Faith • Grief • History • Hope
Faith • Grief • History • Hope
Seven Sundays ago, I thought I was waiting for something to begin. Now, as I cross the threshold into a new ministry, I wonder whether the waiting was itself a beginning, teaching me to listen more deeply and ask what love requires of us now.
From my table, I can hear boats sounding their horns across the water—reminders that even peaceful seas can become dangerous. This week, that familiar sound led me back to a familiar Gospel story and to eleven disciples whose quiet faithfulness I had overlooked.
The garden teaches us to see. The table teaches us to love. And sometimes the miracle begins when someone pulls out a chair and says, “There is a place for you here.”
What if the question is not how to attract new life, but whether we have made room for it to grow? A stubborn patch of knotweed, a few unexpected shoots, and Jesus’ parables of the Kingdom invite us to consider what love requires of us now.
Somewhere along life's journey, each of us needs a Bethany—a place where we can rest, be restored, and remember who we are before continuing down the road.
A chair quietly keeps the history of everyone who has ever occupied it. Some remind us of those we miss. Others wait for someone we have not yet welcomed. Love has always known how to make room.
We spend so much time trying to smooth away the uneven places in our lives.
But perhaps the marks left behind by love, struggle, and time are not flaws at all.
Perhaps they are signs that life has been lived there. ☕