear ever-changing puzzle boards by connecting dots. Over five years later, and I still play Two Dots for a few minutes almost every evening to wind down before bed.
Will I ever "beat the game" completely? Maybe, but I’m currently on level 5,671 of over 7,000 levels, with new levels constantly being added, so at this pace, I’ve got years of Two Dots enjoyment ahead. And I could have even longer, considering I’ve been stuck on level 5,671 for the past three days with no end in sight. No matter what strategy I try, I just can’t seem to clear it. But here’s what I’ve noticed: for some reason, losing on a level of Two Dots doesn't frustrate me. I don't get annoyed. I simply close the app and try again later. I know the level will still be there, and eventually, I’ll pass it. If I don’t solve it today, I get to try again tomorrow.
I’m not always this patient in life, so it makes me wonder: could this silly little game be a quiet spiritual practice? What if I treated life’s challenges like puzzles to return to later—not failures or crises to fix right away, but simply unfinished for now? Maybe there’s something holy in sitting with what’s unfinished, pausing, and then trying again. In a world that rewards constant productivity and punishes delay, we rarely get reminded that progress can be slow. But some puzzles take time, and some days nothing “clears”, no matter how hard we try. That’s okay. Even Jesus didn't solve every problem the first time through.
My prayer for us this week is that we remember it’s okay to move slowly. To give ourselves permission to pause, to try again tomorrow, and to be just a little more patient - with the world, with others, and maybe most of all, with ourselves. And may we trust that God walks patiently with us, too, through every unfinished puzzle.
August 1, 2025
On Saturday, I am officiating a wedding of a wonderful young couple. The groom is one of my son Aidan's life-long friends, so I've known him since he was in elementary school. The bride is a lovely young woman who I've known since they were all friends in high school. They are grounded, capable, and ready for this next step. What a delight!
This Saturday is also my own 28th wedding anniversary. (William’s too, go figure!) It feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago that we were that young couple, stepping onto our path in faith.
Life holds so much that we cannot foresee. We make plans and promises, we carry hopes and expectations, and then life unfolds. For each of us, life has moments that are beautiful and are difficult. Some seasons bring joy, anticipation, and abundance. Others bring worry and struggle, or loss and grief. Sometimes life require us to pivot, to let go, or to keep going when we feel least able.
One of the greatest gifts of a community like Saint Anne's is that we don’t walk these seasons alone. We are surrounded by people in all stages of life, each carrying their own story, and bearing witness to the stories of others. Some are embracing exciting changes even while others are navigating illness or grief. Some are in the thick of parenting while others are adjusting to quieter homes. Some are making big changes while others are waiting for clarity, or for healing. And through it all, we are here with one another; sharing wisdom, sharing heartbreak, sharing potlucks, sharing hope. Gathered, sustained, and held by a faithful God who walks with us through it all until we are welcomed home.
After our joyful Saint Anne’s Day and Member Welcome last week, and as I prepare to officiate a wedding and celebrate my own anniversary, I am especially mindful of the strength and comfort that come from being part of a community like this. It is a place where we hold space for one another with grace.
My prayer for us this week is that we continue to be a community that shows up for each other, and gently reminds one another, again and again, that even when the way ahead is uncertain or painful, we are never alone. God goes before us, beside us, and behind us, and we are held, too, by the presence of the Divine in each other. It is such a gift.
July 25, 2025
This Saturday is the official Feast of Saint Anne, our beloved patron saint. On Sunday, we’ll gather for one of the most beloved days in our community: our annual Saint Anne’s Day Celebration. It’s more than just a fun event on the calendar, it's a chance to celebrate the heart and soul of our community: who we are, who we are becoming, and the faith and love that bind us together.
During the liturgy, we’ll take time to honor our Saint Anne (read more about her story below). Her faith, wisdom, and quiet strength continue to inspire us, generation after generation. Then, after our service, we’ll share a joyful BBQ and celebration. Please come! Come if you're a Sunday regular. Come if you haven't been around in a long time. Come if you've always wanted to check us out but just haven't done it yet. Come! Bring a friend. Bring a side dish or a lawn game if you’re able - and don’t worry if you can’t. There’s always enough. That’s just how it is at Saint Anne’s. This will be a time to reconnect with familiar faces, welcome new friends, and simply enjoy being together in the warmth of community.
