Lent has begun, and yesterday's Ash Wednesday worship service was beautiful in the small chapel at Silverton. There is something profoundly moving about watching people gently trace the sign of the cross on one another’s foreheads. Spouses marking spouses. Friends marking friends. Parents marking children. Relationships becoming something more tender than before. The words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” landing not as doom, but as belonging. It’s

I have a teenager who makes lists. Not the practical kind—grocery, chores, pack for the trip—but the aspirational kind. Lists about her future. About who she will be. Where she will live. What will finally make her happy. Lists that assume a neat sequence of steps, each one leading to the next, until—ta da!—life clicks into place. She talks a lot about a perfect and wonderful life will be when she achieves those goals. And sometimes, watching her write yet another list, I cat

I was listening last week to Kim and Penn Holderness’ podcast, Laugh Lines  (it drops on Tuesdays), and I found myself nodding along more than I expected. They were naming the very real struggle of trying to keep people’s spirits up in tumultuous times—how exhausting it can be to show up with humor or lightness when the world feels like it’s unraveling. They also spoke honestly about the tension of wanting to speak up for their neighbors while worrying about the safety of the

The other day, I was chatting with someone when it happened—that familiar tightening I hadn’t felt in a while. My fists were clenched. My shoulders were high. My mind felt foggy and overworked. And suddenly I recognized it. My body was telling me something it has told me before. The feeling was eerily similar to the mental exhaustion I carried during the height of COVID. Not the same circumstances, not the same level of isolation—but the same deep weariness that comes from wo

Here is your gentle (and hard-earned) reminder that sometimes it is not only okay, but holy, to advocate and ask for what you need. My hair has been growing out for several years now, and lately I’ve been trying to figure out what actually works for me when it’s pulled up and back. I’ve been experimenting with buns and up-dos, learning from YouTube tutorials late at night, trying to strike that elusive balance between what feels comfortable, what looks professional, and what

I’ve never been much for New Year’s resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in growth or intention—clearly I do—but the language of resolutions  has always felt a little too rigid for me. Too much pressure. Too much room for self-judgment when life inevitably gets messy. I tend to work better with hopes, intentions, and gentle goals that leave space for grace. That said, this year I am holding onto a very specific hope: I want to read more. The reality is that since 2020,

Nonviolent resistance is not new. It is as old as the prophets who stood in the public square and refused to be silent, as old as Jesus who disrupted unjust systems without raising a sword, as old as communities of faith who have said, again and again, this is not how it has to be. As a United Methodist clergyperson, I am shaped by our Social Principles , which remind us that faith is never meant to be private or passive. The Social Principles call us to affirm the dignity an