Twice, I was very pregnant in Advent, and I thought a lot about how riding on a donkey might bring on labour. With each month of pregnancy, babies occupied more of my body – as well as my mind and heart. And with birth, these little people become literal parts of my body and soul existing in the world distinct from me. 

Over the summer, I wrestled my way through a nasty case of pneumonia. As a life-long asthmatic, I have lots of experience with lung infections and trouble. Into the fall, my lungs were still struggling. The acute crisis had passed, I rested, and now it was time to do the work: eat, move and sleep for my lungs. It is hard, and I am breathing easier. Spiritual health follows the same processes as physical health. Eventually, the time for spiritual work shows up for all of us.

I suppose it is not a surprise to say that a writer loves words. Thinks words are powerful and important. Spends minutes and hours thinking up just the right way to express feelings and ideas with words. 

The etymology of tending is from the Latin “tendere” to stretch, in a certain direction. What a fabulous way to think about the way we care!

This spring, I got an itch for change, and I cut my hair. Sixteen inches of curls lay on the floor. I instantly felt so much lighter. And as I went about my life, it was a big enough change that I didn’t recognize my own reflection. I walked by the microwave in the kitchen or a window on the street and did a double take to see myself clearly. And then I realized that this was also happening inside myself.

I was trying to decide if I wanted ice cream when I got a text from my sister: “Call mom or I when you can.” It was one of those moments where time stops and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach knows that my world will never be the same. Someone I love lost their life to suicide. I had the honour of presiding at the Celebration of Life. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. And we need to talk more about this crushing weight – and a never-ending love.

Nothing grows in a death grip, so dare to let yourself go

Several times in the last year, after speaking on grief and loss, I have been asked a question with variations on the same theme: What do we do when it feels like we cannot go on?

More than a week has passed since Easter and there is still chocolate sitting in the Easter baskets. We are gradually learning that joy can be spread over many days in small doses, rather than trying to consume it all at once. Though the Easter baskets appear on Sunday morning, the resurrection in my life rarely arrives overnight. New life is emerging more than arriving suddenly.

Years ago, musician Audrey Assad released “I Shall Not Want” on an album called Fortunate Fall. She had discovered a Litany of Humility and set it to music. At a concert she did at my parish, she told us that she wrote it so that she would be inspired to pray it more often.

That has worked for me, and the chorus has become a measure of my spiritual health: “When I taste your goodness, I shall not want.”

People are curious and beautiful and mysterious. One of the things I love most about humans is our capacity to make meaning. It is endlessly fascinating to me that many people can be in the same room, experiencing the same objective reality and come away with such beautifully different perspectives and subjective understandings of what has happened. We are all living in the stories of our lives, whether we acknowledge them or not.