Ash Wednesday

I used to dread Ash Wednesday. Seemed like such a dreary affair - all that talk of sackcloth and ashes, of fasting and penitence. As a pastor, I would dip my finger into the ash with reluctance. Sometimes I could barely bring myself to say the words while tracing the sign of the cross on a forehead, particularly one of tender young skin. “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.” How was that supposed to inspire our Lenten discipline? It made me want to curl up in a ball.

I saw death as the enemy who would come snatch us up sometime, most likely against our will. I feared the sound of the footsteps down the hall or the call in the middle of the night, bearing the news of death’s visitation. The empty place at the table, in the mind and heart, felt like a wound that would never heal. And what of these I’ve known and loved longer? I couldn’t bear the thought. So why dwell, even for one day, on our mortality?

“I’m just so glad you weren’t there Sis,” he kept saying to me over and over again. We had both just received the news that my house had burned down. Trying to wrap my head around all my worldly possessions and beloved home going up in flames, I couldn’t quite grasp his sense of relief. Not until about a week later, when in the middle of serving communion, that truth punctured my fragile heart: I might never have looked in a beloved’s eyes and handed them the Bread of Life ever again.

All I can say is that the acute awareness of death’s possibility then and certainty sometime changed the way I experienced life. It is all gift. For however long it is given. It is precious. It is fragile. It is not to be taken for granted. And in the light of the awesome gift of life and the reality of death, a lot of stuff simply doesn’t matter, not one bit. I was so grateful for that startling clarity.

Of course, like many revelatory moments or wake up calls, that one passed. The luminosity faded with time, and I can fall prey to sweating small stuff while taking the Big Picture for granted with the best of them. I can live my days as if they're innumerable.

But it has changed the way I approach Ash Wednesday. Death comes to some too soon, and to others not soon enough, but it comes to us all. That is the sobering truth. Being reminded of that is not a call to despair, but a call to life.

The invitation of Lent is to relish as gift this moment, this day, this life, this self, these companions, and this Love stronger than death holding all of us together. It is about knowing we are God’s Beloved, experiencing God’s longing for us and our longing for God. It is about returning Home to the Heart of our hearts from wherever we have been, whether we stormed away with willful determination, or just drifted away unintentionally in the rush and confusion of these days. It is about taking a long, loving look at how we are living or not living these precious lives we have been given, and how with God’s help, we might live with more grace, generosity and purpose.

On this Ash Wednesday, may we know that we are dust and to dust we will return. But by God’s exquisite design, we are also beloved, and to Love we shall ultimately return. Why wait? God is with us even now, waiting, waiting, always patiently waiting for our return.

You don't need an excuse to slow down

Do you ever have trouble slowing down, or flat out stopping and resting when you need to? Do you ever secretly, or not-so-secretly, wish you had a “good” reason to slow down, a “reasonable” excuse to stop running so fast, pushing so hard? As if feeling bone weary, depleted, anxious or depressed, catapulting toward burn out, or sensing we’re missing the most important parts of our lives are not reason enough.

I’ve been thinking (again) about why it can feel so hard to slow down and actually get enough rest and nourishment to feel . . . well, human. Reflecting on my own tired, depleted state of being in December, I realized I had picked up the pace in the fall, and blown right through several water stops.

So I made some changes for the new year--recommitting to a more healthy rhythm of work and rest, discerning what I can give myself to and what I cannot, and prioritizing things that nourish me- in body, mind and spirit. Lo and behold, I find myself more calm, more clear, and paradoxically more generative than I’ve been in months.

Rest and nourishment. So simple. Then why do we feel so worn out much of the time?

Honestly, I’ve been wrestling with these questions for decades, when I first started asking myself why I felt compelled to move so quickly, stay so busy, feeling a near constant pressure to be more efficient and productive.

My first clue came when I visited Kenya on a foreign study trip, and I couldn’t understand why on God’s green earth people there walked “so slowly.” I actually couldn’t handle the ambling, meandering pace, so I would walk ahead of our Kenyan host and group, secretly hoping I might inspire others to speed up already (I know . . . cringe). Simultaneously, I marveled that many of the Kenyans we encountered seemed so much more free, joyful and alive. Go figure.

I also remember a snow day during seminary when all classes and activities were cancelled, and I felt delighted to stay hunkered down at home with my roomies, reading quietly and without rush by our pot-belly stove. Why did it take a “good excuse” to have that kind of day? (Not unlike the feeling I had early in the pandemic, once I got over the initial shock and and gave myself over to the mass slowing.)

Later that year, I found myself unexpectedly without the job that was helping me pay my way through grad school. At first, I freaked out about being without work and income. What would I do with myself? But then I decided the break was a gift, that I really could benefit from some time off to grieve some painful events of the past few years, and to discern what I wanted for my final year at Candler and beyond. I had heard for the first time that line about our being human beings, not human doings. It gave me pause. What might it feel like to have a month or two of just being?

I remember bumping into an acquaintance at Publix, who asked me what I was up to that summer. I told her what I just told you. To which she snipped, “So basically, you’ve become a non-productive member of society,” and hurriedly wheeled her cart past me down the aisle.

There it is. That is at least one of the reasons we do not slow down or stop, even when we desperately need to. That voice in our own head, or in others’ responses that chides: You only have value if you’re busy and productive.

It’s a lie. A big, fat, soul-sucking, life-draining lie. Sure we want to live and work with purpose, to serve the world with the gifts we’ve been given. But let’s face it, much of our busyness and productivity is not about that, not at all. In fact, sometimes we get moving so fast and furiously, doing so much, we lose the meaning altogether. Everything passes in a blur while we race to . . . race to where? We feel like we have to climb some proverbial ladder, but may sadly discover it’s leaning against the wrong wall.

And aren’t the Gospels full of Jesus warning us precisely about this?

Consider the lilies of the field.

Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.

You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?

Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.

Convicted that the pressure and rush, the busyness and exhaustion are not the abundant life God intends for us, I’ve been trying to slow down my life, in fits and starts, for twenty-five years. It’s still so hard! How easy it is to get hooked by those cultural messages about what makes for a good life, by concerns about how others will react if we do not do all the things.

There is another way. Sure it may feel like we’re swimming against a tide of very driven, very speedy fish, hell-bent on getting where they’re going. No matter. Slow down, look around, feel life all around you and in you. Otherwise, we might just miss the Ocean.

Warmly,

Kimberly

Sitting at the Feet

How’s it coming, friend?  We’re ten days into 2022 and I’m curious how you’re entering into this January. 

I’ve been grateful over the last week or so to reconnect with other souls on the journey and to really listen to each other’s stories and struggles, wild hopes and dogged fears.  The image that’s been coming to me is that we’re in a base camp, somewhere up the mountain called Life, each having trekked a different stretch of terrain.  And we gather around a camp fire and listen to one another.  This soul experienced a breathtaking vista.  This one is walking the hard pass through grief.  Another is switching paths altogether, trying to find the next clear blaze.  While another is finding ways to lighten the load of her pack. 

We are all different, carrying different loads, hiking different paths at different paces in different seasons of life.  We know we have to make our own journey.  But we know, or at least we’re beginning to sense, that we are not alone.  We warm our hands and hearts by the collective love and wisdom in the circle. We read sacred texts--ancient and contemporary maps that help us each and all find our way.  We’re nourished by the stories and celebrations.  Our hearts soften and expand as we take in the heartbreak and anguish of others.  We learn and grow without another soul trying to teach or fix us.

We’re different, but there is also a sense of solidarity.  We’re in this together.  And we love, encourage, and support one another by showing up regularly to one another, risking the vulnerability of sharing our own experience on the mountain.  We sit and listen to another, and discover we’re sitting at the feet of the Beloved, Wise Teacher and Friend.

