Sacred Canopy

The night love got its hands dirty.

Maundy Thursday.

The night before everything changed.

In the Gospel according to John, Jesus gathers with his closest friends in an upper room—sharing a meal, knowing what was coming… even when they didn’t fully understand.

He knew his hour had come.

And then—in one of the most radical, upside-down moments in all of scripture—Jesus knelt.

The teacher.
The leader.

He removed their sandals…
and began to wash their feet.

Dust. Dirt. Humanity.
All of it.

Even knowing one of them would betray him.

And the more I sit with this story, the more I notice—this isn’t the only time Jesus chooses a posture of humility.

He bends beside a woman surrounded by accusation to write a personal message in the dust.
He gathers children into his arms.
He reaches out to those others have rejected.

And in the garden, just hours later, he will kneel again in prayer.

Again and again, Jesus meets people where they are—not above them,

but with them.

———

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting in this story with our youth as they prepare to offer music within our Maundy Thursday service—joining the larger movement of the evening, not as performers, but as participants in something sacred.

Because it’s one thing to sing the notes. It’s another to understand the moment.

And maybe what gets me the most…
is that Jesus still chose to love like that.

I’m still learning what that kind of love requires of me.

To stay soft when I want to harden.
To remain present when I want to pull away.
To serve when I feel unseen.

And maybe that’s the invitation.

Not just to remember the story—
but to step into it.

What would it look like for you to love like that this week?

50 degrees one day. Nearly 100 the next.

Spring in Texas doesn’t ease in—it arrives with a jolt!

We moved from freezing cold Sunday into Monday…to mild, almost comfortable days midweek…to temperatures pushing 100° this weekend!

All in just a few days.

It’s disorienting and hard for the body to keep up with.

And I couldn’t help but think—
how much life feels that way right now.

Especially for me.

We move from one season to another without warning.

From cold to warmth to something almost too intense to hold.

From certainty to confusion.

From something we thought we understood… into something entirely new.

But here’s what I’m noticing:

Even in the midst of all that fluctuation—the trees are still beginning again.

Buds are forming.
Light is stretching a little longer each evening.
Something steady is happening beneath the surface, even when everything around it feels like it’s shifting too fast.

Spring doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. It simply responds to light.

And maybe that’s the invitation.

Not to resist the sudden changes.
Not to cling to the season we were just in. But to lean into the discomfort… —

and into the possibility.

Because even when life feels abrupt,
even when it catches us off guard—

something new is already taking root!

So I’m paying attention.

To the light.
To what is softening.
To what is quietly beginning again.

——

What feels like it’s shifting for you right now?

And where might there be possibility you haven’t yet noticed?

This morning my 17-year-old daughter stepped into the fourth and final round of one of the most competitive high school choral auditions in the country—two years wiser, steadier, and more sure of herself than the girl I drove there as a freshman.

Last night I asked her how she felt heading into the final stretch, and she didn’t give me a speech or a list of worries or a practiced smile. She just answered with one word:

“Ready.”

Not “I hope so.”
Not “I’m nervous.”
Not “We’ll see.”

Just ready.

There is something sacred about readiness—about the quiet inner shift between who we were when we began and who we’ve become through the work.

This audition process demands so much of young musicians: discipline, technique, sight-reading, vocal health, perseverance, artistry, courage—things that cannot be gifted, rushed, or faked.

But what moves me most is that the real accomplishment isn’t “making it” or receiving a ranking, but becoming the kind of person who BELONGS in the room.

Belonging is its own kind of victory!

Today I watched her walk toward a building that once felt enormous and intimidating and foreign…and she walked in like it was hers to step into.

I think readiness often looks like that—not loud, not flashy, not broadcasted, but carried quietly.

Maybe holiness is hidden there too: in the places where confidence finally meets calling and says, “I’m ready.”

In this season of change and challenge, I’ve been doing the holy work of cleaning—sorting, releasing, making space.

Today I walked into my bedroom and noticed my TV paused on a screensaver: a bluebird, quietly perched. And I was reminded—again—that the bluebird is on my shoulder, so to speak, even now.

