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There’s something sacred about making bread. The slow rhythm of it. The mess it creates. The way hands move without needing to speak. Bread takes time. It doesn’t rush. It demands warmth and rest, and then more kneading, and more waiting. Maybe that’s why it feels like such an honest metaphor for the kind of love I’ve come to trust—not the performative kind, not the rule-bound kind I once learned in pews from pulpits, but the quiet, enduring kind that shows up with its sleeves rolled up and a willingness to get flour everywhere.

I’ve found that when love is a way of life, community doesn’t always look like a scheduled gathering or a sermon three points deep. It looks like the couch you crash on when the world’s been too loud. It looks like a kitchen that never really closes, where someone’s always willing to put the kettle on or have another cup of coffee. And even if it’s 2 a.m. and nobody knows what day it is anymore, love leans in.

Love in community looks like someone checking that you’ve eaten. Someone texting “you good?” even when they may not be. Someone giving time sacrificially, not because they have to—but because they get to. Because they love you, and that love is real, not ritual.

I used to think spiritual life meant polished shoes and reverent silence. I knew sacred spaces to have stained glass and still air. I knew holiness to come dressed in hierarchy. But now I know better. I’ve seen more of God in living rooms than in sanctuaries. I’ve experienced more communion in a kitchen, drinking from irreverent mugs and eating homemade baked goods than in any formal liturgy.

The holiest ground I’ve stood on in quite some time was the floor of a friend’s house who let me cry without trying to make anything better.

When love is a way of life, not a theological construct, community becomes a refuge instead of a proving ground. It becomes the place where bread is both made and broken in real time—not just as a symbol, but as sustenance. We don’t just remember love. We live it out loud. And we learn to let ourselves be loved in return, even when it’s hard. Even when it feels uncomfortable or unfamiliar.

Because the truth is, receiving love requires trust; not just in the love but in the one offering it. In their sincerity. In their wholeness. In the grace that led them to offer anything at all.

So I’ve stopped looking for the perfect table and started showing up at the one that’s already set. Sometimes the bread is store-bought. Sometimes the conversation trails off into raucous laughter… or silent tears. But it’s all sacred. Every crumb. Every moment of togetherness. Every cup of coffee poured like a blessing on the altar of another long, beautiful, aching day.

In all of life lived in this way, there is love… and it is holy.

Drop your shoulders, friend.
Lower your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
Relax your eyebrows.
Take a deep breath.

Know that I love you.
Know you are enough.
💜💜💜

I learned to scan the sky for storm clouds

every time the sun stayed too long—

I clung tight

because people slip

when I loosened my grip—

I was never asking for too much.

I was asking for consistency

in a world that kept moving the goalposts.

And then,

they arrived.

Not with lightning.

Not with thunder.

Just quiet presence

and eyes that didn’t look away.

They didn’t ask me to shrink.

They didn’t vanish when my voice cracked.

They didn’t label my longing

a liability.

They just held space

like it was holy.

They answered the text.

They showed up the next day.

They let me be,

without needing me to do.

And slowly—

oh so slowly—

My nervous system stopped flinching

at love.

I find peace

where there used to be panic.

Laughter

where there once was chasing.

Stillness

in the middle of connection.

They didn’t fix me.

They loved me in the weaving of a life that is soft and warm.

And in that soft, unshaken bond,

I am finally finding what safety feels like.

Not silence.

Not distance.

But this:

A love that stays

when I shake.

Friends who lean in

when I want to run.

Soul mates who prove—

not every great love story is romantic.

Some are resurrection.

Some are rewiring.

Some are renewing.

Some are rest.

There’s a trend going around social media where you pick a random group of people you know, hide your caller ID information, and call them to say “good night.” The results of these phone calls are sometimes hilarious, sometimes enraging, and often confusing.

It kind of strikes me as odd, though, that this kind of ritual connection which has always been presented as a soothing part of bedtime would be weaponized. And yet… it isn’t strange at all when taken in the context of the larger picture of how disconnected so many are from themselves and their shared humanity.

So at the end of this day, I’m choosing to shift this trend to move toward the world in which I would like to live. I’m not hiding who I am, I’m not limiting who I reach out to, and I’m going with this:

As this day comes to a close, take a moment to pause. Feel the weight of the day’s events settle, not as a burden, but as a reminder of your humanity and survival. Breathe deeply, and consider the quiet power of a simple connection.

Think of a comforting individual in your life—a friend, a family member, even yourself. Imagine their face turned toward you with kindness, their voice calmly speaking to you, their welcoming presence. Now, let these words form in your heart: Good night. I see you. I love you. You are enough.