The story of Jesus visiting his friends Mary and Martha has long been a favorite.  Here’s Eugene Peterson’s rendering from The Message:

As they continued their travel, Jesus entered a village. A woman by the name of Martha welcomed him and made him feel quite at home. She had a sister, Mary, who sat before the Master, hanging on every word he said. But Martha was pulled away by all she had to do in the kitchen. Later, she stepped in, interrupting them. “Master, don’t you care that my sister has abandoned the kitchen to me? Tell her to lend me a hand.”

The Master said, “Martha, dear Martha, you’re fussing far too much and getting yourself worked up over nothing. One thing only is essential, and Mary has chosen it—it’s the main course, and won’t be taken from her.”

As a Type A, Enneagram One, recovering perfectionist, I have long identified with poor Martha, clanging around in the kitchen and growing more resentful by the second, until she lets Jesus have it.  I am all too familiar with that, “Don’t you care?” refrain, often offered as a silent, desperate prayer.

But resentment is a flag and a cover for me, I’ve discovered.  It signals that I have an unmet desire or need--usually for more rest, pleasure, or ease--that I am pushing down because I feel like I HAVE TO be responsible, to keep on cranking in the kitchen to get things done.  Long thought to be in the anger family of emotions, it turns out resentment is a form of envy, as I’ve learned from devouring Brene Brown’s podcast Unlocking Us, and her newest book, Atlas of the Heart, where she defines and describes eighty-seven distinct human emotions and experiences. 

Here’s how she defines resentment:

Resentment is the feeling of frustration, judgment, anger, “better than,” and/or hidden envy related to perceived unfairness or injustice.  It’s an emotion that we often experience when we fail to set boundaries or ask for what we need, or when expectations let us down because they were based on things we can’t control, like what other people think, what they feel or how they’re going to react.

Ah, so maybe Jesus was on to something.  Maybe he was telling dear Martha where she longed to be. Maybe he was saying, we have to take time to rest from our labors, and come sit at his feet and hang on his every word.  Maybe he was inviting us all to come out of the kitchen, off the trail marked responsibility, and come warm ourselves with stories and poetry, looks of love and words of grace.

Yes, that’s where I long to be.  And who knows, but that sitting at the feet of Love may just transform the way we head back up that mountain called Life, and remind us, we never walk alone.

Warmly,

Kimberly

New Year's Blessings

Blessings of a fresh new year to you friends! I hope you enjoyed your holiday celebrations, connecting with your dear ones, and getting some much needed rest and renewal after another exhausting year.

As is often the case, I came into the past week with a long To Do list of things I'd like to get done before returning to work and school mode. And I come to week's end with very few items checked off.

Thankfully, I realized a few days into the week I did not need or want more decision-making, tasking and efforting. What I longed for were long, slow mornings, sleeping in, then reading and journaling in bed. I wanted to spend whole days and evenings with dear friends talking about our lives--the gifts and hardships we've experienced in 2021, and our hopes and dreams for the year ahead. I gave myself over to playing with my boys and their new Christmas toys and games, watching whole movies in bed with them, when we're not rushed to be anywhere else. It's been restful, playful, connecting, restorative. I feel like myself again.

When we lose ourselves in the flurry of activity, in the checking-things-off-the-list approach to a day or a week, how do we bring ourselves back, recenter, reorient ourselves? How do we discern if the life we are living is the one we actually want to be living, and make course corrections when we find we're off-track?

For me, the answer is prayer and reflection. Whether I do that in the quiet of my own bedroom, curled up with a guiding book and my journal, or whether I join with others asking meaningful questions, and really listening to ourselves and one another, I need regular pauses to really listen for guiding wisdom.

A new year is of course ripe for that kind of listening and reflection. I used to want to get it all done by December 31st, hit January 1 with clarity about goals and resolutions. With lived experience, I've found the reflection takes more time and space. Honestly, I like to give myself the whole month to look back, look ahead and re-orient myself for the new year.

If you are someone who longs for that kind of deeper reflection, or are at least curious about the gifts it may offer, I'd love to support you. Whether it's attending the Sacred Pause Retreat next Sunday, joining the Tuesday evening contemplative circles, or participating in the weekly FLOW of prayer, spiritual reading, and reflection, I hope Deep Waters may offer you space to really listen to your life and find new joy, meaning and direction in the year ahead.

Grace and peace in your 2022,

Kimberly

The Art of Spiritual Curation

We live in a world of a dizzying array of choices for almost everything - from cereals to social networks, coffee pods to podcasts, TV shows to travel destinations.  It can feel overwhelming, leading us to decision paralysis or fatigue, even over things that really don’t matter all that much.

We hunger for the spiritual life, in part, as a counter and corrective to our overconsumption.  We know there is more to life than binge watching, shopping or planning our next fabulous vacation.  We long for a way of life that is more simple and satisfying, that feeds our souls.

But when we start seeking out spiritual nourishment, the choices can be just as overwhelming.  Where should we begin?  What books should we read, faith communities should we visit, spiritual practices should we engage?  There are so many different denominations and churches, theological perspectives, spiritual teachers and resources, ways to pray and serve, how do we discern what is a good fit for us?

We each are created and shaped by a loving God with particular gifts, stories and experiences.  We have unique personalities and proclivities.  And we are in different stages and seasons of life and the spiritual journey.  So I really don’t believe there is a one-size-fits-all spiritual path.  We have to find our own way.

But we don’t have to find it alone.  One of the many gifts of spiritual direction is that a trusted guide can help you find spiritual nourishment for your unique soul, wisdom and guidance for your particular journey.  By listening to the story of your life, discovering the delightful particularities of how you are created, gifted and invited, learning about the specific longings and fears, questions and struggles you bring to the conversation, a spiritual director can direct your attention to a scripture passage or poem, a book or podcast, a spiritual practice or faith community intended to meet you where you are, and invite you to grow in your connection with God, your true self, and the other people in your life. 

Maybe you’re not so sure what you believe about God after some great suffering unraveled your faith.  Maybe you’d like to read the Bible but have no clue how or where to start.  Maybe you’re tired of carrying some great burden or secret that you need to let go.  Maybe you can’t bring yourself to say certain lines of a creed or a hymn because they just don’t ring true.  Maybe you’re grieving a great loss and are not sure how to come through.  Maybe you feel nudged toward some new vocation.  Maybe you left the church a long time ago, but still feel connected to God, especially in nature.  Maybe the prayer practice that has brought you this far now feels completely dry.  There are as many different reasons for seeking spiritual direction as there are human souls.  

Perhaps some of us grew up in faith communities where we were told exactly what to believe, how to pray, and what to read.  This may have felt safe and defining.  Or it may have felt oppressive and confining.  Either way, at some point, it is natural to need and want to seek and discover for ourselves, to sort out what we do and do not believe, what draws us close to God and what gets in the way, who we really are, where we belong, and how we’re called to live and serve in this world.  For a season, we may need to go it alone, not have anyone tell us what to do.  I get that.

But if you’re in that seeking, hungering, wondering season, and you’d like a little companionship, direction, and help finding your way through the thicket of possibilities, a spiritual director may be a welcome addition to your care team.  Among other roles, a director can be a sort of curator of spiritual content and experiences to help you find nourishment for your particular soul.

Spiritual Practice of Discernment

What in the world is God up to?

This is the central question of spiritual direction. Based in the radical belief that God is always present, active, moving in the world and in our lives, and we are invited, but never coerced, into discovering and joining God in that creative, healing, nourishing dance.

But how do know where God is, and what is ours to do?

This is where the spiritual art of discernment comes in. Which is far easier to describe than to actually practice.

When I was growing up in the Christian faith, I heard often about the importance of “knowing and doing the will of God,” of believing God had a plan for my life. I imagined it like a grand blueprint, all laid out, from start to finish. But when and how would God deliver it? How would I recognize “the signs?” I wasn’t given a whole lot of guidance or practice in discerning God’s will.

