I’m really good at plowing through pain. I tell myself that it’s the only way someone with chronic pain like me can get things done. I want to tackle as much as I can–be it work, chores, exercise, or fun, in community and on my own, because inevitably, the pain will force me to stop. When I’m forced to stop, I keep still and wait until the pain eases. I have to wait it out for days, sometimes weeks. Those days are difficult, often laced with confused emotions, guilt, anxiety, and sadness. So on the flip side of doing too much, I find myself doing very little, while waiting. Through college, graduate school, work, and married life, this pain controls what I can or can’t do, my mood, relationships, confidence, interests, and plans. 

This summer, desperate and discouraged, I enrolled in a 12-week pain rehabilitation education program at Mary Free Bed Hospital, in Grand Rapids, Michigan. There, our cohort was presented with an alternative way of getting things done: pacing. Mind blowing and groundbreaking? Not really. It’s simple, but most of us are terrible at remembering to do it. I believe anyone, not just those of us dealing with illness and pain, would benefit from practicing a “slow and steady” approach to life.

When pacing, activity is timed and we plan rest breaks. Rest does not equate to doing nothing. Rest or downtime activities are intentional restorative activities. Some examples of rest include sorting the mail, making a phone call, hydrating, pausing from looking at the computer to rest our eyes, messaging a friend, and deep breathing exercises to bring our stress level down.

Remembering to rest while we’re still going strong doesn’t happen easily. My brain refuses downtime because I believe I can do more. We like to connect frequent rest breaks to unhelpful narratives of I’m not giving it my all or I'm lazy. Knowing this would be an issue, our instructor told us to set a timer. Our timed activity is determined by taking the average length of time we’re able to tolerate activity free of pain, reduced further by 20%. I’m now pacing my daily exercises and outdoor yard work. Instead of letting pain determine how long and far I can walk or do yard work, I time both activities so they last only 15 minutes. Since pacing, I’ve actually been able to do more in the long run. This in contrast to previously trying to power through in one fell swoop, followed by days of being out. By breaking up my activities and planning periods of rest, I feel more in control, instead of overwhelmed by the unpredictability of pain and pain itself.

Where in your life are you being invited to pace and intentionally plan restorative breaks? How might pacing strengthen your relationship with God and loved ones? What are some examples of ways you like to rest and restore? How have others demonstrated “slow and steady” for you?


Continue the conversation in the comments, below!

There’s a saying in Western Oregon where I live: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” This is especially apropos in early spring, when gloom and rain descend one minute, and sunshine prevails the next. Hail. Rain. Sun. Rain. Clouds. Repeat through March and into April. Darkness and light juxtaposed daily.
 
I’m writing on Good Friday, the darkest day imaginable for those first followers of Jesus. They see their friend tortured and put to death, then, in despair and fear, lock themselves into a room together and try to wrap their minds around the events of the previous few days. With their hearts and minds a tangled mess, they huddle to hash out their futures. What’s going to happen now?
 
Just hours earlier, Jesus had hosted a special supper just for them. They shared a meal, and as they sat around the table Jesus promised that he was going to be with them always. He gave them wine to drink and bread to eat—tangible reminders of his presence with them. In them.
 
Towards the end of their time together, Jesus wrapped a cloth around his waist and knelt to wash each disciple’s feet in turn. Peter objected: “Master, I should be the one washing your feet!”
 
“No,” Jesus said. “I do this for you so that you will be ready to do the same for others.” He was showing them how to respond to the Imago Dei—the image of God—in each person they met. Every time they offered hospitality or care for a neighbor, God would be there.
 
By the time you read this we’ll have moved past Good Friday and through Easter. The Light will have overcome the darkness, Life prevailing. Oregon’s spring weather will continue to fluctuate, but temperatures will get milder, the rains softer. I’ll go out to my flower beds and discover that the peonies I planted last year have sprouted and pushed their way up through the mulch. Life has been moving, growing in the darkness, hidden. Even when I couldn’t see God, God was there.

 
Continue the conversation in the comments, below!

​“Aargh!”

“Rejoice!”

A growl and a song emerged from my lips in quick succession as I stood at the changing table with my 1-year-old son on Christmas Eve morning. With the confidence of someone who believes they have a wipe firmly in hand, I had plunged my bare finger into my son’s soft, warm, wet filth.

The disgust and frustration with myself lasted longer than my exclamation, but I quickly switched back to singing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” We sing to our son on the changing table, as this tends to keep him happy and distracts him, in the hope that he would not feel the need to flip onto his stomach or stick his own hands into his mess. It works. Sometimes.

