I was driving down Route 202 on my way home from work a week or so ago, tired, on autopilot. A gathering of people got my attention. On the bridge past the Malvern Exit that stretches across the highway, there were banners and signs. People lined up, waving at those of us driving by. Their banners were big and bold, the phrase, “No Kings,” painted across. Cars were honking. I’ve seen this display a handful of times over the last number of months. Maybe you have heard about these nationwide, non-violent protests. The movement is about the preservation of democracy. The slogan goes far back to the Revolution when America rejected the concept of a monarchy. This nation was to be built on strong leadership, but not a king.

33.3 miles.

That’s how long the Milford Hike is. One of the most beautiful spots in the world to walk. It is also excruciating. My sister and her husband, Greg, went to New Zealand with a few friends for 3.5 weeks, a trip of a lifetime. Their trip concluded with this hike through Fiordland National Park. Day 1: 1 mile (easy, enough 🙂). Day 2: 10 miles (😕). Day 3: 9 miles, described as the hardest day of the hike, “Steep uphill following zigzags to Pass Hut on rocky uneven track and steep downhill to the lodge…This is a very challenging day and can be affected by weather.” (😫). Day 4: 13.5 miles “with sections prone to flooding” (😵‍💫😟😭).

Once they got service, our family text thread looked something like this:

Greg: “We made it to the end, never again. I am so proud of Kim!! Our bodies are so sore. I can barely walk.”

Kim: “My legs are like a 100-year-old woman! Lol! But they will get better…”

For the next few days, when we asked Kim about her knees…”My legs are killing me, and I may need to borrow Mom’s extra walker!”

Even up to last night when I asked how her body feels…”My knees still hurt a little bit when I come down our stairs!”

My sister’s words: “They describe the difficulty level of this hike as ‘intermediate!’ But this was NOT intermediate!” She went on to tell me that the guides have to call a helicopter in twice on average, per week, to take someone out! That’s assuming the helicopter can even get to the spot where someone needs help. A mere $1700 a pop. This hike was no joke. As Kim and Greg showed us pictures and described their experiences, I felt as if I were watching a documentary of survivor stories. They both said at points along the telling, “It took everything in us to get to the end.” Rain, cold, knees about to split, packs up to 15 pounds weighing down their backs…the pain was intense…

Mercy can move us to tears, sometimes rather unexpectedly. The dramatic display of unmerited kindness offered by the powerful to the powerless has the potential to soften a hard heart like nothing else. It’s the stuff of movies. It’s in the tales of heroes. Abraham Lincoln was known for his robust, humble leadership. A man known for his kindness. Lincoln’s legacy is especially meaningful to me in our current times. Here was a man who ran the entire country and was characterized by grace. Knowing his own story, we understand why he was marked by compassion, gentleness, and humility.

I remember when Mel Gibson’s movie, “The Passion,” came out. The moment it was advertised, it haunted me. Some movies lodge into your personal timeline like a shaping event in your personal history. I was terrified to see it. At the same time, it felt uncaring not to go, almost as though I was unwilling to be with Jesus in his hardest time. The disciples fell asleep in the garden; I knew I would, too. I was bothered by my tendency to detach from the crucifixion. Not because I resisted contemplating how heart-wrenching it was, but because my imagination only took me so far. My hope in watching it was that I would attach to Jesus more, that my gratitude would expand, and my worship would be sincere. When I was a young adult, I wanted this essential piece of my salvation to be concrete and real. So, I came up with a way to emotionally connect with Jesus on the road through Jerusalem. It may seem odd, but even as I type this, tears are surfacing.

Though subtle most days, our default posture is to be our own authority, to get our way, to be the smart one in the conversation, to acquire sweeping and ongoing affirmation, to be the one in control, and to show up better than so-and-so, and so-and-so. The self motivates almost every impulse we have.

Self-control doesn’t really work with this problem.

A family from the school where I worked took me in for a month when I had nowhere to live. I was in between housing, dependent on those who loved me to help. The guestroom was set up like a hotel suite, with a TV on the wall, space in the drawers, and a private bathroom stocked with travel-sized toiletries. Each morning, coffee streamed in under the door to welcome me into the new day. It was a month of God’s grace poured over me through the kindness of friends. What was special was that this was the family of one of the girls I had mentored. A firecracker with dimples and an electric smile. My investment in their daughter’s life meant a great deal to them. So in my challenging circumstances, they were eager to provide a room, a bed, and a fridge stocked with food. I guess that’s what love looks like.

Our ground is frozen over with the leftovers from the winter deluge that hovered over Pennsylvania, dumping just under 10” of snow a few weeks ago. The day was an ongoing feat to manage what was falling, boots off and back on, gloves off and back on…hat, vest, coat, scarf…We shoveled our sidewalks at least 4 times. We shoveled it from one inconvenient space to another. And that wasn’t all, for an hour and a half, load by load and bit by bit, I scooped out the snow that had compacted and gathered under, over, and around my car. My back ached as I hauled every scoop to the other side of the street. There was nowhere else to put it (We live in the borough of Downingtown, no fun in a winter deluge). Like a middle-school boy playing a joke, the wind unexpectedly blew the snow down my neck and into my face. It was too much cold.

