This is awkward.

We’re supposed to be staying home as much as possible,

But there’s no break in the line-up of customers






We need to keep six feet of space between us at all times,

But there isn’t room in the aisle for us to pass each other with six feet between us.


We both turn slightly away from each other as we pass.

I hold my breath,

And I bet you do too.


I wash my hands so carefully and thoughtfully,

But immediately use them to touch things that are






I feel really awkward about this,

But I’m touching all the stuff that you are buying.

I hate to do it,

But I haven’t yet figured out how scan and bag stuff without


You seem a little uncomfortable about it too,

But you kind of put us both in this position by being here buying stuff.



I don’t know if you noticed….

(Clearly you didn’t,)

But there are bright red strips of tape on the floor showing you where you should stand-

Six feet away from the cashier and six feet away from other customers.

Please stand on them.

Yes, you will feel awkwardly far away from the counter.

Yes, it might be hard to count out small change.

You should be paying with a card anyways, these days.


When you ask me if our store is staying open,

And I say it is,

And then you say,

“Terrible, just terrible. They should be ashamed,”

I find it a bit awkward

Because there you are,


And paying in very small change,

Which you are counting out on the counter

Even though I told you about the red line.


It’s a little awkward

When it seems like you brought the whole family

To hang out at the store

Because you were bored at home.


I find our ideas of what is truly essential to be rather…


Judging by what I have seen in the past few days,

We think that

Easter decorations

Wine goblets



Four sequined Canada Day hats

Are essential.

I’m sorry.

But they are not.

We need to rethink what we value.

We need to start making more sacrifices.

Sacrifices hurt.


They hurt.

But we’re going to need to start making more of them.

We have to do it.

For each other.

For the whole world.


Sometimes you tell me your stories,

About losing your job,

About going crazy with your kids at home,

About not getting to see your daughter anymore,

About being afraid to go to your job.

It hurts me.

With my words and with my eyes (all you can see above my mask),

I try to express that-

That I’m with you,

That I care,

That I’m praying for us all.


People, I was practically born to save the world by staying home,

And now my time has come,

But I can’t stay home.

This is painfully ironic to me.

I’m grateful to still have a job,

But feel a bit guilty because of all the people who have lost theirs.

I’m willing to be there to serve customers who depend on low-cost products from us.

But I am struggling to find satisfaction in providing an “essential service”,

When it feels like, by being open, we are just enabling people to purchase nonessential things.


On Sunday, I was so excited about being at home

all day with Ricky,

with neither of us working.

But I got called into work in the afternoon,

And it hurt so much to give up my day off,

That I cried for a good long while.

I felt a bit better about it once I actually got to work,

Because do I like to save the day?

Of course I do.


Every day I wonder if I should quit.

It is interesting to me

How loyal I am to this team

Of workers that I don’t actually know well at all.

If I quit, it hurts them.

I also am interested in

How deeply I desire to

Do a good job.

Even when it’s a job I feel weird about and know does not line up with my soul and what I care about.

I still want to be able to do it well.

Quitting now would feel like not doing it well.

For now, I stay.


I know that what I’m doing is peanuts

Compared to doctors and nurses and other caretakers

Who are




I hardly know how to feel for them.

It is just so much

What they are doing.



This is a big, scary, awkward situation we’re in.

But you know what?


Most of you saw the red tape on the floor and stood back.

We’re adjusting.

We’re learning new habits.

We’re doing it.

Let’s keep doing it.

Let’s keep doing it better and better.

Let’s grow together

(from six apart, please).



Moments of Transfiguration

Up and up  

They work to climb.  


Muscles burning in their calves  

Breathing a little harder 

Sometimes tripping when  

They don’t lift their feet high enough.  


Jesus just keeps going up and up,  

And they don’t quite understand  

His purpose  

And his steady sense of direction,  

But they are getting used to following  

With an open mind  

And with hope.  


Their eyes are on where they came from,  

(a gleam)  

Their eyes are on each other,  

(a glimmer)  

Their eyes are on the ground,  

(a glisten)  

Their eyes are on the sky,  

(a burst)  

And then their eyes are on Jesus. 



They have never seen his whole self before.  

(So this is who he is!)  


The joy of it.  

All of those years. 

All of those laws.  

All of those prophecies.  

Jesus pulls it all together and holds it firmly and lovingly

And it is  



Does such glory not demand a response?  

Peter gives it.  

“Jesus! Let us honour you! We will build-”  


A bright cloud.  

A voice.  


When you need to respond to the glory, you make it about yourself.  

This is not about you.  

This is purely about the glory.  

Stand still, for once,  

And just be covered.  

Just take it in.  

It’s not about you.  

It’s about  

The Glory.  


This is terrifying. 

To allow yourself to be so small.  

To recognize that you have nothing to add.  

To only think about the glory.  


They fall and cover their faces.  

What else is there to do?  


Jesus touches them,  

And they go down the mountain together.  

When they look at Jesus they still see 







They will never unsee it.  

Their eyes are open now.  