My prayer for you this week is that you know, truly know, how important you are to this community. Yes, you. Saint Anne’s is what it is because of people like you. Because of your gifts, your stories, your faith, your doubt, your longings, your heart, your challenges, your joy, your courage. Because of your willingness to show up just as you are, with joy, with questions, with tears, with holy anger, with laughter. All of it belongs here. All of it makes this place what it is. Your presence helps create a space where people can find hope, healing, connection, and peace. A place where love is lived out. A little glimpse of God’s kingdom, right here in our midst.
You inspire me every single week, Saint Anne's. Being in community with you is one of the greatest joys and privileges of my life. Let's celebrate!
July 18, 2025
You may have heard that the incredible poet Andrea Gibson died this week. Andrea was Colorado's Poet Laureate, and and while Poet Laureates aren’t always household names (Minnesota’s is Gwen Nell Westerman, it case it wasn't on your radar!), it's a role that engages the public with the literary arts. Their duties often include giving public readings, writing poems for public occasions, leading workshops, visiting schools and libraries, and generally helping to connect people to poetry and culture. Andrea Gibson did that so beautifully that they became known even outside Colorado. They've been described as a "candid explorer of life, death and identity", and were featured in a documentary that won the Festival Favorite award at Sundance.
I’m sharing this with you not just because Andrea’s poetry is extraordinary overall, but because of one poem in particular, that was shared after their death. It’s called Love Letter From the Afterlife. It begins, “Dying is the opposite of leaving…”. The poem is full of wonder, tenderness, and rich imagery about death. It reads like sacred text.
As people of faith, we don’t believe death has the last word. We believe in a God who opened death like a doorway and invites us into a story where, even in the midst of sorrow, love keeps moving and life keeps speaking. Every time we gather around the table for communion, we’re reminded of that promise. Christ meets us in the bread and wine, and we’re drawn into something eternal. We say, “with all the saints,” and we mean it. We're reminded that Love is always alive.
Andrea’s poem may not use explicitly churchy language, but the heart of it is something we know deep in our bones: that love endures, that presence lingers, and that the people we’ve lost are not really gone. It is a powerful truth that transcends religious doctrine - and worth sharing.
My prayer for you this week is that you catch glimpses of the holy just beyond the veil, right where and when you need them. My prayer for you is that you carry with you, wherever you find yourself, the quiet sense that God is always weaving a story of love and life in the world around - and beyond - us.
July 11, 2025
There is no way to overstate the fact that I do not have a green thumb. When my husband is out of town, he leaves pages of instructions for our house plants and his garden, and even then—well, let’s just say I wouldn’t recommend placing bets on anything leafy that is under my care.
That said, one thing I’m surprisingly good at is leaving things alone. Which is how I ended up with a patch of milkweed growing wild and happy in our front yard. I didn’t plant it. I didn’t water it. At first, it was just some scruffy stalks I figured I should probably pull out. But I didn’t, mostly out of distraction or uncertainty, and by mid-summer, it had turned into a small, lovely patch that a few bees and monarchs seemed to enjoy. Now, a few years later, it’s a full-blown milkweed jungle. All I’ve done is stay out of the way, but it brings me joy to watch the monarchs dance in and out, the bees gather at the blooms, and the caterpillars settle in. It’s not much by garden standards, no neat rows or careful design, but it fills a need and it makes me happy.
This summer, my favorite part of the whole chaotic tangle is two determined milkweed plants that pushed up through a crack in our driveway, right at the garage door. They didn’t wait for perfect conditions. They didn’t ask permission. They simply trusted their own God-given worth and grew anyway. I do my part by carefully driving around them when I come and go.
As humans, we’re often tempted to measure ourselves by what’s polished, productive, or well-managed. But maybe there’s something faithful about embracing who we are, even when we don’t quite fit the mold. About trusting that God has planted something good and valuable in each of us, something worthy of growth even we're a little scruffy as we go about it. And maybe, by just being ourselves, we are exactly who someone else needs. We fill a need in ways only we can.
My prayer this week is for you to make space for the wild and tenacious spark of the Divine within you. And to remember that sometimes it's enough to show up, root deep, turn toward the sun, and let God do the growing.
July 4, 2025
I am a firm believer in the separation of Church and State, for many reasons. And I think it's fascinating to consider how the structure of the Episcopal Church, formed as it split from the Church of England during the American Revolution, mirrors the structure of the United States government. The same revolutionary leaders who were creating the United States by day were shaping the Episcopal Church by night, so the parallels are no accident. On this 4th of July weekend, I thought it would be interesting, for those who might not know, to share how it all unfolded.