My brother works at West Chicago High School. He teaches ESL. It turns out he is a pretty good writer, too. He has written a handful of stories about his students. Many of them, most of them, live an uphill battle. Escaping countries from near death, working hours upon hours to help pay rent and still go to school, living in West Chicago after being in the desert for so long. Precious, resilient humans. It’s tough to find any part of their stories relatable. At least not to me. What endurance. What strength. Overcoming one barrier after another. Learning English is just one of them. Mark has shared his writings with the kids’ permission. Not just with me, but with other teachers in the school. These kids desperately need to be known. So often misunderstood, he evokes empathy through his essays. Teachers have thanked him.

Most of us would agree that the New Year lands in your lap with a heavy load of expectations. The clock strikes midnight and we raise a glass to all the glorious possibilities. Or maybe we didn’t make it past 11:15 🙋🏻‍♀️.

Come January 1st, we wake up, wash our faces, shuffle to the coffee pot, and find ourselves reflective…glancing back at all the areas where commitments fell off the rails; ready and eager for a fresh start. January swoops in and slaps its sticky note in the middle of our forehead: ”2026! Here’s your list!”

In the stillness, before I am in the swirl of family, presents, and food...I am here, Christmas Eve, present with Jesus, grateful for what he has done and what he is doing--seen and unseen.

We live in the Borough of Downingtown, Pennsylvania. Old buildings, lots of history. Stories tucked into houses longstanding. We live in a twin from the late 1800s and I don't know how many Christmases have been celebrated in this room. All the stories of grief and sorrow under this roof for generations. It is holy and human. We share a thin wall with our precious neighbors who will also celebrate Jesus' birth tomorrow. As I sit here and write, music from their piano makes its way through...I hear them sing with their three little ones…

A number of years ago, I taught Bible to seniors and sophomores at a private Christian School in Charlotte, NC. One of my goals was to create a classroom where questions and doubts were invited. In order to create this kind of atmosphere I designated every Friday as "Discussion Day." I gave them time to think, and then hands shot up. We would process and discuss their questions for the entire hour. It was never flat, they were never checked out. There was energy in that room every single Friday. It was good for me to receive these questions. Most of them were practical and honest. They had been carrying them around and had no place to release them. Come Friday, they unlocked the latch. They landed like a pile of tangled rope on my lap. One by one we pulled them apart.

It's 24 degrees as I write this reflection. My feeders are stocked, warm water is out, and the birds hang around all day long. I clip my dog’s hair (she's a Goldendoodle) and pack it into a little hanging cylinder for these birds to stuff the houses they rent on our porch. There is something about the birds, something about their regular presence and their predictable manner. They are messengers of hope.

Advent season assumes internal anguish. To wait is to ache.

Every human feels it. Something missing, unresolved, incomplete. I know you know what I mean. There are times when we feel that ache down to the bone.

David puts words to it in Psalm 63:1,

You, God, are my God, earnestly I seek you; I thirst for you, my whole being longs for you, in a dry and parched land where there is no water.

Waiting provokes longing.

Creek Road stretches along the Brandywine River. It's one of my favorite drives in Chester County. I take this road on purpose, especially this time of year. Today, the sun shimmered through the branches of Autumn-brushed oak and towering sycamore trees, setting the ripples of the river into a dance of sparkle.

There’s really no way to describe it.

I told a student yesterday, "I know this may sound strange to you, but after you pass 40, you have to stop to think about how old you are when your birthday comes around." Her response was shocked, "No way!! I am sure that will not happen to me!"

But 16 years isn't that hard to keep track of. What about when your life collects decades? I sat this morning with pen in hand, paper, thoughts, feelings...I let myself sit with my collective years. Flying over the story of my life. There were tears. And gratitude. It’s tough to reconcile another birthday as I grieve the lives of those I have lost over months and years of living.

As soon as we passed the sign that said “Gently Used Books,” Scott drifted onto the shoulder, glanced in the rear view, and made that wide U-turn.

“I’m guessing you want to stop.”

Used book stores are an unspoken expectation. Every trip we take involves buying a book from a local used book store. I write the story on the front page of each find.

Scott and I talked at length about this trip to Maine and established one rule: “The only plan we have is not to have a plan.”

Are you starting the school year tired? Do you feel guilt creep up when you try to take time to tend to your anxiety, fears, and grief? Have you forgotten what you love to do, what brings you to life, and what you were made to offer to the world?

The best gift you can give to your family is a three-dimensional self who inspires those around you to thrive because you are thriving.

If you are going to watch a meteor shower, it’s not a bad idea to observe it in a solitary spot overlooking Taunton Bay in Sullivan, ME. A glass of blueberry-infused wine, your best friend, no humidity, sweatshirts…and a good pair of steady binoculars.

Like small blue flakes drifting slowly across the atmosphere, one after another after another, crisscrossing by each other across the dark expanse. Help me, please. Add a few shooting stars into the mix of magic, and you are officially wonder-full.

My grandmother was diagnosed with polio when she was a tiny kid. I still picture her sitting in her tweed, olive green armchair, legs crossed, wearing one big black shoe.