As I grew in faith and life experience, it became increasingly clear that God’s plan was not going to arrive as a master blueprint, and there would be no blinking neon signs pointing the way. I sometimes learned this quite painfully.

Like the time after my house burned to the ground and I lost pretty much everything. This most certainly was not in MY plan. Nor I do not believe that everything that happens to us is God’s will for us either. But it was a profoundly disorienting experience, and I was desperate for some sense of God’s presence, some meaning to come out of the rubble.

In that season of distress, I was invited on a hike with dear friends, one known for its stunning views and panoramas. Perfect. I just had a feeling that when we got out of town and into the clear, mountain air, God would give me a fresh vision for my life, show me the way out of this present darkness.

As it turned out, it was a dreary, overcast day. And as we drove into the mountains, they were thick with fog. My heart sank. It felt like a betrayal. How could God not show up when I was in such desperate pain and so hungry for clarity? I couldn’t decide if I was more angry at God for not coming through, or at myself for foolishly believing God would.

Nevertheless, I took to the soggy path, awash in disappointment and confusion, mind spinning in dark loops. But somehow, somewhere along the way, a wave of light pierced through. The day, the hike, the views were not what I wanted or prayed for. I could not see for miles and miles; in fact, the gloom was so thick, I could only see about ten feet ahead of me. But I learned that was enough; if I just focused on the path immediately ahead of me, and put one foot in front of the other, I could make the whole hike that way.

God did not show up that day in the way I wanted. I would not be given a clear, fresh vision for my life. But I do believe God was there, inviting me into a whole new way to journey. Showing me that discernment was less like the map in the trail book, and more like a hike in the fog. Maybe we don’t get the five-year, ten-year, whole-life vision, but can we see the ten feet in front of us, discern the next right thing, and unfold a whole life that way?

Even that can feel intimidating or challenging. There are so many paths, so many directions we can choose. So many voices calling us to be and do all sorts of things. How do we sort out the voice of our ego, from the voices of countless others in our lives and of the culture in which we live, from “the still, small voice” of God?

It is not easy. That’s why it’s called the practice or art of discernment. It takes time, space, quiet and listening. It takes trust, and that in itself, can be no small thing to cultivate in our relationship with God.

While we ultimately have to discern our own way, spiritual direction can help us tune in. At their best, spiritual directors offer another set of eyes and ears for the particular journey of your life, helping you spot a blaze you may have passed, a path you might not have considered, a way to lighten your pack, or a different way to walk, not to mention helping you see and savor all the gift and beauty along the way, even when you feel lost in the woods or in a blanket of fog.

Looking for another way to walk through the woods of your life? A spiritual director can be a lovely hiking companion. You can read more about spiritual direction here, or email me to set up an initial conversation. I am currently seeing people both live in my office at St. Bartholomew's and online via Zoom.

Interested in learning more about the spiritual practice of discernment? I invite you to join one of the Tuesday evening Wellsprings Contemplative Prayer Circles as we focus on this theme for the month of November. Or join the FLOW community practicing personal discernment each Monday morning in our Soul Tuning.

Warmly,

Kimberly

Loving in Particular

Mommy, you love me.

Yes, I love you so much, Luca.

Thus begins our daily nap litany. His face is about two inches from mine, his hand cupped behind my neck. He looks straight in my eyes.

And Daddy loves me. Theo, my brouduh loves me.

Some days, he expands to his grandparents and other family members, teachers and friends. Some days he includes Theo’s friends, by name, even if he’s only met them once. One of my favorites is when he says, Luca loves me.

My heart swells. Every. Single. Time. I love that he’s not asking me, he’s telling me. Like he’s so very sure. And he just wants to remind us both of the love we know, before he closes his eyes and drifts into his sweet little sleep.

I love that he gets specific. Not just a general sense of being loved, but there are specific people with names and faces who love on him, and he feels it. Filling up his little love cup to overflowing, which then spills over into ours'.

I wonder if we could all use a little love litany of our own. Naming off all the people who love on us in specific, incarnate ways.

I also wonder if we need a little nudge to love on our people, not just in the abstract, not just in groups - family, friends, my church family--but on souls with specific names and faces. And not just think of them with love, or hold warm feelings toward them but to extend care in specific, incarnate ways--send the message, show up and listen, express affirmation and gratitude, feed them yummy food, call to check in.

God knows, there are a lot of dry or half empty cups out there these days. So many things - the bitter politics of our day, the pandemic, the busyness and overwhelm, social media--have pulled us away from one another. And we can get so caught up in checking off to do lists, taking in all sorts of activity and information, managing all the logistics, such that whole days can pass without any personal connection, especially interactions of care and kindness. Even with people we love, that we live with or see every day, we can miss those moments of real, loving connection. I imagine we all know that experience of being around other people, but not really with them, going through the motions, but somehow missing one another. And our cups runneth dry.

I know, it can feel overwhelming the amount of pain, loss and brokenness in our world right now. How can we possibly love and bear all that suffering? Or reciprocally, how can we delight in all the beauty, goodness and gift in the world? There’s just so much.

We went to a fall festival Saturday. One of the attractions was a u-pick flower section of the farm. There were fields of thousands, perhaps millions of zinnias. Taken all together, they were a bit of a blur, almost an assault on my senses. But then I just started looking at individual blooms, and being blown away by their particular exquisite beauty. I couldn’t love the whole field; but I absolutely fell in love with the ten bright flower faces I picked to bring home.

When we feel overwhelmed by the sheer volume of life, both the gift and hardship, the beauty and suffering, all the people we want to know and love, I wonder if Luca might be onto something. Get specific. Get personal. Enjoy the sound of particular names on your tongue, delight in particular faces, reach out with particular words and presence and kindness, pour love into a particular cup. I’m sure those dear ones would love to drift off to sleep knowing you love them.

Here's to filling each other's cups.

Unburdening

The hope of spiritual direction is that after a period of sharing some of our life story and narrating our daily lives, a caring, trusting relationship develops between human souls. And with that trust comes one of the greatest gifts of all . . . the invitation and trust to lay our burdens down.

I am amazed at the weight some of us carry throughout our lives. Perhaps it is a childhood experience that was deeply wounding, yet we were told in explicit or subtle ways, to never speak of it. Maybe it is questions, doubt or confusion we have had about God and the Bible that did not feel welcome in our faith community. It may be a crippling addiction we have not been able to overcome, or harm we have caused another for which we cannot forgive ourselves. Whether it’s family secrets, dark thoughts, painful memories, shameful self-awareness, deep insecurities, or a holy host of other struggles, many of us feel we must keep it all to ourselves, carry these burdens alone.

Of course, there is good reason to think and feel that way. What would people think if we revealed more of ourselves? I trust, most if not all of us, have had the thought, “If only they knew the real me . . .. .” We assume the whole truth would render us unlovable, even unworthy of love. Perhaps we have risked more vulnerability, shared some shadow-y bit of ourselves, and been met with criticism, relational rupture, or worse. Better to keep our pain to ourselves than put it out there, and risk the pain of rejection, we reason.

Of course we are guarded. We do not want to hurt any more than we already do.

And yet, the weight of it all can be crushing. The bottled up pain of a lifetime can keep poisoning us from the inside and be completely toxic. And the loneliness of it all is unbearable.

It is true that we cannot share just anything with anybody. We learn the hard way not to throw our vulnerable pearls before swine, to practice discernment around what we share with whom. But I really believe we all need a place where we can share the full, unedited, whole truth of ourselves and our lives, and be met with tender compassion and mercy. Somehow, honestly sharing the pain and struggles, the wounds and flaws, with another human soul, brings it out of the darkness of ourselves into healing air and light. And we find that we are not alone and we are still loved. In fact, it is often the sharing of the deep, hard truths of our humanity that draw us even closer together.