My wife later pointed out the strange juxtaposition she experienced hearing these two distinct shouts from the other room, transitioning smoothly from irritation to exultation. It made me think of the “already” and the “not yet” of Christmas. The “already” being the assurance we have that Jesus entering the world as a baby, the life he led, his death, and his resurrection have changed things utterly. And the “not yet” being the recognition that the fullness of this promise will not be with us this side of eternity.

As we live in the “not yet,” we are called to join with God in the work of bringing more of the “already” into our present. As Jesus left his heavenly throne to live in the messiness of our world, we, too, will need to get our hands dirty (both metaphorically and, as with my hand on Christmas Eve morning, literally). In “The Work of Christmas,” Black theologian, educator, and civil rights leader, Howard Thurman, shows us how:
 
“When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among others,
To make music in the heart.”
 
As we engage in this work of Christmas all year long, it will sometimes be more “Aargh!”, as the world is not as it was meant to be. And it will sometimes be more “Rejoice!”, as Christ has made and is making all things new. And it will often lead us to shout both at once, as we live in both the “already” and the “not yet.” May God grant us the grace and ability to hold and live out the “Aargh!” and the “Rejoice!” of Christmas together throughout the year!


​Continue the conversation in the comments, below!

In church recently we sang this song:
 
"In the heart of God,
calm and quiet is my soul,
like a little child,
resting in its mother's arms"
 
In years past when we’ve sung this, I’ve relished the thought of my soul being calm and quiet, tucked up in the heart of God. But this time as I sang it, I held my own baby, and marveled with humble gratitude at his contentedness within my arms. A healthy parent works to be a safe refuge, a dependable comfort, a reassurance. And I get the opportunity to try to be that for my son. On most days, so far, it seems like he finds that calm, that refuge, that comfort, that reassurance in me.
 
As a spiritual director, I’m fascinated by people’s God image. That is, by how a person pictures/imagines/perceives God, and where that image comes from. Do they view God as exacting? Distant? Tender? Forgiving? Humorless? Unpredictable? Comforting? Research shows that our earliest conceptions of God typically link with how we experience our primary caregivers when we’re young. Chances are, the way we perceive God reflexively (which may be different from what we’d actually tell others we believe about God) aligns with how we view or viewed one or more of those caregivers. Of course, this isn’t always the case. But I’ve seen it hold up many times.
 
As I rocked my baby to the beat of the song, I pondered: Could it be that even though he hasn’t been able to understand my words when I’ve told him about God, my son will be able to know—that in fact, he already knows—a little of who God is because of me? I am in awe of that possibility, and pray I may help his soul know love and safety and quiet in God.
 
And at the same time I pray that none of my shortcomings obscure his sense of who God is. That God is always bigger than me to him. That God will be a safe refuge, a dependable comfort, and a reassurance for him when I am not.
 
I believe all of us have an opportunity to show a little of who God is to others, whether or not we are parents. In fact, we can help to expand or counterbalance the limited or flawed perceptions of God others might be carrying since their childhoods. We might do this for our friends, our spouses, our parents, our coworkers, and even the people we cross paths with at the grocery store. How have people done that for you? How might you do that for the people you encounter today?

Continue the conversation in the comments, below!

 
(Song by Stephen Iverson)
(Photo by Anne Fischer Photography)

Meditation can be challenging or intimidating to start. Sitting in silence, focusing on your breath, or figuring out what to focus on can feel daunting. Keeping up your practice might also be hard. Life can be eventful, and circumstances can alter your rhythm, and before you know it, you are off schedule, and it's hard to get into the routine again. I've experienced all of the above, and I will briefly share what has helped me.

My introduction to meditation started in a therapist's office years ago, and it seemed like it wasn't for me. Then when one of my kids' therapists mentioned meditating through breathwork, I was still hesitant. I thought, "You got to be kidding me. How could sitting quietly and not doing anything help my kid or me?" We are doers and like to get things done, and sitting is not doing; it's simply being. Later, I realized that simply being and focusing on my breath was exactly what I needed.

During a COVID wave, I was a night chaplain at a hospital, and sleeping was tough. Since by that time I actually wanted to be still and do nothing and was desperate for sleep, I tried meditating. I did a free trial of the Calm app and found great comfort and centeredness. Then I bought the app and did it for about two years, until COVID calmed down and so did my anxiety.

I started spending less time meditating after life began to calm down, but one night recently I was at home, lying in bed, and my anxiety was high. I remembered one of my favorite breathing practices to help calm me down, and tried to use it again. It goes like this:

• Breathe in through your nose for four counts.
• Hold your breaths for four counts.
• Breathe out your mouth for eight counts.

When I felt my body calm down through this breathing practice, I realized I wanted to regain my meditation rhythm, so I tried a different app called Insight Timer. Insight Timer is unique because, unlike Calm, it has some Christian-based mediations, and helps connect your mind, body, and spirit.

