As I reflect on yesterday’s sermon, one line keeps coming back to me: Grace remembers the address. I don’t know exactly where that line came from. Sometimes they just arrive. But it has stayed with me through the night. And there is one address that Cyndy and I have always been fond of. It was the address of her parents’ house in Avon, South Dakota. When our children were young, life was busy. I was teaching and serving as a young pastor. Cyndy was carrying much of the daily

Three Generations Hiking Lake 22 Trail Retirement has a way of making you look back over your life. Not just the big moments, but the small turns. The conversations you almost forgot. The doors that opened briefly and quietly before closing again. Lately I’ve found myself thinking about a few of those doorways. One takes me back to high school when a drummer from our school band asked me to sing lead vocals in his heavy metal band. Even now, that sentence makes me laugh a lit

A Sea Star on Edmonds Beach during Low Tide Much of my life, I was taught to look for God on the mountaintop. The clouds part. The prayer gets answered. The breakthrough comes. The choir swells. Everything suddenly feels clear and alive again. And we smile and say, ‘God is good all the time!” I still believe there are mountaintop moments. I have known some. I have watched sunsets from alpine trails, held newborn grandchildren in my arms, stood in sanctuaries where the singi

Mom in our VW bug with all 10 of us and still smiling! This year, I didn’t get a chance to preach a Mother’s Day message. And yet over the last few days, I found myself needing to write one anyway. Maybe because retirement has a way of making you look backward with softer eyes. Or maybe because some memories take decades before you finally understand what you were really seeing. One of my earliest memories of visiting my mom’s homeplace in Leola is, honestly… not liking it ve

Confessions of a chronic lyric-misser I have a bit of a reputation. Not for great pitch. Not for knowing all the words. But for… confidently singing the wrong lyrics. For years—years—I thought Forever in Blue Jeans by Neil Diamond was called: “Reverend Blue Jeans.” I sang it that way. Loudly. Repeatedly. Usually in the car… windows up, thankfully. And honestly… it kind of worked. “Reverend Blue Jeans” sounds like someone you’d trust. Not flashy. Not polished. Just… present. A

This morning, I woke up with a kind of hope I didn’t have before. I had a hard time pinpointing just what it was because it was coming from a different place...a different source. This hope didn't come from what was happening out there: the news reports, the election results, or whether or not our leaders will somehow get it together and make peace. This hope was quieter. It came from something closer. This new hope came in a small package about the size of a football. An

We Remember Next week, when you walk into the sanctuary… you’re going to see shoes. One hundred sixty-eight pairs. But here’s the thing— they won’t just be placed there. They will be brought. By you. By all of us. From our homes. Small ones. Worn ones. Pairs that carry stories. Each one holding a life. We are remembering the 168 children and teachers killed in a bombing at a school in Iran— lives taken in a place that should have been safe. And we are choosing not to look awa

Even here, in the fragile pause, the light still holds I don’t know about you… but I’ve been paying attention this week. Not obsessively. Not glued to the screen. But enough to feel it. That sense that something important is hanging in the air. Because right now… we’re in a pause. The ceasefire talks between the U.S. and Iran didn’t land . No agreement. And yet—there’s still this short window. A two-week truce that runs out on April 22. And it feels like we’re living in that

Easter people—- There’s something about coming through Good Friday into Easter that never quite gets old. I’ve walked that road more times than I can count now. The shadows. The silence. The questions that hang in the air like fog. And then… the light. The name spoken. The surprise of life where we thought there was only loss. This year felt different. Maybe because I’m aware—more than ever—that this is one of my last Easter seasons in this role. I don’t want to overdo that,

A couple weeks ago, we took Sam’s in-laws out to the Olympic Peninsula. You know how it is when people come to visit from far away—you want to show them this place. Not just the postcard version, but the real thing. The moss. The water. The quiet that somehow feels older than you. We stood out at Ruby Beach with the waves rolling in, those massive rocks rising up out of the water like they’ve always been there—and always will be. And then we made our way into the Hoh Rain For

I thought joy came after the win. I’m not so sure anymore. Opening Day always does something to me. There’s a crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the feeling that maybe—just maybe—this is the year everything comes together. And when it does? When the ball clears the fence? That’s my kind of joy. Touchdown joy. Home run joy. The kind that shows up when the result goes your way. I’ve lived a lot of my life there. And then there’s Julio Rodriguez. He plays the game like jo

Power doesn’t always look like power! There are a lot of ways to move through the world. You can push. You can force outcomes. You can try to bend the moment your way with enough strength, enough volume, enough control. That’s the way we’re taught. Be decisive. Be strong. Take control. And sometimes that works. But not always. I’ve been watching a baseball tournament this week—the World Baseball Classic—and it’s full of players who look like they were built for power. The kin

A Brady Bunch memory reveals the quiet tragedy of those who never chose the fight. I grew up sharing a bedroom with my two older brothers. Three boys in one room is not always the recipe for peace. One morning I woke up to the sound of them fighting. Not just arguing. Really fighting. Voices raised. Bodies moving into “stand off!” position! High noon at the McBride corral! The kind of tension that makes a younger kid lie still for a moment and wonder what to do. I was scared

Building the Beloved Community in a Time of War In these days it can feel as though the world is coming apart faster than we can hold it together. Wars rage across borders. Cities crumble under bombs. Families are scattered. The fragile structures that generations have tried to build—institutions meant to protect human dignity and restrain the worst instincts of power—are being tested and, in some places, deliberately torn down. Many evenings lately I find myself sitting qu

Rauch; the breath of God Pneumonia is not a spiritual discipline I recommend. But it does preach. This week my lungs have been in charge. Every deep breath threatens a cough. Every attempt to power through gets overruled. It’s humbling to realize how much of life depends on something you don’t control. Breath. In scripture, breath and Spirit share the same word: ruach. You don’t manufacture it. You receive it. And that feels especially real right now. There are important thin

Here’s an op-ed piece i sent to seattle times today. Concerning a wonderful child i baptized and confirmed who is now being held by ICE. Tragic. It’s long but trying to share my Christian conviction for the world. Praying for Nathan’s family When Immigration Policy Separates Families We Know Immigration debates are often argued in statistics and policy language. But sometimes the story is a face you know — a child whose life unfolded in your own community, someone who feel

Sometimes what catches up to us in stillness is not failure, but grace. Most of us are running harder than we realize. We keep moving — finishing one task, solving one problem, carrying one more responsibility — rarely stopping long enough to ask what all this running is doing to our souls. There is a moment near the end of the film Forrest Gump when Forrest, after running across the country for years, simply stops. No dramatic music. No grand speech. He turns to the people

One of my favorite stories about my parents is wonderfully simple. One night my dad went to bed early and, as a joke, turned himself around so his feet were on the pillow and his head was at the foot of the bed. When my mom came in, she followed her nightly ritual — leaning over to give him a gentle kiss goodnight. Only this time, she kissed his feet. The funny thing came next. She didn’t even notice. She just rolled back over, pulled up the covers, and started drifting off t