I cannot tell you how much weight has been lifted from my shoulders in the office of my spiritual director. And I hope and pray to offer that kind of space and grace to others. Then maybe, just maybe, we get a taste of what Jesus meant when he said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

If you're interested in exploring spiritual direction, you can read more here, or email me to set up an initial conversation. I am currently seeing people both live in my office at St. Bartholomew's and online via Zoom.

Warmly,

Kimberly

Mining Your Life

Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is.

In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness:

touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it,

because in the last analysis all moments are key moments,

and life itself is grace.

~Frederick Buechner, Now and Then: A Memoir of Vocation

Related to sharing the story of our lives, I think of spiritual direction as mining your life. So much of our life passes so quickly, and we are often so distracted and scattered, that if we do not regularly slow down or pause to really take it in, we may just miss it. Spiritual direction invites us to look again, to take a deeper listen to the life we are living, to see if there are gifts and invitations we are missing.

One image that comes to mind for this kind of exploration is gem mining. Perhaps you’ve done this before on some mountain adventure. Not too long ago, we took our two boys for their first gem mining experience near Dahlonega, GA. We paid for what looked like a couple of buckets of dirt and rocks. Then we took them over to a table and trough where there is running water. You take your bucket, scoop by scoop, and place it in a square tray with a mesh bottom. As water washes away the dirt and debris, you are left with sizeable rocks and gems, perhaps an emerald or a moonstone, a ruby or amethyst.

Spiritual direction feels a lot like that. You bring in your life bucket by bucket, scoop by scoop. It may look like just a pile of dirt. But we run it under the water of prayerful listening, see what falls away and what gems remain to be turned over in our hands for more careful exploration and appreciation. A spiritual director hopefully offers you a frame and a filter, and an extra set of eyes and ears to catch glimmers of gold or stones of significance amidst the muck. And you’d be amazed over time, how many treasures you find, and how much even that old dirt starts shining in a new way.

One of my most enduring lessons from my own experience of spiritual direction, that now gives me such a sense of trust and hope when working with others, is: If you dig around, there is always gift in the mix. We all know good and well the owners of those gem mines have assembled those buckets with an interesting gem or two or twenty; why else would we keep bringing our kids and buying buckets of dirt? In much the same way, I have come to believe Love is forever dropping grace upon grace into our muddy mix, wooing us to come to the flowing water for the joy and surprise of discovery.

Got a bucket of life you’d like to sort out? Read here to learn more about the practice of one-on-one spiritual direction, or here if you’re interested in joining a community of other seekers mining their life together each week.

Gratefully,

Kimberly

A Witness to Your Story

Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity, as I have long believed and often said, that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally.

Frederick Buechner, Telling Secrets

Tell me your story.

This is one of the first invitations of spiritual direction.  When I am meeting a new directee for the first time, or gathering a small community of seekers, I want to know your story.  Where are you from?  What was your childhood like?  Who are the people--your parents, siblings, friends, beloveds, mentors--who have shaped your life?  How have you been formed by pain, loss and grief?  And how have you experienced joy and wonder?  To whom and what have you given yourself and why?

If you believe, that God is our Creator, the One from Whom we come and to Whom we return, and who is present with us throughout our lives, whether we notice or not, then every question about your life, every moment you share is spiritual.  But I also love asking and hearing explicitly about moments when you sensed a Grace or Peace or Love that was Other.  How did you first learn about God, and how has your understanding and experience of God changed over the years?  What experiences and encounters, spiritual writings and practices have been important in your spiritual awakening and transformation?  Many people seek spiritual direction because there is great dissonance between what they’ve been told about God and their own experience.  There is often a lot to unpack in our stories about the religious persons and faith communities that formed us, and very often wounded us.

I always feel a profound gratitude when you are willing to share your story with me.  The space between us becomes holy ground.  And it’s like it accesses this whole other part of us that we don’t reach when we just share our thoughts or opinions about this and that.  I am moved by both the points of connection, and the vast and diverse experiences that shape us so differently.  We’re all made in the image of God, but are only one small fragment, so it’s like our view of God and humanity endlessly expands with each person, each story, each moment we’re invited to witness.

In recent years, when I’ve felt such despair over the indifference and meanness among us, I’ve been saved by listening to people’s stories.  I wonder with the poet Elizabeth Alexander, “Are we not of interest to each other?”  and often think to myself or aloud, “If only people could hear each other’s stories. . . .”  At least, that’s been my experience.  It’s been stories, not arguments or debates, that have opened my heart, and then took my mind with it.

Our stories have such power to connect, heal and transform us, both in the sharing and in the receiving.  Something in us hungers to witness and be witnessed in all the beautiful and terrible moments we live.  And perhaps when we extend that grace to one another, we come to believe there is no moment, not a single one, we have ever been alone without a Witness.

What Do You Do?

I used to dread the question, What do you do?

When I was serving as a pastor, my answer could illicit some very interesting (and some wildly inappropriate) responses, like “Shit, I just cussed in front of you. Oh, and there I go again,” or “I’ve never seen a pastor like you” (sometimes with an obnoxious wink, wink). But generally folks had some idea about what a pastor does, based on their own experience.

When I started offering spiritual direction, and named that as my vocation, more often than not, I just got a sort of glazed-over look. Occasionally, a curious and intrepid soul might follow with, “I’ve never heard of that. Tell me more.” But more often than not, they would change the subject, or head for the cheese table or another glass of wine.

Over time, I’ve really enjoyed getting to share more about what I do. Because in a way, I believe it is a relationship we hunger for, whether we know it or not, and whether we seek it out explicitly or tend the longing in other ways.

So whether you’ve known me all my life or are new to Deep Waters, I want to share with you why I love offering spiritual direction, whether it’s through regular one-on-one conversations, small groups, or retreats and workshops.

Like I said, I began my ministry as an associate pastor in a beloved congregation here in Atlanta. Out of all the different roles I filled, I always relished the honest, searching conversations I was privileged to have, where people felt safe enough to bare their souls, to speak of the fears that kept them up at night, the moments they experienced a mysterious grace, the struggles to feel God’s love or live their truth, the longings of their heart, and more. But amidst all the many other roles and responsibilities of a pastor, that care of souls could often get lost in the organizational mix of congregational life.

So in 2007, I left the comforts and confines of the church I had known and loved to embark on the new spiritual adventure of offering spiritual direction. I had been in a sacred relationship with a spiritual director of my own for six years, and had started regularly going on silent, directed retreats at Green Bough House of Prayer. After all my religious upbringing and theological education, including hearing some of the best preachers and spiritual teachers of the day, I can honestly say it was these two modes of spiritual direction that most transformed my relationship with God, and my sense of my own soul, purpose and vocation. Basically, I woke up to a Love I had never known, and it changed everything. Spiritual direction also helped me discern that another life was possible, one that was less frenetic and more meaningful, one that honored the shape of my own soul.

Naturally, I wanted that same grace for everyone. It felt like a deepening of my pastoral vocation to focus more intentionally on the care of individual souls. So I hung a shingle and invited people to come experience this sacred companionship.

To be continued . . . .

Transforming Prayer

In my younger days, I approached God like a cosmic candy machine.  I put my prayer quarter in, made my selection, and waited for my request to rain down into my waiting hands.  Of course, this only seemed to work some of the time.  More often than not, I did not get exactly what I asked for . .  the date, the parking space, the healing of someone beloved.  Leaving me scratching my head . . . How could God give me G7, which I so clearly pushed E3?!?  Or wanting to shake the machine in my desperate grief when it was a disappointment of truly life-and-death magnitude.  How could you God?

Was there something wrong with my faith?  Sadly, in many faith communities, we are taught that if we do not get what we pray for, there must have been something wrong with our prayer.  Maybe we only had a dime’s worth of faith, when it really required a quarter.  Maybe we didn’t get quite specific enough in our request.  Maybe we didn’t believe strongly enough that God would deliver.