Sometimes, they see that glory  

In the dark places,  

In other people,  

And even in themselves.  

Small bursts.  

Never complete,  

The way Jesus shone.  

But small bursts of glory.  

Glimmers of who they truly are  

And the Spirit they have within.  


Jesus just keeps going up and up and up. 

We are following with a trusting mind and with a hoping heart.  

Up and up,  

We work to climb,  


Glimmers of glory guiding.  


Where have you seen glimmers of glory? 


August is that person that I am used to seeing every day.

She is comfortable.

She is familiar.

She is full of ordinary warmth.



In August, summer has settled into itself, and everything feels ganglier and softer and dustier. Mature.

The textures and the layers criss-cross and overlap.



The seventh campfire, instead of the first or second.

But one day, something makes me pause.

Catches my eye.


And when I take a second look, I realize that maybe I don’t know her as well as I thought I did.

There is overlooked beauty all around.

And I realize that as much as I love September…

August may stick around for as long as she wants to.




What do you love about August? 

The Mississippi and the Train

The Mississippi and the Train

It’s the kind of river that shows up often in books you read as a child,

Wide and significant,

An  adventure.

But then you look across the road and there it is,

Full of history, but so very present.

Ordinary and mysterious.


Loud things always affect me.

They fill me

Or they make me feel sick

Or they make me want to curl up and escape.

A train woke me up the other night.

Its horn was so loud that I thought this train was going to come straight in through our open window and split


This house

The world


It wasn’t just the horn I heard.

There was a gentle musical sound wrapped around the harshness of the horn. It sounded absolutely heavenly.

Turns out the train wasn’t going through us-

Just beside us, over by the Mississippi.

In the morning, out on the deck,

I listened to a train run by on the same tracks.

I was glad to hear the same thing I’d heard in the night-

the painful loud layer and the beautiful musical layer.

I am glad that I heard the train in the night without seeing it the first time.

If I had seen it, I might have missed the music.

There are layers to be discovered in the Unseen.










A Long Prayer

A Long Prayer

Dear God,

There is much that I am uncertain about.

This interpretation, that interpretation…

And if I don’t feel a conviction to do this, does that mean that I am not actually called to do it,


Does it just mean that I should grow some spiritual muscle and develop a conviction for it





Is it always holier to do the more uncomfortable thing



I don’t know how to pray, God.

How can I pray, when it only reveals how very little of you I understand?

I imagine that you must be




Than just a perfect superhuman.





And what do I do if I realize that my motive for knowing you more

Is so that I will appear and feel more


(I hate when my motives get all twisted like this.

Forgive me.)


I know that learning to know you is a journey-

An adventure!

I will not navigate it perfectly.

I know that there are mountain-tops along the way

With much clarity.

I also know that there is…



Speaking of muck…


I confess that when I hear the words child-like faith

Something inside me splinters

And not in a good way.


I have slid into a pit of

“Earning my faith”

By being skeptical about this and about that.


We talk about owning our faith and how good it is to question and search.

But nobody tells you

What to do

When you are just…



When the answers to your questions sometimes involve that child-like faith and you just



Regain it.


There is much that I am uncertain about.


But also…


The daffodils in the flowerbed outside our door just keep blooming and blooming, through cold and through gray.




In The Horse and His Boy, Aslan was all the lions.


There are certain things that I hesitate to pray for because I’m afraid you’ll send me what I ask for.


“… in You we live and move and have our being.”


Some days, the sun shines in a warm way and the grass is green beneath me.


Perhaps, right now, many small pieces of you are more necessary for me than one giant understanding. And maybe I don’t even need to worry about putting all those pieces together.


Maybe I will just watch for the beautiful pieces and name you as I see you.


I’ll be watching, God. I’ll be watching.




Question: What are you certain or uncertain about these days? Hearing either is encouraging. 

Pieces of Advent

This post is a random collection of thoughts, questions, and songs, each piece separated by a mere horizontal line.


Jesus is my future.

(No matter what does or does not happen here on earth in my lifetime.)


Jesus is my future.


My beginning and my end,

And with me for all the in between.

That makes everything

a lot






Was Jesus absent from heaven in those 9 months while his body grew inside of Mary? If so, did God miss Him? Were they still one as Jesus grew a human body? How did God feel as He watched His son slip into the world? Did he burst with joy? He must have.


This song.

“Noel”, by Lauren Daigle.

The invitation to “come and see what God has done” is so beautiful. And isn’t that exactly the invitation that we should offer to our fellow humans… to come and see what God has done for humanity? For us personally?


Jesus was born into the messiest of circumstances and the most unstable of times, but God made celebration and rejoicing a prominent part of the story of his birth.


God knew the pain that the years ahead held,

but he rejoiced in the beauty of the moment.


We don’t have to wait for perfection to rejoice.


I love hearing Handel’s Messiah, whether it’s a live performance or simply a Spotify playlist while I’m driving. This Christmas, I stumbled across a song by Jenny and Tyler (first time hearing of them!) that combines several bits and pieces from Handel’s (much) larger work.