Carry the image of yourself and that individual with you as you drift into rest. In choosing connection, we sow the seeds of a gentler, more loving world.

I love you, dear one.
Rest well.
💜💜💜

When the world trembles under the weight of its own unpredictability,
and a message brings news sharp enough to cut through the fiercest independence,
you learn who your people are.
Not just the ones bound by blood and birthright,
but those who choose to stay, time and again,
with love that defies convenience, expectation, or circumstance.

Even on a holiday weekend,
when calendars are painted with plans
and bodies yearn for rest.
When the whole world tilted there is no hesitation.
Stepping in as if it were the most natural thing to take on the weight of our world
so we could share the weight of another’s.

Not just watching children,
but guarding innocence,
crafting safety from chaos,
offering laughter where anxiety blooms.

Chosen family isn’t a title;
it’s a testimony.
It’s the arms that stretch wide when yours are too tired to lift,
the eyes that see you when you feel invisible,
the hearts that give courage
when fear inhibits a step into the unknown.

For the friends who turned crisis into clarity,
showed us that kinship isn’t in shared DNA
but in shared burdens,
in the sacred act of standing in the gap.

This is for you,
the quiet heroes who bind together the frayed edges of our hearts,
who say yes without hesitation,
who hold space,
offer grace,
and show up,
over and over,
in ways that ripple out and reshape the meaning of love.

This is for the ones who love out loud
so that we can all breathe together,
for the friends who are family
because love isn’t passive;
it’s a verb.

It’s the car packed in a hurry,
nights spent in the couch,
the meals shared with messy hands,
the late-night laughter that doesn’t need explanation,
the unwavering yes,
the safest no.

And in those moments when life unravels,
and fear threatens to choke out hope,
they show us this truth:
We are not meant to carry it alone.
When the world trembles,
they stand.

It seems like a lot longer ago than it has been since I was sitting in a quiet boat floating down the canals in Amsterdam. The return to real life certainly did not come gently. And yet, my mind keeps going back to the gentle sharing of facts and history that the skipper of that boat kept up throughout the tour. 

I learned things I hadn’t known before about the city built on a swamp that shouldn’t be able to exist, and how it has maintained a seemingly precarious balance beautifully for 750 years. I saw beauty in the quirks and slightly off-kilter places, and the reality that people are free to be themselves there was palpable. It is a place whose welcome and encouragement connected and still connects the world. I felt more at peace there than I have in very many places I’ve ever been. 

I felt like me there.

Returning to the country of my birth was a more foreign experience than I knew it could be, but I have gotten reaclimated and life has marched on. Finding common ground on a different side of the world definitely set the stage for stretching beyond what has always been when I got back, though. 

We spent this past weekend experiencing a wide range of new things on many levels. And as we lived and loved in new and growing ways there was definitely an increasingly real understanding of the phrase, “Home is where the heart is.” 

I could very much be at home in Amsterdam. People were welcoming and friendly. Places were beautiful and welcoming. And I was comfortable and confident being myself. But I am also very much finding home where we live now, also. Not as much in the warm welcome of strangers or the beauty of places I have known variations of for much of my life… but in the community that has grown to be a home I never dreamed possible. Both are very much felt experiences of home in recent weeks and I am thankful for their juxtaposition.

Near the end of the canal cruise, we floated by the house where Anne Frank hid during the writing of her diary. I had known it was there but wasn’t certain that we would go past it on this particular tour. When the building came into view and the skipper started talking about it, there was a kind of internal collision that occurred. This was not just a story from my childhood. There was a real place in this very real city where that very real human had been hidden from very real evils that have long seemed far-removed from my lived reality. 

Seeing it as the adult I am now in the life I am living made a world of difference in my experience of it. All the scared parts of childhood collided with my adult advocacy and healing in an instant. 

On the wall outside the museum next door is a quote from Anne’s father, Otto. It was one of the last pictures I took in Amsterdam and has stayed with me in the weeks since I’ve been home. 

“We cannot change what happened anymore. The only thing we can do is to learn from the past and to realise what discrimination and persecution of innocent people means.”

That’s what I am working to assimilate into my being now. The lived experience of being in a place like this, of looking into a space where humanity struggled to survive the worst of evils by hiding away, of being on the outside of that without taking on the role of evil, of knowing the weight of privilege and the responsibility of awareness.

I want to love in ways that honor humanity in all its forms because I believe that only in living that kind of love out loud can we hope to change the world. The hateful actions of individuals do not cause the most harm. It is the apathetic response of groups who perceive themselves to be unable to make change which result in chaos and the harms that are all too common. 

Love is the answer to it all. Not because it’s happy and rainbows, but because a healthy love counters apathy and empowers the compassionate and empathetic response that will ultimately win over hate. 