What a terrible wound to inflict on someone already grieving a loss or disappointment.  As if God’s goodness toward us rests on our getting prayer “right,” whatever that means. 

I came to see that my approach to prayer, while appropriate for a child, was, well . . . childish.  I imagined that my prayers could change the heart and mind of God, as if they needed changing.  I really thought I had much better ideas than God of what I or someone I loved or the world really needed, and that God was counting on me to let Him (God was always a man in my childhood world) in on it, and preferably get as many of my friends in on the request, so God couldn’t miss it.

I came to understand that God was not a candy machine, not at all.  And prayer was not meant to be transactional, but rather transformational.  And who was it that needed transforming?  Oh right, it was me.  But again, not in a guilt-inducing, shaming, you-better-change-or-else way.  But did I want to grow in peace and gratitude and love and hope?  Then I might need to abide in God’s love longer, look for God’s gifts with more attention, seek God’s wisdom more regularly.

I still remember the first time I experienced contemplative prayer.  Experience may be too strong a word, but I was invited to sit in silence for twenty minutes along with others.  I thought I was going to jump out of my skin!  I could find no peace or rest in my monkey mind.  I couldn’t help but feel like I was doing it “wrong.”  And I couldn’t really see the point.  How was just sitting there--no words, thoughts or feelings, at least not any I was supposed to hold onto- going to accomplish anything?  Again, another faulty idea of God and prayer was exposed.

But the more I tried on various contemplative prayer practices--centering prayer, lectio divina, the examen, compassion meditation, silent retreat-- the more invaluable they became to me.  After twenty years of praying in these new, yet ancient ways, I can honestly say I don’t know who I would be or what my life would be like without them.  They have led to a depth of faith, hope and love I never thought possible.  And lest that sounds arrogant, let me be clear . . . those qualities are not my own, but from a Source utterly beyond me, willing to fill us up if we but bring our empty little cup.  It’s been quite humbling actually, to realize and admit how little power and control I have over anything, including myself.

The older I get, it’s harder to define or even describe prayer.  I do believe in the power of it, more than ever, but it’s far more mysterious to say how it “works.”  I believe in bringing my all into it - my longing and fear, my gratitude and grief, even my anger and desperate attempts at control.  I have come to believe that God is so vast, so loving, so merciful, so faithful, there is no better place for all of me to go.  And then there’s a lot more space for listening, watching, waiting, receiving.  I feel vulnerable, open, malleable.  And sometimes when I let it all go, God gives me something beyond my wildest dreams, and I stand there stunned and grateful at the wonder of it all.

As vast and mysterious, personal and vulnerable as prayer is, I love at least trying to think and write and talk about it with other seekers.  This month, in continuation of our annual theme Another Way, the Wellsprings Contemplative Prayer Circles on Tuesday evenings will focus on Another Way to Pray.  Not sure yourself how to think about or approach prayer?  I hope you’ll consider joining us, in either the VIRTUAL circle on FIRST and THIRD Tuesdays, or the LIVE circle on SECOND and FOURTH Tuesdays at the Atlanta Friends Meeting House in Decatur.  We’ll reflect on our understanding and experience of prayer, while continuing to try on these contemplative prayer practices together.  You can read more here, or email me if you’d like to come or be on the mailing list to receive the reminders and links.

Two Essential Human Longings

While everyone’s spiritual journey is different and every soul has a unique shape, there are two longings I consistently hear when I listen with others.

First, there is a longing for connection with God, however we name and understand that Holy, Wholly Other. People have often experienced moments when they felt close to God, when they knew themselves to be seen, held, and loved by a force greater than themselves, when they experienced an undeniable grace or “peace that passes understanding,” or when they felt a summons to some new direction or vocation. And they want to live in a more habitual awareness of that Presence and Movement in their lives. They are looking for ways to connect more intentionally and regularly, to stay grounded in and nourished by Source.

People may call this prayer, meditation or spiritual practice. But the longing is for a deeper, more expansive understanding and experience than speaking certain words to, or even making requests of God. We tire of a transactional approach to prayer and desire transformation. We sense at some deep level that we are made for communion with God, and we hunger for an ever deepening connection. But we may not know how to cultivate that. Or we may get so overwhelmed by the endless array of ways to pray or spiritual wisdom to read that we don’t know where to start. Or we just have trouble in the whirlwind of our daily lives sustaining a regular practice of prayer.

This connects with the second longing I hear regularly . . the hunger for spiritual community. We long to be with other seekers on this quest for Connection. We hunger for places where we can explore and reveal the depths of who we are. Where we can ask the huge questions that don’t have easy answers. Where we can express our deepest longings and fears, and share stories, practices and resources for tuning in. Where we can learn from each other, affirm and encourage one another, recognizing that we are both on our own journey, and not alone. In the words of Parker Palmer, we can be “alone together,” “a community of solitudes,”and experience a deep sense of belonging, to God and to one another. AND the gentle accountability provided by being in such a group often helps us sustain a prayer practice, when we know we're not just on our own.

One would hope that churches would provide this kind of community and form us in the way of prayer. But I've sat with too many people who have sadly not found the church to be so welcoming or generative. But the longing for sacred space and a place of belonging persists, even when we lose faith in the institutional church.

These two things--authentic prayer and spiritual community-- have absolutely transformed my life. And out of my own hunger, and subsequent nourishment, I have wanted to nourish others in these ways, first in my role as a pastor and now as a spiritual director.

And the hunger has never felt more intense. Now more than ever, when the ground beneath our feet feels like it’s shifting every day, we long to be rooted in the Unchanging Ground of our Being. Now more than ever, when we feel the limits of our own power and control, we need to draw strength and sustenance from a Source beyond ourselves. Now more than ever, when we’re realizing the failure of toxic individualism, we long for Beloved Community with a different Center than me and mine. Right now, spirituality doesn’t feel like a nice hobby to consider when we’ve done our real life and work; it is the core of who we really are and what is needed to live in these desperate times.

I believe these times call for more prayer and community to sustain us. So new this season, I am introducing Flow: Spiritual Rhythms for Spiritual Living. Whether you already have a regular prayer practice or don’t know where to start, whether you are here in Atlanta or elsewhere, whether you have a faith community you call home or have struggled to find your people or place, I hope Flow will meet you where you are and provide a way to begin or deepen your experience of both prayer and community. Out of a menu of spiritual practices and community gatherings, you’re invited to find spiritual nourishment for your own hungry soul. We’re officially beginning our practice of daily prayer tomorrow, September 1, but feel free to join the Flow whenever you want by reaching out to me, or subscribing through my website.

One way or another, I hope you find the sustenance to support you in your own spiritual journey.

Blessings,

Kimberly

Living with Heavy

I took Theo to get tested for Covid again today. He begins school Thursday, and while Paideia celebrates a vaccination rate over 97% of all faculty and eligible students, they’re asking families to take this extra precaution. Happy to oblige, we returned to a testing site we’ve visited throughout the year. In recent weeks, we’ve driven by and seen so few cars, we wondered if it had closed.

Not today. Three lines snaked around the church parking lot to the testing and vaccination site. As he swabbed my son’s nose, the friendly practitioner confirmed they almost did shut down late July, but starting about two weeks ago, they’ve been inundated again. I was hopeful maybe it meant more people getting vaccinated. Some, he said, but mostly testing, and so many more testing positive. When all was said and done, it took us an hour and a half. Theo had some serious feelings about missing pool time as a result; I had some serious feelings about missing humanity.

How did we get here? Watching another mountain rise on the graphs of infections, hospitalizations, and deaths. Screaming at each other over whether our children should wear masks. Having to face the grim, maddening reality that even with vaccines widely and freely available, we may not see the end of this pandemic any time soon.

