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’ve never been much for New Year’s resolutions. It’s not that I don’t believe in growth or intention—clearly I do—but the language of resolutions  has always felt a little too rigid for me. Too much pressure. Too much room for self-judgment when life inevitably gets messy. I tend to work better with hopes, intentions, and gentle goals that leave space for grace. That said, this year I am holding onto a very specific hope: I want to read more. The reality is that since 2020,

The new year always arrives with a kind of quiet insistence. It doesn’t knock loudly like a holiday or demand attention the way a birthday does. It simply shows up, standing there in the doorway of our lives, asking us to notice what has been carried forward and what might be ready to be folded differently. For me, this noticing often begins in the most ordinary of places: the laundry room. Laundry has a way of marking time. Loads come and go with the rhythm of weeks and seas

Every so often I hear — explicitly or implicitly — that women are “opting out,” “slowing down,” or somehow losing ambition, especially when it comes to their jobs. As if we all just collectively decided one day that striving was overrated and naps were the new corner office. Across workplaces and ministry contexts, women continue to shoulder disproportionate burdens, contributing extraordinary labor that too often goes unseen and unrewarded. A recent Women in the Workplace re

Every now and then, a metaphor pops into my brain that’s just too good to ignore. I love cooking and baking competitions. Lately I’ve been watching a lot of Chopped and The Great British Bake off. Chopped is a frantic Food Network show where chefs are handed a mystery basket of ingredients. As I was watching Chopped the other day,  I thought: Oh my goodness… this is also pastoring. To be honest, for a fleeting moment, I thought this metaphor applied during COVID pastoring too

C & C at the Fall Showcase It’s a beautiful thing when you see someone—especially a kid—find that spark, that thing that lights them up from the inside out. But here’s the truth we don’t talk about enough: even when you find  your passion, it doesn’t always come easily. Sometimes you hit a wall. Sometimes you want to quit. And sometimes, that’s the exact moment you’re on the edge of a breakthrough. This past summer, my son was ready to hang up his drumsticks. We’ve always tri

Rev. Dr. Anna Howard Shaw Quote: "...hold fast to that which God had given you; let no power, no injustice, no obstacle, no scorn, no opposition, let nothing extinguish the flame... never take your truth down to the world's level." A colleague of mine, Jenny Smith , wrote a poem—a poem she didn’t want  to write. She said it felt too big, too heavy. And yet, she wrote it anyway. Because sometimes, silence is a luxury we can’t afford. Her poem, posted on her Facebook page , beg

Not long ago, someone asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks: “Why don’t preachers preach from the Bible anymore?” I’ll admit, I was taken aback. My first instinct was to laugh — not in a dismissive way, but in surprise. Because as far as I know, I do preach from the Bible. Every week, in fact. That’s literally where I begin. So, I took a breath and asked this person to tell me more — to unpack what they meant. I got curious. They weren’t able to fully articulate t

This morning, I had breakfast with my dad. Now, before you think I’m seeing things, I should tell you—my dad died in April of 2024. But that doesn’t mean he’s gone. The communion of saints, or what the writer of Hebrews calls “a great cloud of witnesses,” isn’t confined to some distant heaven. I believe they surround us, especially in the small and ordinary moments of our lives. Today, my breakfast was simple—an “Egg in the Basket,” one of those meals that’s more about comfor

This was my late 1980's dream bag! When I was a girl, there was an older kid on my bus who teased me relentlessly. Every afternoon, it was the same routine. I carried a bright red bag my mom had made for me — handmade with love, but shaped, unfortunately, like a bright red pizza box carying bag. I had wanted a GAP tote bag like everyone else. Instead, I got laughter. Kids called me “pizza face,” which cut even deeper because, on top of everything else, I was battling teenage

A bright orange guitar pick with Gsus Saves on it. My office manager handed me this guitar pick earlier this week — bright orange, with the words “Gsus Saves” and a guitar chord chart printed right on it. I laughed out loud at first. It’s clever, right? A pun that strums right at the intersection of faith and music. But the longer I held it in my hand, the more I realized — there’s actually a little theology in this tiny triangle of plastic. On one side, there’s the Gsus chor

Lately, I’ve noticed something delightful happening at the protests around Portland—frogs. Well, actually, it started with a chicken costume. Then frogs showed up. Then two people in inflatables got married. But now I’m seeing frogs all over the place. Not just one or two, but a growing collection of inflatable frogs, stuffed frogs, squeaky frogs, drawn frogs, and frog hats. These amphibian companions have become small, vibrant symbols of something much deeper than whimsy. Wh

The start of something beautiful - I've been tasked to make a stole - one that will be shared among the Elders in our Annual Conference. I rounded out my renewal leave this week with an Order of Elders gathering in Hood River, OR. I found myself throughout our time together, sitting in that familiar space between conviction and questioning — that tender tension where God’s Spirit tends to do some of the best work. For the past few months, I’ve been wrestling with some vocatio

A Christmas Tree Farm in Silverton, OR I grew up believing my calling was to be a teacher. I was the kid who lined up her stuffed animals and gave spelling tests. (They were excellent students, by the way.) So when I switched course in college and said I was going into ministry instead, people who only nominally knew me were slightly puzzled. “Why not teaching?” they’d ask. I usually smile and say, “I am still teaching." Because honestly, I never stopped teaching. Most Sunday

The world feels so big and overwhelming right now. Some mornings I wake up and wonder what fresh headline will undo for the rest of the...