​If you are new to meditation, try one of the apps I mentioned, such as Calm or Insight Timer. Alternatively, if you need to regain your rhythm, try something new or different such as the Headspace app or the guided meditations available on YouTube, Instagram, TikTok, or Spotify. 

Happy meditating!


(Continue the conversation in the comments, below.)

During this Easter season, I’ve been reminded of how my relationship with the church calendar has grown over the years. Growing up, the Easter season in my church and family included Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter celebrations. During college, I joined a church that commemorated Ash Wednesday and Lent, which expanded my engagement with Easter from a week to a month and a half. Integrating Ash Wednesday and Lent into my yearly rhythm has been a helpful practice for me in preparing for Easter. My participation in the Easter season expanded yet again when I became a member of a church that had a Maundy Thursday service. I found it helpful to take time to focus on Jesus washing the disciples’ feet at the Last Supper and giving them the new command to love one another. As my Easter season grew, I gained multiple opportunities to engage in the meanings, complexities, and beauty of Easter in new ways across a longer period of time. 
 
The most recent expansion of my celebration of the Easter season began when I learned that the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter was called Holy Saturday and could be understood as a continuation of Good Friday. Good Friday has been my favorite church service of the year for a long time, because it is so different from other services. With the goal of experiencing what it was like for those actually present at Jesus’ crucifixion and burial, there is greater space for sadness, grief, longing, and uncertainty. I experience a profound weightiness in the extinguishing of lights throughout the service; the waiting in silence at the end of the service before leaving as you feel led; and the deliberate lack of acknowledgement that Easter is coming.

Holy Saturday creates space for reflection on what it was like for Jesus’ followers the day after his death and burial. Sadness, grief, fear, disorientation, anger. How they must have felt shaken to their very core. 
 
The events of the past few years—global, national, local, and personal—have both prepared me for such a day and also made such a remembrance more important, salient, and poignant for me. The sadness for all of the pain in the world. The grief for the loss of loved ones, jobs, homes, relationships, security. The fear in the waiting and not knowing if a loved one will survive an illness or injury, a natural disaster or an act of violence. The disorientation of having what you thought you knew, had held so dear, and had taken for granted being challenged. The anger at ongoing injustice. I know I am not alone in this, and perhaps this provides us with not only more ways to enter into the experience of Holy Saturday, but also more of a need to do so. I am grateful to have times set aside specifically to do so, if I will only partake. 

Continue the conversation in the comments, below! 

​A few weeks ago I did one of those silly, arbitrary, Internet things: I looked at a “word search” grid with the prompt, “The first four words you see are your words for the coming year.” My eyes scanned the image and out popped connection. Then, strength, breakthrough, heal.

I don’t usually put much stock in random activities like these, though I sometimes do find a word or phrase speaks to me in a particular way and I adopt it for a season. A few years ago the word was health. I wrote “health” on a pebble with a Sharpie and stuck it in one of my houseplant pots as a reminder (it’s still there). Another time I wrote at Easter, “I need to trust that there is something new for me.” I’d been feeling stuck, worried about quitting a job and moving on to something else.

So these four words--connection, strength, breakthrough, heal—have been flitting around in my brain for awhile. I’ve been thinking about how they might anchor me in the coming year. Coming out of pandemic mode, I’ve wondered if I need to take steps towards more intentional connections with people again. I’ve almost forgotten how much I need others in my life. Will I find strength in unexpected places? What might a breakthrough look like in 2023? What places in my spirit need healing?

I’m going to be thinking about these questions as we enter 2023. And rather than make resolutions, I’m going to try to open myself up to notice the ways the Spirit might be speaking and moving in the year before me.

What might 2023 have for you?

Continue the conversation in the comments, below! 

​

Sometimes the seasons of silence that follow a shift are the ones that are the hardest.
After the death of a loved one. After a dream is destroyed. After a relationship ends.
It can be so easy to cling to what is no longer present. 
To yearn for what can no longer exist.
It can be difficult to let go of what is gone, in order to embrace what is. 
In order to honor the loss. In order to give tribute to the good that may have been.
In order to notice the truth of what can still be.
Wholeness.
Life. Even after the silence. 

Do not ignore the seasons of silence. 
Of exhaustion. Of weariness. Of deep mourning.
They are necessary. 
They are times to pay attention to the ways in which your spirit is connected to the Spirit in others. To the ways in which your essence is poured out from the Source of Life.
 And, to remember.
There is still life. Even after the silence.


Prayer: Lord, I know you are the source of abundant life. Help me hear you even after the silence. Amen.