And then there’s the rapid takeover of Afghanistan by the Taliban. The Code Red for Humanity climate report. Wildfires in the West. Every crisis exacerbated by vitriol, finger pointing, and endless, often fruitless arguments about the facts and solutions.

How do we live in these heavy times? When we desperately want to get back to something resembling normal, and for reasons utterly beyond our control, we cannot get there, no matter how strong our denial or distraction techniques.

Last night, I read in a recent letter from the Center for Action Contemplation:

Fr. Richard Rohr has long taught that the Gospel is not about an ideal world where everything goes right and everyone loves perfectly. It’s not idealism, but rather utter realism. The Gospel depicts the world as it really is, including everything that is painfully tragic, confusing, and even absurd.

The letter goes on to say that even in times of tumult and trouble, grace invites to hope, trust and participate in God’s ongoing work to heal and transform this wounded world.

Such grace, hope and trust do not necessarily come easily, especially if we are clearly seeing and feeling the pain of the world. I believe they are gifts, freely offered by God. And yet, we do have to be intentional about seeking and receiving them. We must work the muscles of hope and trust to remain hopeful and trusting.

And we have to have safe containers to bring and pour out the fullness of our humanity --the grief and rage, the doubt and confusion, even the judgment and hostility we may feel toward others, if we’re really honest.

For me, the ultimate container is God, accessed through honest prayer. I know many folks were not taught to welcome such raw honesty into prayer, quite the opposite. But where else can it go? There’s no safer container than the mercy of God, to bring all that churns within us. Just read the Psalms.

Beyond prayer, we need other people who can be safe containers for us. Where we can pour out our real thoughts and feelings and have them held with love, without judgment, without advising or fixing. I am amazed sometimes when I’m all worked up inside - anxious, sad, angry, whatever--how just speaking it aloud to another caring soul, giving it air and light, clears the space in me and brings some measure of peace.

I’m so grateful that throughout my life, I have had other souls - friends, mentors, spiritual directors, spouse--who have received my full humanity when I was trusting and courageous enough to speak the full truth. And it is my deep desire to offer that kind of space and care to others who need to unburden.

Frankly, I do not know how we will survive these troubled times without regularly wringing ourselves out, in prayer and sacred conversation. Both are the grace of God that help us live in the real with some measure of sanity, hope, even joy and gratitude.

I hope you’ll consider joining me and others for regular times of prayer, meditation, and reflection, where we can bring our full humanity, be loved, and receive the grace and wisdom to live through these difficult times. Whether it’s the Sacred Pause Retreat, Women’s Spirituality Group, Flow: Spiritual Rhythms for Soulful Living, Wellsprings Prayer, or one-on-one spiritual direction, I pray you find spaces and ways to release your own surge.

In faith,

Kimberly

Back to School for Us All

I love a new school year.  After Summer’s freedom and fluidity, going here and there, and being a little more lax with almost everything, I enjoy returning to a more consistent rhythm and routine.  Growing up as a kid, I loved selecting all new school supplies, wrapping all my new text books in brown paper bags (Does anyone still do that?), and getting all the important dates on my new calendar.  And I couldn’t wait to reconnect with friends and teachers after missing them all Summer. 

A fresh school year always felt so full of promise and possibility.  Having honored a different rhythm of rest and leisure, I felt ready in my body and mind to recommit to school work, extracurricular activities, and friendship. 

Our family spent last week at the beach with dear friends from Candler days.  I did not work or think of work.  I unplugged from all email, news, social media, podcasts and the like.  We feasted on amazing meals and each other’s company.  We swam in the pool and in the gulf, did yoga, stayed up late, and took our sweet time drinking coffee and getting moving in the morning.  We told stories of the past and present, shared about our years--what had been hard, and what is saving our life and giving us hope.  We sang and laughed as hard as we could.

I returned with a heart and soul brimming with gratitude and wonder, and a body and mind ready to recommit to my work, to our family, to the people we love in our lives.

I also returned to Delta variant alarm and new mask mandates, a disordered house and unfinished landscaping mess, pressing work and volunteer needs, and heartbreaking updates from beloveds bearing great pain.

Even with the renewed energy, there is a lot to hold, to bear, and to do. I know my soul’s cup will need regular refilling.  So I am hungry for a new Fall rhythm that keeps me grounded and centered in Source, connected in friendship and community where we can share and bear all the gifts and struggles of being human, listening for wisdom and guidance for what is mine to do to heal and help and bear witness in these challenging times.  I want to get back in a flow and stay in it.

Are you also hungry for a fresh start, for a new or reinvigorated rhythm that steadies and sustains you amidst all that is pressing in?  I invite you to join me and other seekers as we engage spiritual rhythms that help us live more mindfully and meaningfully.  Y’all, we need each other and we need More - that ever flowing Grace, unconditional Love, eternal Wisdom, Peace that passes understanding, that fills and renews us again and again and again.

I cannot wait to reconvene (masks and all when necessary) for our Tuesday night Contemplative Prayer Circles, starting LIVE tomorrow August 10, and VIRTUALLY on September 7.  I look forward to the End-of-Summer Sacred Pause retreat on Sunday afternoon, August 29.  I have a few spaces left in this year’s Women’s Spirituality Group, beginning mid- September, excited to pursue the theme A Monk in the World, how we balance our spiritual yearnings with the calls of our times.

AND new this year, I am super excited to offer a subscription option for those seekers who want a little bit of it all.  FLOW - Spiritual Rhythms for Soulful Living is a menu of spiritual practices and community gatherings curated for those who want to stay centered and nourished on a weekly basis.  In addition to the Contemplative Prayer Circles and Sacred Pause retreats, FLOW participants will receive a Soul Care basket, a complimentary spiritual direction session, discount on other Deep Waters offerings, and a special, brief Soul Tuning each Monday morning to help you start your week centered, connected and open.  We’ll also enjoy monthly meals together when it’s safe for all to return to indoor tables.

I hope you will check out the menu of soul nourishment here on the website.  Let me know if you have any questions.  And call or email me to sign up for the Contemplative Prayer Circle, Women’s Group, Sacred Pause Retreat or FLOW.  Let’s gather our fresh “life school” supplies, put these important soul-filling dates on our calendars, and recommit to the inner journey.   I would love to get back into rhythm and community with you!

Eagerly,

Kimberly

In and Out of Flow

I hope you have enjoyed some rest and fun, tasted the goodness of Summer favorites like corn on the cob and peach cobbler, and reconnected with family and friends in meaningful ways. Our family has loved coming and going more places, seeing extended friends and family, and enjoying some of our favorite Summer family traditions, especially after missing so much last year.

I’ve loved having a more open and flexible schedule. AND I can feel myself longing for more regular rhythms again. I’m aware that when I don’t have my consistent practices of prayer and reflection, nor my reliable times of connection with friends, small groups, and spiritual community, I start slipping. I feel more scattered and fretful, less grounded and hopeful, and just generally less like myself.

Once again, I remember that keeping a rhythm keeps me.

I know I’m not alone in this. When I sit and listen with others, I consistently hear these two longings . . . for a more regular rhythm of prayer and reflection, and for spiritual community, a place to bring our full selves, to wonder, seek and share life together.

So while I've enjoyed some time off and away, I've also relished thinking about new ways to be in and together. And I’m delighted to share with you a new experience of spiritual practice and community I'll be offering this Fall.

I’m calling it Flow: Spiritual Rhythms for Soulful Living.

It’s a menu of spiritual practices and community gatherings designed to keep you in the flow--present, mindful and connected with yourself, with others and with Love, tending that sacred longing in you and in the world. It will include:

• Guidance for daily prayer and reading

• Weekly soul tuning

• Contemplative prayer circles, both live and virtual

• Monthly meals

• Quarterly retreat afternoons

I’m offering Flow out of my own spiritual hunger and experience, from years of trying on different prayer practices, following and adapting different rhythms and guiding various spiritual communities.

