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