(Adapted from Healing from Broken Dreams: 7 Devotional Lessons for New Beginnings, written by Tiona Cage and featuring music from Sharif Iman)


​What stands out to you from this piece? What does it stir up in you?

"For everything that keeps us living we speak our words of true thanksgiving." (Miranda Paul, children's book author)
 
You know that saying, "You don't know what you got 'til it's gone"? Well, it seems like a lot of things have been gone lately due to a short supply. I haven't been able to find my kids' juice, their mayonnaise without soybean oil, or the type of gluten-free bread they eat. This wouldn't be a big deal if our family didn't have life-threatening food allergies. I can't help but thank God my kids are teenagers now because if they were babies, with the recent short supply of formula, they would have likely been in the hospital as we only had one type of formula we could use. And we can't forget the toilet paper shortage we all experienced not too long ago.  

We are living in a sparse and scarce world, and I confess I have allowed a scarcity mindset to overtake me. Maybe you, too, have had a scarcity mindset as food, gas, housing, and everything else has gone up in price. Perhaps you have asked questions like, how will we have enough? When will we reach the ceiling?
 
Sometimes, Forbes and other online business magazines try to answer these questions. What they can't do is heal the wounds or fears in my heart, and when I am honest with myself and God, I recognize my heart is scared. So the question I need to answer is, how can I find comfort for my heart? Can I try to see or explore scarcity through the eyes of Christ?
 
When I try to see scarcity through the eyes of Christ, I first think of Matthew 6:31-34. In the Passion Translation, this passage says: "So then, forsake your worries! Why would you say, 'What will we eat? Or 'What will we drink?' or "What will we wear?' For that is what the unbelievers chase after. Doesn't your heavenly Father already know the things your bodies require? So above all, constantly seek God's kingdom and his righteousness, then all these less important things will be given to you abundantly. Refuse to worry about tomorrow, but deal with each challenge that comes your way, one day at a time. Tomorrow will take care of itself."

Those words in Matthew are a lot more comforting than what Forbes says. It always comes back to seeking God's kingdom, and all these less important things will be taken care of (Matthew 6:25-34). Granted, it's not some magic system where we just seek God, and what we need is provided, but that could happen. God fed five thousand out of five small loaves of bread and two fish (Matthew 14:13-21). There is also the story in the Old Testament where Elisha told the widow who only had one jar of oil to use the oil she had to fill up every jar she could gather, and she was able to fill enough jars to more than pay off all her family's debts (2 Kings 4:1-7).

The next time you are in the store and can't find an item you are looking for, or can't afford what you need, I encourage you to seek Christ. Even then, we aren't always going to get the item, but maybe God is telling us, "I got your back and know what you need." Maybe our perspective will shift, and we'll realize that even while we don't have what we're looking for at the moment, God is providing us with peace, grace, strength, courage, joy, and more, as we wait for God to meet our other needs. 

What is God saying to you about provision? 

Continue the conversation in the comments, below! 

For more than 30 years I’ve carried with me a distinct memory of my maternal grandfather from my grandmother’s funeral. Grandma died at age 89 from leukemia, and Grandpa, a few years older, suffered from dementia at that time. When his caregivers positioned his wheelchair in the aisle at the funeral home, I wondered if he knew what was going on. Did he understand that Grandma had died? Did he sense an emptiness after nearly 70 years of marriage and companionship? Did he feel comforted by the people around him? Did he know that we loved him?
 
I pondered all this as the funeral service got underway. And when we began to sing a congregational hymn—“It Is Well With My Soul”—I heard a wavering but clear tenor voice. I looked over at Grandpa, and he was singing along confidently. It is well with my soul….
 
This moment became an epiphany of sorts: Spirit communes with spirit no matter one’s age, or gender, or mental acuity. Grandpa’s musical memory served him when his conscious memory couldn’t; truly all was well between his soul and God.
 
Every couple of weeks now I go visit my mom in the memory care unit of her retirement community. She’s 93 and doesn’t remember when I last visited or that I might be coming again on a particular day. But I come and I sit with her during the Tuesday afternoon hymn sing just to enjoy her company without the pressure of trying to converse or think of news to tell her. (She won’t remember anyway.) We turn the pages in the large print songbook, and I sing alto to her soprano. I know most of the hymns by heart and so does she. Great is thy faithfulness … Savior, like a shepherd lead us … What a friend we have in Jesus … It is well with my soul.
 
I’m comforted to know that Spirit understands our deepest longings, our heaviest burdens, our sweetest joys. The child with Down Syndrome. The hearing impaired. The elderly with diminished mental ability. The child too young to know theology or doctrine—Spirit ministers to and communes with all. My fragile mother can sing along with her “Pop”: It is well with my soul….

Continue the conversation in the comments, below! 

​