I love it.

It’s completely different from the real thing, so you’ll have to be a bit open-minded if you are a loyal lover of Messiah. 

It is different.

It is simple.

It gives me chills, especially at the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God” line.

And you know what the best part of all is?

It’s perfect for singing along with, should you happen to be one of those people with a softer sort of voice. Ahem.



This is the time of trusting Jesus to be here.

This is the time of trusting God to fulfill His promises.

This is the time of wild hope.


Come near to Him.


and be warmed

and be found.

Come and see. 




What has God been showing to you this advent time? 

What songs speak to you? 

What questions do you ponder about the events of that first Christmas? 


It’s the Sunday before communion at my church, and that means it’s our preparatory service.

A time for each of us to evaluate our relationship with God and to share the results of that soul-searching with our church family.


I love preparatory service.


I marvel at the people who speak their hearts in a calm and clear voice.

I marvel even more at the people who speak their hearts in a quivering voice.

I grow more and more jittery

And I rehearse over and over in my head what I am going to say

Until it is well-nigh memorized.


I am going to say something about how


The message and the Sunday school lesson affirmed one thing that God has been teaching me lately, and that thing is that sin is sin is sin is sin. I am too quick to dismiss my personal sin as just “bad habits” or “areas that I need to work on”, when really, it is sin. Awful, ugly sin. I often think that I can fix these things myself by just making whatever changes need to be made. But when I do that, I deprive the Gospel of its glory and its power. I miss out on the beauty of turning to Jesus to repent and receive grace. I want to live out of a reliance on Jesus’ grace, rather than my own self-discipline.


Or I could maybe say something about how


This week I prayed and asked God for something, and he sent me three small answers to my prayer. The beautiful thing is that although these three things were small, they can all be grown and developed. They are beginnings, and beginnings are gifts.



I could read Hebrews 10:14 and try to explain how I just do not understand it. It blows my mind. In the best of ways.


I think these things through and through.


But when it is my turn to speak,

I stand up,

And I say,


“I have peace with God

And with my fellow man

And I’m looking forward to communion.”


Just that.

It’s true


But it’s not everything.

It’s not the whole story.


I knew that was what would happen.

It’s certainly not the first time that something like this has happened.


I felt relief when I chose it,

But also grief.


Why do I always have to bring so very much of myself to everything I do?



The road is heavy and long with questions and sorrows.

I try to tell the story myself to the stranger walking beside me.

“Don’t you know?” I say (incredulously).

“Know what?” He asks.

“What has happened! The pain. The injustice. The craziness of it. The impossibility of it.” I answer (emphatically).

“The utter lostness it brings me to,” I think but don’t say.

A pause from Him.

A kindly raised eyebrow.

An infinite heartbeat pulsing.

“Don’t you know?” He says.

“Know what?” I ask (foolish and slow of heart and terribly small-minded).

“Listen,” He invites. “We’ll go back. Back to the beginning. I think you’ll see things differently soon.”

The story lives and breathes

Beside me

Above me

Before me

Inside me.

My heartbeat warms all of me as it begins to align with the story.

With blood pumping and feet aching, it’s my turn to invite.

“Please stay. Please sit and rest,” I beg.

“I feel better with you here,” I think but don’t say.

I hand Him the bread

And He prays with an up-turned face and authority in His voice and love written all over His hands.

“So be it.”

The prayer ends, and those love-ly hands break the bread.

I need the nourishment of the bread after the drain of the day, and eagerly accept it from Him.

I raise it to my mouth, but before I take a bite, I allow the essence of it to fill me.

The yeast, the wheat,

The words…

This is His body broken for me.

I can hardly stand to raise my eyes, but I have to.

He is already watching me

Smiling slightly and kindly

And those love-ly hands held the bread that I am holding to my mouth,

And I don’t know what to do.

“Eat, beloved. You need it,” He says.

And I know.

I know that I need it, but it feels like I need it too desperately to eat it.

The bread is in my mouth, and I chew.

The swallow almost makes me choke over its beauty and its ugly, and my throat aches from the lump in it.

I am filled with everything that I could possibly hold and more.

I look to Him.

But He has gone, leaving just the torn loaf of bread in his place.

I swallow down the rest of my bread.

An infinite heartbeat pulsing.









Too long you have lain dark, my dear.

Don’t you think it’s time to

Wake up?

To come to the light?

I know.

Light is beautiful,

But also exposing.

It’s hard to hide in the light.


You don’t need to hide.


It’s alright to grow.

It’s alright to make mistakes.

And sometimes you need to be okay with loving with your whole heart the thing that you know you won’t have forever.

Even though it hurts and hurts, my dear.

I’m not so small as you seem to think I am. I can be found in more places than just one.

It is okay to grieve and to hope at the same time.

Do you understand?

It is okay.


Leave those strips and cloths behind. I did. My Father and I have something much more fitting for you to wear. I promise.

Please come.

I will push away the stone Myself.

With my own authority

And my own two nail-scarred hands.

I will push it away for you.

Too long you have lain dark, my dear.