This week… month… year… has been rough. And there is no indication it’s getting any easier. I’m learning what this balance looks like in new ways every day.

Step back when you need to. Start with loving yourself by setting boundaries around what you consume or participate in. Lean in when you need to. Start with loving you by allowing yourself to be who you have always been. Whether leaning in or stepping back, be gentle. Live with compassion. Love with boldness. 

Drop your eyebrows.
Lower your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
Relax your shoulders.
Hand on your heart.
Breathe deeply. 

You’re not alone. Check in. Reach out. 
I love you.
💜💜💜

I laughed. I cried. I learned. I rolled my eyes. This one article has all the makings of a decent made for tv movie… but it’s real life and oh, so timely.

A long time ago in a life that seems very far from now, I heard a story about raising a special needs child. It told of planning a trip and learning a language, and getting all prepared to go to Italy… and then arriving and finding yourself in Holland. The writer wrote beautifully about how it was sad to not have made it where you were aiming to be… but also about the beauty of the place where you are.

I learned that story as we were finding out diagnoses and realizing the realities of the life we would live as far as we could tell them to be at that time. And ever since then I have dreamed of going to Holland. Tulips have long been my favorite flower, and I have very much grown into a vibrant and colorful life as I have done the work to love myself and the world around me in healthier ways.

On Wednesday night, I left home to make a last minute effort to get to my younger brother’s wedding. I kept wanting to just buy a ticket and go but I wasn’t sure until the very last minute whether I would be able to or not. So standby was the option.

Just as it looked possible from a life view, flights started filling up and much was left very questionable.

Leaving ICT, I barely made it to Dallas. The flight was full but someone didn’t show so they stuck me on. From there, I was struggling to get to the east coast. Flights direct to Paris (where the wedding is) were not happening on standby from DFW. At the absolute last moment, I realized that I could go west to get east… even if Mom has always said that was impossible. I jumped on a plane with plenty of room to Vegas, where I immediately landed and boarded a red eye to Philly.

Just that much of the trip was an adventure. But it was simple. I knew the language. I had prepared for the time in airports and making connections. And from Philly, there was the possibility of a direct flight to Paris.

So, I waited.

About ten hours into my twelve hour stint in the airport there, it became apparent that it would take a miracle for me to get that flight. It was full. And oversold. And I was at the bottom of the list. So I looked and looked, spending multiple breaks from roaming the ENTIRE airport looking at where all I could fly direct to see if anything had actual room. Zurich, Madrid, Nice, Frankfurt, London… one by one, the flights filled and it looked hopeless. And plus, it was very unlikely that I would be able to successfully navigate getting on into Paris without languages or experience or any time to study up.

Several weeks ago when I figured out this might be possible, I had looked at Amsterdam, but it seemed so silly. Fly further to catch a train back to Paris?!? I barely had time to get to Paris, let alone add anything to the trip. And as much as I wanted to go to Holland, it would be like Italy for me. Foreign… unknown… scary.

Wouldn’t you know it, though… that’s the flight that still had room. At the very last minute before it boarded, I transferred over to a flight from Philly to Amsterdam. And off I went.

This morning, I find myself contemplating life on a train to Brussels… and ultimately Paris. I’ll get in this afternoon having gotten a whirlwind tour of places I have long dreamed of seeing. It wasn’t that difficult (no matter what Sean tells you 😘.)

I will make it in time to hug my younger brother and sister, to celebrate the last of our sibling weddings, and to take a deep breath in a place I never thought it would be possible to see in person before starting the long journey back.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think this would really work. But it did. And, fun fact, even Holland isn’t as Holland as I might’ve imagined. 😂 Thankfully, I did manage to snag a couple clogs and spot an old school windmill amidst all the modern that exists here now.

Life is so strange. I had no clue when I started that breaking cycles, finding balance, and living love out loud could make this much difference. But I’m a world away today, and also very much in love with life at home. I’m thankful for a job with a company that works to make a difference, spending each day with people who believe in me. I’m thankful for friends and family holding down the fort at home. I’m thankful that I have made it to a point in life where both going and staying are such good options.

And I’m beyond thankful to my younger brother for his hopelessly romantic streak without which this trip wouldn’t have happened. 🥰

Find your dream and live it friends. You only have one life… and it’s not too late to love it.

After a tense night of travel, I’m letting every part of me relax intentionally as I travel. You can do it wherever you are, too.

Drop your shoulders.

Lower your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

Relax your eyebrows.

Breathe deep.