Last January, blue jay feathers kept finding me—just arriving on my favorite patio chair. Then, a ceramic blue bird arrived as a gift. Small signs, easily dismissible—

But Scripture reminds us that not one sparrow is forgotten by God. Maybe neither are these moments of beauty that show up right when we need them.

Not as proof that everything is fixed.
But as assurance that we’re not alone.
That hope is still nearby.
That God’s presence often perches quietly beside us, waiting to be noticed.

Today, I noticed.

——

“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” Emily Dickinson 🕊️

Sometimes in life we don’t realize how long we’ve been holding our breath until something finally gives us permission to exhale.

Today, a medical appointment brought some much-needed clarity — and with it, a tremendous sense of hope. I’m deeply grateful for the medical professionals who do their work with such skill, compassion, and steadiness day in and day out.

On Sunday, I shared with our youth the power of even the smallest glimmer of hope. I turned off the lights and asked a senior to shine her phone’s flashlight over the youth and teachers gathered for Sunday school.

That tiny light transformed the whole space.

Hope is like that.

It doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic to transform us. Sometimes it begins as a flicker… and then suddenly becomes something bright, steady, and unshakeable.

I’m grateful for hope, for resilience, and for all the people who have walked beside me in seasons when even a glimmer was enough.

Look for the spark, hold fast during the glimmer, and WATCH as it grows into an unquenchable fire. 🔥🔥🔥

Emily

As we approach the week of Thanksgiving, I find myself in a phase of life that begs for both care and patience. Health, responsibilities, and the rhythm of everyday life can feel heavy—but in the midst of it all, I’m tending my own garden.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about a film that has stayed with me for decades:

Sliding Doors.

I saw it at a moment in my life that left a deep mark, and its story has influenced how I notice the small, almost invisible moments—the choices, gestures, and timing that ripple far beyond what we can see. The film reminds me that one action, one presence, or one small chance can quietly change someone’s life—or inspire gratitude in ways we may never know.

This week, I’m lifting gratitude for it all: the joys, the challenges, and the ongoing work of tending to myself.

And here’s a question I’m holding onto:

…𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗻𝗼𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗼𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗮𝗽𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗶𝗰𝗲, 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲?

This weekend, our CBF-Texas Governing Board gathered in the Texas Hill Country. Surrounded by rugged hills, winding rivers, and wide skies, we were reminded that even when the work before us feels overwhelming or insurmountable, God calls us to move forward step by step — with patience, intention, and faith.

In this place, we dreamed, planned, and prayed together — not rushing, but trusting that the Spirit is guiding us forward.

I stepped into the role of Moderator during this retreat, and I am deeply grateful to serve alongside such gifted and faithful colleagues. The work ahead is big, but so is our God. Together, like the Hill Country itself, we are shaped by resilience, vision, and the beauty of God’s creation.

This weekend my daughter turned 17. I see her standing at the edge of adulthood, full of light, laughter, and questions about who she will become. And I feel both gratitude and grief: gratitude for the gift of her life, and grief that she is coming of age in a world where violence too often interrupts the future.

The shooting of Charlie Kirk is a reminder of that grief. No matter where we align (or don’t align) on his politics, he was someone’s child, too — once 17, once full of possibility. Tragically, his life ended in an instant.

Each time violence erupts, the sacred canopy that should shelter us becomes tattered and torn. Each act of gunfire rips away at the fabric that holds communities together.

As my daughter blew out her candles, I whispered a wish for her and for every child: may they inherit a world where love is stronger than fear, where disagreement is met with dignity, and where every life is recognized and treated as sacred.

August holds so much.
It is a month of remembering — for me, the month I lost two of the most precious people in my life, decades ago now.

Grief changes over the years, but it never fully leaves.

Some days it is quiet.
Some days it arrives like a storm.

And yet, August is also a month of beginnings.

Summer loosens its grip.
A new school year begins.
We find ourselves on the threshold of change, looking ahead with equal parts hope and uncertainty.

Maybe that is why August feels so holy, so sacred — it reminds us that life is never just one thing.

We can carry sorrow and anticipation in the same heart. We can look back with love and forward with courage.

And through it all, we are held by the one who is faithful in every season.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens… a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” – Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4