One of my favorite parts of getting ready to send my book into the world (nearly a year ago!) was putting together grief and hope tool kits for some of my early readers. I made some extras so I could continue sharing them.

Two weeks after the first stories were posted on that North Carolina wall, I burned them with rosemary (for remembering), mint (for love), and copal (for honoring the dead and for purity) as the holy offerings they were, asking for the God who promises to be near the brokenhearted to send each of them a sense of goodness or grace as I did.

I am on a plane headed to North Carolina to take part in the Wild Goose Festival. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to be there since 2019. I hope to see you there.

When I was six years old, I recited the twenty-third Psalm into a microphone as big as my face one night at church.

I’ve been thinking about ways of being I want to cultivate so that when I am old(er), I’ll be kind and gentle and maybe even a little bit wise. I’ve been thinking about it because I lost a parent last November. And because I’m a grandmother, which looked and sounded extremely ancient to me as a kid. I’ve been thinking about it because some of those I host in spiritual direction have been considering the kind of people they hope to become when they reach old age. Not for the first time, I am spurred on to love and good deeds as I bear witness to the stories, wisdom, and good questions of others.

I’ve been thinking about how all life emerges from the womb of relationship. The Trinity is three beings utterly themselves yet inextricably connected. And we’re invited into the holy communion of Parent, Child, and Spirit together.

I was in Tennessee when John Piper gave his famous “Seashells” talk at Passion’s One Day on a cold and rainy spring day in 2000. If you listened to the Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, that message’s significance was explored in episode 6…What I loved (and still love) about what he said that day is that it is a call to live for God and for others, to not waste your life but to spend it well. It’s a chance to consider, as Mary Oliver asked in “The Summer Day,” “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Piper’s critique of the toxic individualism and acquisitiveness bound up within the American Dream was apt.

What I have come to realize, however, is that he missed something significant about embracing rest and appreciating (and tending) creation

This is your invitation to be curious about joy. To take some time to remember how you played as a kid. What did you love to do when you were 5?

I love the story of Mary. I love that she was anything but a weak or passive vessel, simply glad to go along with whatever she was told when Gabriel arrived with shocking news. In the spirit of slowing down, I want to offer a simple practice of reflecting on that moment a bit. Maybe you’ll engage it now as you sip morning coffee or evening tea or maybe you’ll be drawn back to it later today or this week. It’s a practice you can engage alone, with family, or with your book club or community group.

My family’s house burned down thirteen years ago in the month of August. It was Friday the 13th. I know, right?

Whenever that time of year rolls around again, I have learned it is important to stop and remember. The first year, we gathered in what had been our living room and shared communion with friends and family. It was a tangible way to honor the loss and enact our hope and prayer for renewal and restoration.

God is full of lovingkindness and is as gentle as a nursing mother. And God is fierce and even hostile toward those who hurt his little ones, like a mother bear protecting her cubs. And since we’re made in God’s image, we’re also invited to be both gentle and fierce.

Jesus knew what was coming, but he wasn’t flippant or stoic. He didn’t paint on an expression of piety and push through. He didn’t talk brightly about how God is in control or quote his favorite theologian or Bible verse. He was sad and distressed.

Jubilee is important. It can be used to create rhythms of restoration and liberation that are essential for cultivating more shalom.

Too many of us have forgotten how to rest. We need to remember it is our ongoing invitation to receive rest and refreshing even in the midst of all that is hard and beautiful and complicated in the world.

That’s why I’m excited to announce that I’ll be speaking at The Invitation, a First15 Digital Retreat on September 17th to help address the challenges we face in connecting with God in this frenetic cultural moment.

There is an enormous cottonwood tree near my house. I walk past it daily, usually with my dogs. Sometimes I place a hand on the massive trunk and imagine the life to which its branches have born silent witness.

A decade ago, I was content with where I stood in terms of race and ethnicity. I’d been a consistent advocate for diversity in my white and male-dominated ministry contexts. I actively supported those adopting interracially. My bookshelves contained texts about multiracial ministries and families. One of my favorite passages was the portrait of the new earth in which “saints from every tribe and language and people and nation [have been made into] a kingdom and priests serving our God” (Revelation 5:9-10). It still is.

But some things happened that rightly unsettled my ease.

I didn’t grow up following a lectionary. That means that I haven’t typically associated John the Baptist’s fiery presence with Advent. His father in the temple and his pregnant mother with Mary, sure. But not angry, adult John.

I’ve been learning anew that Advent is more than a countdown to Christmas. It’s an aching, honest look at the depth of our lack, the ways we need the Holy to help and restore us. To save us. If there is anything that’s clear after this deeply hellacious year, it’s that things aren’t as they should be. And yet, it is also a reminder of how and why we have hope and what for.

"If you’ve been weary and anxious, I hope you’ll listen for whispers of hope and vitality from One who draws near to empower you to stand firm in the face of real danger, speaking and acting for lovingkindness and flourishing, especially in places of injustice.

Why would anyone want to read about people, especially children, experiencing the horrors of a concentration camp at any time but especially in the midst of a pandemic? Because stories of hardship and loss and struggle remind us that humans are resilient even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. We need to hear stories of overcoming even when things are going well. And we need them, even more, when things are hard or confusing. The Librarian of Auschwitz is such a story.