I’ve designed this rhythm to offer structure and fluidity. You can show up for all of it, or just a few things. You can attend live gatherings or participate online. You can take, tweak or ignore my suggestions for daily and weekly prayer and reflection. The invitation is to find a flow that works for you.

My sincere hope and prayer is that Flow will offer you regular nourishment for your hungry soul, that you might feast on the beauty and wisdom available in spiritual writings, prayer practices and community gatherings designed and curated with great love and holy hope.

Friend, I want our lives to flow with love and grace, with meaning and purpose. So I hope you’ll join me and other beloved souls, as we seek to keep a rhythm that keeps us.

I look forward to sharing more details in the weeks ahead.

Eagerly,

Kimberly

Receiving Rest

I know for some of us, Summer doesn't feel that much different from Spring, except it's getting more toasty. For others, it means a well-deserved break from school, maybe a more relaxed rhythm at work. For some it means an opportunity to travel, play and relax more. It feels like no matter our age and stage in life, Summer still holds out at least the hope and possibility of some rest and renewal.

And God knows, we need it. After this year plus of pandemic living. After these years of bitter divisions and worrisome gridlock on pressing concerns. I don't know about you, but even driving these days, I feel like people are far more aggressive and hostile on the roads. It's like we're all on edge or worse. Our trust in each other and our democratic institutions has been eroding, and it’s really hard to know what, if anything, can restore our connections and confidence. Meanwhile, democracy and the life of the planet hang precariously in the balance. There’s a sense of urgency that we need to act quickly and decisively to right the ship. But how in the world do we do that, especially when we don’t all believe it’s sinking or agree on what the root causes are? These are fraught times, to say the least.

You add all that to just the garden variety fatigue that comes from trying to raise two small human beings, and I’m just plain tired. Of feeling so much. Of thinking so hard. Of trying, trying, trying to discern and do the right thing when so much feels so wrong.

There’s so much that needs tending. And there's this green light to get out there and do more. But what if we’re just exhausted?

There’s a part of me that says, Just suck it up. You don’t get the luxury of rest when there is so much suffering. If anything, you’re not doing enough. Get your act together and get back out there. Be better. Do better.

There’s also a part of me that says, Lighten up. Turn off the news. Queue up something on Netflix. Pour another glass of wine. Play some mind-numbing game on your phone. Let’s just chill.

I have to say neither of those voices feel like the voice of Love. I don’t believe in a Suck-it-up or Tune-it-all-out kind of God. I believe in a God who is intimately present in the suffering of the world, laboring constantly for healing and redemption, for love and justice. I believe in a God who also beckons us off the bleachers, off the sidelines, to get in the race, to do our part to help in the healing of the world. We are called not to just hear the cries of the world and hear God’s call to love and justice, but to DO something.

But we all know that if we don’t get enough rest, if we don’t hydrate well, there’s simply no way to stay in the race. I don’t know about you but when I get too tired, I’m not exactly bringing forth the fruits of the Spirit like gentleness, patience and self-control; quite the opposite. I get more muddled in my thinking, tend toward more bitterness and despair. This cannot be what God wants for any of us, and it’s hard to see how we’re very useful in this exhausted state.

I believe God invites us to live another way. To honor a rhythm of work and rest. To return to God daily, weekly, regularly to fill our cups so we can pour ourselves out in service. To seek and receive the spiritual rest and nourishment we need to stay healthy and stay present.

Are you weary? Yeah, me too. So what does rest, true rest look like for you?

Are you hungry? Me too. What truly nourishes your soul?

As we come into Summer, I hope and pray we can be honest with ourselves about how tired and depleted we may be. I hope we can kindly say to the Suck-it-up voice: God wants more for us, and to the Just-tune-out voice: God wants more from us. These are fraught times, there is great work to be done. But God needs healthy partners. So I hope we’ll all seek and find the rest and nourishment we need to stay in the race.

On that note, I am looking forward to a bit of respite myself. While I’ll continue to offer spiritual direction throughout the Summer, I will not be leading any groups or retreats during the month of July. I look forward to reconnecting in August, entering back into a rhythm of prayer, reflection, and community with you if you’re so inclined.

Blessings on your Summer labors and rest, service and nourishment,

Kimberly

Life after the Pandemic

Saturday marked two weeks after getting my second Covid shot. How glorious it has been since to give long, lingering hugs, to unmask outdoors AND indoors with other vaccinated adults, to be with people in the flesh, without a mask or screen between us. I am ever grateful for the masks and social distance that kept us safe, even when it felt so counter-human, for Zoom, Facetime, and other technologies that allowed us to connect in meaningful, surprisingly intimate ways, when we couldn't be together in person, and for the miraculous development and distribution of such a highly effective vaccine in record-breaking time, to protect us from more needless death and suffering.

I know the pandemic is not over, that there are still risks and decisions that must be weighed, that we will not likely reach herd immunity in this country, such that we will continue to live with the virus, and with some subsequent uncertainty and anxiety. But for now, I am feeling relief and gratitude, and more freedom in my activities and interactions.

I also know that people have had such radically different experiences of this year, and also have different levels of comfort and risk in this in-between time, with some needing to slowly tiptoe back into the waters of social interaction, and others ready to do cannon balls into the deep end. It feels like a time we need to be excessively gentle and patient with ourselves and others as we each and all get our bearings in this new reality. As hard as it has been, I love that we have been learning how to be more honest about our own comfort and limits, while recognizing others who have different experiences and needs, AND then trying to live in ways that honor both our personal freedom and collective responsibility. What a crash course in both the particularity of being one human, and the interdependence of being one humanity. We have so much more to learn!

On this new threshold, I am eager to pause and reflect, personally and communally, on this extraordinary year plus of living through the pandemic. I want us to listen more deeply to ourselves and to one another, to hear what has been lost and what has been found, what has been heart-breaking, and what has been life-changing. How has God shown up in us and with us and through us? What have we learned? How have we grown? And what now? How to do we fall called to live, to be, to give ourselves in the days ahead, related to what we've witnessed and learned?

I'm thrilled to be offering the first LIVE, IN-PERSON Sacred Pause retreat in almost a year and a half, to get to gather with other enfleshed humans, to circle up and listen to ourselves and one another and sacred scripture and poetry, listening for the One how has been and will continue to be with us, guiding our way, and calling us to life after . . . ..

I'm also very curious about how the experience of the past year, the past several yeas really, have impacted people's faith. There has been so much that has been hard to process, to stomach, to hold in tension, to discern. Perhaps the experience has unearthed some questions or doubts, has prompted some disillusionment . . in ourselves or fellow human beings, in institutions we used to trust, maybe in God. Or maybe those struggles have been there for years, and this experience has deepened our hunger for a different kind of faith and community. In my June small group, we'll be making space for it all, trusting these are invitations to healing and growth, exploring the theme of Faith after Doubt, and how we might just have more questions, doubts, and longing than we've dared to admit.

I'd love to be in community and conversation with you, whether live in person, or via the wonders of Zoom. Check out these two invitations, and let me know if you'd like me to save you a seat.

Welcoming Doubt and Disillusionment

My husband looked over at my screen and asked “Agnostics Anonymous . . . what’s that about?”

In my journey as a person of faith, pastor and now spiritual director, I have had the opportunity to welcome all the wonderful questions and doubts that are part and parcel of being human. Is there a God, and if so, what is God like? Why am I here? If there’s a good God, why is there so much injustice and suffering? Is the Bible true? What do we make of a crucified and risen Jesus? What is prayer? How do I discern God’s will?