When the U.S. declared independence in 1776, it cut ties not just with the British government, but also with the Church of England. That left American Anglicans, accustomed to English worship, with a big question: how do we keep our faith without the king of England? “Episcopal” means “governed by bishops,” and that was intentional. The new church would keep the tradition and worship style of Anglicanism, but it would no longer answer to a monarch. It was restructured to a shared leadership form, reflecting the democratic ideals of the new nation.
Just like the U.S. created a Congress with two houses, the Episcopal Church set up over-arching governance with two bodies:
The House of Bishops (like the Senate) is made up of all the bishops.
The House of Deputies (like the House of Representatives) includes clergy and laypeople chosen from every diocese.
These two groups vote on church laws, policies, and major decisions, much like the U.S. Congress does for the country. The similarities continue:
At the national level, the Episcopal Church elects a Presiding Bishop, chosen by representatives from all over the church, to serve for a set term, similar to Presidential elections in the U.S.
Each diocese (a regional group of churches) elects its own bishop, much like each state elects a governor.
At the local level, each the congregation helps select their own priest, similar in spirit to the election of a city mayor, though the process is not an election per se.
Each congregation also has a Vestry: a group of elected members who help make decisions about the church’s finances, buildings, and mission. This group is akin to a city council.
The Episcopal Church and the United States were built side by side with shared hopes: representative and balanced leadership rooted in community. One served spiritual life, the other the state, but the care for both systems rests with the people. The dream was never flawless leaders, but faithful communities around them. Not systems that never fail, but people that try to hold to what is good, just, and true.
Even in the messiness, we’re called to be people of hope in both aspects of our common life, choosing persistence over perfection, and resilience over despair. My prayer for all of us this 4th of July weekend is for the strength to keep working, the courage to repair what’s broken, and the grace to keep trusting in the goodness that can often get buried. May it be so.
June 27, 2025
This is PRIDE weekend in Minneapolis!
If you have ever been to our state's largest Pride celebration, you know what a joyful - and huge - event it is. The first time I marched in the Minneapolis Pride parade was ten years ago, a few days after I was ordained in the Episcopal church. I was invited to participate with some clergy colleagues, all wearing collars and stoles. Some carried large bowls of holy water and others had pine branches for dipping into the water and blessing people. A few of my colleagues had big colorful signs that said, “Shout ‘Alleluia’ if you want a blessing!”
I was so uncomfortable. There, at my first official church function, I was keenly aware of all the atrocities The Church has afflicted on the LGBTQ+ community. I second guessed being there; I second guessed the church being there. Were we being performative? Self-serving? Would we cause more harm? As it turned out, despite all the harm The Church has caused, the people along the parade route in Minneapolis responded to our presence with the loudest, most joyful Alleluias I’ve ever heard. “Allelulia! I want a blessing!” they’d shout out. “Alleluia! Bless me over here!”
I walked most of the parade in tears.
The strength and courage it takes for someone who’s been hurt by the church to shout, “I want a blessing!” is a testament to the spark of divine in each of us. That kind of boldness - to ask for what you’ve been told you don’t deserve - is holy. To claim blessing not as something we earn, but as something we were always meant to carry. And when we dare to receive blessing, we also learn how to give it. We learn to see ourselves and others as God does. So claiming blessings creates more blessings, until we can all stand along the parade route, or wherever we find ourselves, saying with our whole hearts: “Alleluia! I want a blessing!” and “Alleluia! You deserve one, too.”
My prayer for you this week is that you don’t hold back when it comes to claiming your blessings. Shout it. Sing it. Whisper it. Just don’t forget that you are deeply loved. You are enough. And blessings are meant for you, not in spite of who you are, but because of who you are. My prayer for you this week is to find moments where you can stand tall, open your arms, and say with joy, “Alleluia! I want a blessing!” And may we each be the kind of people who then say it back — with love and truth and open hearts.
June 20, 2025
I am on vacation this week, celebrating my dad's 80th birthday with my extended family, but our hearts have been very much with Minnesota, and the tragic events of last week. I wanted to pass on to you this beautiful poem that Sandy Rude shared with me:
whenever I feel helpless
in this overwhelming world
I become a helper oh, oh,
my love on the days when it feels like
I have no power
I serve others you see, whenever I wash
the world's feet my hands immediately
stop shaking
- Joel Roedel
My prayer for us this week could not be stated any more beautifully. May it be so.
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