Know you are loved… from all the way around the world. 💜💜💜

I think it’s funny how often we perceive someone else to be ahead of us on the journey… This caught my attention in a conversation with a friend I used to have years ago and came back to mind when I was reflecting on how that relationship has changed me in its slow ending…

It’s a trick of the mind, I think. Like when you’re falling asleep and all the sudden you startle as if you are somehow really falling. Or how you can close your physical eyes and pull something to your mind’s eye to examine closely even though it’s nowhere near you.

For most of my years knowing this person, it felt like they were out there ahead of me somewhere… and I just wished that someday I could be up there and helping people, too.

As I did my healing work, reality seemed to shift a bit… and for a while I looked around and wasn’t sure where they were. If I closed my eyes, I could pull them to mind, but I wasn’t sure where they were or if we were even in the same space anymore.

As I finished up some work tasks after being with that person one of the last times our relationship felt real, it dawned on me that part of the defiance of imposter syndrome has been the willingness to wake up and open my eyes. I lived so many years afraid to catch see myself in the mirror that I just dropped my head and hoped that I bumped into people gently. I couldn’t risk looking up, and it was exhausting…

To see the world around me, I had to approach it with the knowledge that I would sometimes also have to see myself… whether in the mirror as I push myself to be better or in the reflection of people I encounter. But it meant risking the pain of self-reflection and engagement.

When I look around now, fully awake and willing to engage with my actual world instead of imagining things as I wish them to be, people such as who I thought this individual to be are there… not far away, close enough to reach out to.

Because people like them are just people, too. I just couldn’t see clearly because I only had my mind’s eye… and its skewed perspective.

What people who have done their own healing work do is amazing. It matters. It helps make the world a better place. The jobs they do are hard and heavy, and their personal efforts are evident as they execute the support they offer others with a grace for which many others have not yet found the capacity.

But what they do, what you do, what I do, is not who we are. And I’m so thankful that we are all human. Not because that makes us weak, or common, or the same… but because it makes you you. It makes me me. It makes us us. And it makes the world go round.

I’m not out here doing anything that I could do on my own.
I’m not in it alone… and no one has to be.

Keep pushing, friends. None of us are way off in the distance moving on without you…

Rest if you need to.
Blink until your eyes adjust.

It was the beginning of December when I first “met” my friend. No one could have prepared me for the life changing reality that would come with knowing them.

The first conversation we had was hours long. So many things came together as the history I had long lived but not been allowed to give voice to became reality. My story, our story, the story of so many, was not new to them.

As we talked, we came to understand the depth of our connections. Not just because of our shared spiritual family of origin… Not just because of similar educational pursuits or the efforts to advocate for healthier ways of handling abuse within the structured religiosity… but somehow there were a million tiny threads of my past and future that connected in that conversation.

We messaged periodically after that until they couldn’t anymore. A multitude of health problems and a terminal diagnosis was slowly becoming real. After a couple more times on the phone… suddenly the loss was looming.

Now, I sit grieving. Not for them. Not even for myself. But for the loss to the church of our history and the world as a whole.

My whole lifetime, this crusader fought the demons that stole my childhood. And in the coming days and weeks the weight of loss will become more and more real. The responsibility of carrying on the fight cannot be buried, neither in the grave nor by grief. And so I press on, thankful to have been gifted the knowledge of much that has gone before to encourage me on my way.

I don’t doubt that this person will slip into eternity quietly. The church may acknowledge the forward-facing side. It may honor the “ministry” in generalities and acceptable terms. Nothing of the larger efforts to live love out loud will be spoken officially. But that will not be the end. This story will be told in my life and mission, if nothing else.

Your work will not be in vain, friend. Thank you for all you did. Thank you for who you are. Save me a seat and someday we’ll sit and have all the kinds of fudge we can imagine while laughing instead of crying.

Beloved, the sun today may rise dimly in your spirit.
Even as the tomb is empty, and Love has risen,
The weight of the stone may still linger.

Because resurrection is not without struggle.
It still comes, even in the shadows,
With the quiet promise of grace.

And this, too, is resurrection.
Not because anyone earned it
But because grace cannot be contained.

Come out of the tomb of striving,
Where shadows weigh heavy.
Step into the light of hope,
Where Love restores and renews.

You are called by name,
Not for what you have done,
But for who you are…
Beloved.

In the garden, your name is spoken.
It is a whisper of spring, a call to step forward into life.
Not with judgment, but with tenderness.
Not with demands, but with delight.

Beloved, the grave cannot contain Love,
And shame cannot hold you.
Love has conquered death,
And you are free.

Go now into this Easter morning.
Walk with confidence as one who is loved,
Shine with radiance as one who is alive,
Proclaim with the boldness of one who knows:
You are already enough.