On the whole, it has been natural for me to welcome others’ questions, doubt, and confusion about life and faith, because I have been the recipient of such grace myself. I remember the first time I took an in-depth Bible study in high school, and it raised all kinds of questions for me: Why are there two different creation accounts and four gospel narratives? What about dinosaurs and evolution? What about people born into other faith traditions? How does God seem to condone so much violence in the Old Testament, when Jesus was radically non-violent? If “accepting Jesus as My Lord and Savior” is what saves me, why does Jesus spend so much time teaching about things like wealth and service? What does it mean to be “saved” anyway?

Sometimes I thought my head and heart would explode. I would storm my youth pastor’s office demanding answers, proof, certainty. He would smile and say, “I don’t know, what do YOU think?”

I would retort: Don’t make me think! Just tell me what to believe. (I had this mistaken notion that faith was about believing the right things.)

He pointed out that loving God with all my heart and mind, all my soul and strength meant I might actually have to use my mind, instead of checking it at the door of the church.

This was both daunting and liberating. I loved that my questions and doubts were valued as a means of seeking God. After all, God created me with this incredible mind and heart, body and soul, all to be stretched to their fullest capacity for Love.

And stretched and stretched and stretched they have been! Every time I see or experience, learn or discover something new, I sense more deeply how much I do not know, will never know. But that’s part of it too . . . getting to the place where you can trust God in the not knowing.

I’m so thankful that when I first starting asking questions and expressing doubts, someone not only welcomed them, but celebrated them. AND he didn’t answer them for me, but instead set me on a lifelong expedition of seeking truth and love. I’ve sought and found wise and gracious spiritual guides ever since.

I realize not everyone has been so fortunate. Listening to other souls, I’ve been surprised and saddened over and over again how many people, when they’ve mustered the courage to express their own questions and doubts, have been met with fear and judgment. They’ve been taught they have to believe certain things in order to belong. Many have either suffered in silence, or had to make the heart-breaking decision to leave their community in order to hold onto their faith.

It’s no wonder so many people are leaving faith communities. Many have not been welcoming, fertile places to stretch and grow. For the first time ever (or since it’s been measured), membership in a faith community has slipped below 50% in the US.

I understand these numbers can be alarming. But it’s not the whole picture. Many of us grew up with the idea that believing in God meant going to church. But faith in God and faith in the institutional church are not one and the same; the conflation of the two can be a cherished, but dangerous idolatry.

While participation in traditional religious communities may be declining, spirituality is flourishing among Americans. Another broad, fascinating study of spirituality in America finds that more than 8 in 10 Americans describe themselves as spiritual, religious or both. People are hungry for connection, meaning and purpose, love and peace, and are seeking that beyond themselves, though they may use different language, tools and paths to get there. I find this so illuminating and hopeful.

What does all this have to do with Agnostics Anonymous?

I want to be intentional and up front about offering space for souls who come with questions and doubts, who are not sure what they believe and don’t believe, who are seeking connection with the Divine, but have become skeptical or disillusioned about institutional religion for a holy host of good reasons. I want all doubters and questioners, seekers and skeptics, mystics and mis-fits to be able to come out of the closet of fear and judgment, and see the size of the circle. I want us to share our stories of faith and doubt, of joy and pain, of religious oppression and liberation. I want us so see and hear, celebrate and grieve with each other, encourage one another in our mutual quests. And I want us to see all of that as part of stretching toward the Holy One, using the full capacity of the hearts and minds, bodies and souls gifted to us.

Still have your doubts? You’re invited to join us. I'm offering a group in June that specifically focuses on doubt as a critical part of faith. And of course, doubts and questions are welcome in spiritual direction, whether in a one-on-one conversation, small group, or retreat. I would love to welcome you, doubt and all.

Life after . . .

Easter grace and peace to you,

Easter?!? Doesn’t it already feel like Easter Sunday was months ago? Such is the nature of time these days, especially pandemic time. Wait, what day is it? When was that? Did we miss it?

We may very well feel like we missed it. While many of us got to return to worship with others in some form or fashion, things may still have been pretty different. Wearing masks, keeping distance, trying not to sing too hard, we may have offered up a muffled Alleluia, both literally and figuratively. While we may be seeing more light at end of the pandemic tunnel, it still feels like the stone is only partially rolled away. If Christ is risen, how is there is still so much tragic injustice, suffering and death among us?

This year, as I was planning for the first worship circle in the Easter season, I had an especially hard time choosing music. Old favorite Easter hymns like Christ the Lord is Risen Today and Easter People, Raise Your Voices didn’t feel quite right. They felt too triumphant, too cheery, too shiny-happy. Like the equivalent of saying to someone in deep pain, “Look on the bright side . . “or “This will make you stronger,” or “Everything happens for a reason.”

What saved me were the biblical stories themselves. Just like Jesus was born into the world in relative obscurity, he returns in quiet mystery. There are no large crowds, no trumpet fanfares, no crosses flowered with Easter lilies and daffodils. There are weeping women going to tend the body of their deceased friend, disciples locked behind closed doors in utter terror and immense doubt, others walking in the dark trying to process what has happened.

And when Jesus comes back, he does not come in victory or vengeance. There is no splashy public appearance proving he is alive, nor sticking it to the empire that unjustly crucified him. In other words, if you didn’t already know him, you probably completely missed it. He was dead and gone, and you moved on, certain he was in that tomb.

But to those who knew and loved him, those who found a whole new way of being when they were with him, and now felt completely lost without him, Christ returned mysteriously. He quietly slipped into the places they were grieving, doubting, wondering, and offered them yet another round of life-transforming experience.

One of my favorite post-resurrection narratives comes from the very end of John’s gospel. The setting is the sea of Galilee. The disciples have already experienced their risen Lord once in the upper room where they were hiding out on that first Easter day. Some weeks later they’re back at home in the Galilee region. I imagine they are still trying to make sense of what they have seen and heard. How could their Teacher have been crucified? And how did they see him again, in the flesh, and yet mysteriously different? And what in the world does it mean for them now?

Peter says he’s going fishing, and several others join in. Perhaps they’re trying to get back to some semblance of normalcy, life as they knew it before they met him. They head out to sea, fish all night and catch nothing. I imagine that empty net may mirror an inner emptiness.

As the sun rises, Jesus stands on the beach, unrecognized. He instructs them to try fishing on the other side of their boat. And then they experience such a haul of fish, they can hardly pull in the net.

And that’s the tip off, that net teeming with abundant life. That’s when they recognize him. As they make their way to the beach, hauling in their awesome catch, he beckons them to come join him around a charcoal fire where fish are roasting, and bread is waiting. Jesus says, Come and have breakfast.

Again, there is no fanfare or dramatic proclamation. Just their friend and teacher, meeting them where they are, as they are, inviting them to share a simple, yet intimate, holy meal on the beach.

I think of all the times in our lives when things don’t go as planned or hoped. When we experience heart-breaking death and loss. When the road we were on seems to vanish. When things fall apart or the bottom drops out and we are left bereft, confused, frightened. How could this happen? This is not the God we thought we knew. This is not the way we thought life would go, should go. We too, may struggle with an inner emptiness and ache that feels like it will swallow us whole.

I think of us right now, after the year or years we’ve just come through, where so much has been lost or radically altered. Maybe like those disciples, we’re just trying to get back to some sense of normalcy. Wondering how life is the same, yet how it is forever changed. We show up with beloved companions, go back to fishing, try to make sense of things.

Might we imagine how the Risen One slips quietly into these moments. Not loudly or dramatically, but gently, mysteriously. There on the shores of our lives, in that haze between darkness and dawn. Meeting us right where we are, just as we are, in all our confusion and doubt, grief or fear. He beckons us as that still small voice, that nudge or invitation, that quiet intimacy of love. We think it’s him but we’re not quite sure. He calls to us to try doing things another way. He offers us radical peace, forgiveness, acceptance. He welcomes us back into his loving embrace. He invites us to come and join him for intimate, sacred meal. And life after begins, the net suddenly pulsing with new life and hope.