This post was written from my own reflections, with AI helping me organize and express my ideas more clearly. The stories, memories, and creative vision are my own.

Back during Lent, when I first wrote about the salmon returning to the sea in Sparks in the Dark, I did not even know much about Eastertide in the liturgical calendar.

Tomorrow is Pentecost, and somehow I can hardly believe we have arrived here already.

Reflecting back from the past weeks, I have noticed how these stories, symbols, and movements kept connecting with real life — with returning, waiting, releasing, recognizing, grieving, hoping, and becoming new again.

It felt like discovering that our lives can move with these sacred currents too.

This series was not only something I shared outwardly — it also became something God used deeply in my own life. Through these weeks, I found myself learning how to move more peacefully through transition, how to wait without rushing ahead, how to recognize God in unexpected places, and how to trust that even in uncertainty, God is still moving with us.

One thing that still amazes me is how unexpectedly everything began tying together. What started as reflections during Lent slowly unfolded into Eastertide, Ascension, and now Pentecost. Along the way, I began realizing that maybe these sacred rhythms carried through generations are not distant traditions at all but living invitations that help us notice where God is present in our own lives right now.

And perhaps that has been one of the most beautiful surprises of this whole journey for me.

To witness how God can weave things together before we even fully understand what God is doing.

To slowly realize that maybe we are being carried by grace more than we know.

So, thank you for walking with me through this Eastertide series. Thank you for listening, reflecting, praying, wondering, and staying with me through these weeks between Resurrection and Pentecost. Your encouragement and messages meant a lot to me.

There were moments during this season when I felt like I was being pulled by an undertow — like a strong current beneath the ocean trying to drag me somewhere deep and unknown. During these days between Ascension and Pentecost, I found myself reflecting deeply on courage, calling, and trust. And I realized something surprising: transformation does not always feel inspiring at first. Sometimes it feels disorienting, like being carried by a tide you cannot fully control.

And yet again and again, God kept bringing me back.

Back to the shore.
Back to breath.
Back to presence.
Back to love.

Tomorrow, we remember Pentecost — the moment when the Holy Spirit came upon the disciples like fire. Not a fire that consumed them, but a fire that filled them with courage, power, wisdom, and boldness. Not because they suddenly became strong on their own, but because God’s Spirit was now alive within them. (Acts 2)

And people noticed the difference.

Sometimes when we hear the Pentecost story, we focus only on the dramatic parts — the crowds, the preaching, the thousands added in one day. But I wonder if the Spirit’s work is sometimes quieter than that too.

Maybe boldness does not always look like standing in front of thousands of people.

Maybe sometimes boldness looks like finally resting when we are exhausted. Saying no to destructive habits. Beginning again after failure. Asking for help. Forgiving someone. Creating even when we feel afraid. Showing up consistently. Trusting God in uncertainty. Or simply waking up in the morning and trying again.

Maybe the Holy Spirit meets us there too.

Not only in massive moments, but in faithful ones.

That is what Eastertide has been teaching me. Resurrection is not only about one miraculous morning long ago. It is also about learning how to live differently now — how to recognize Love again, how to return again, and how to carry the fire forward into ordinary life.

A Small Gathering for Reflection and Prayer

As we move into this next season, I would love to open a small space for anyone who would like to reflect and creatively pray together about what Eastertide has meant for us and what new life God may be inviting us into.

Next Saturday, May 30, I will open a Zoom room at 8:30 AM PT for quiet personal reflection time. Then from 9:00–10:00 AM PT, we will gather together for a gentle check-in, sharing, reflection, and creative prayer for this new season in our lives.

You are welcome exactly as you are.

You do not need to prepare anything. You do not even need to turn your camera on. You can join while walking, resting, drawing, folding laundry, sitting quietly with coffee, or simply listening in the background.

Before Pentecost, the disciples waited together in a room.

Maybe this too can become a small room of waiting together.

A place to breathe.
A place to listen.
A place to carry the fire forward together.

If you are interested in joining or would like more information, feel free to reach out through SD-Resources.com and RSVP from there.

Creative Reflection Invitation

As Pentecost approaches, I invite you to take a few quiet moments to reflect:

• Where have I noticed God during this Eastertide season?

• What might the Holy Spirit be awakening in me?

• What is one small area of my life where I need courage?

• What fire is God nurturing in me that does not destroy, but gives life?

You do not need to force an answer.

Just notice.
Just listen.
Just breathe.

Closing Blessing

Holy Spirit,

Come like breath to weary places.
Come like wind into locked rooms.
Come like fire that does not consume but transforms.

Teach us to recognize Your presence in ordinary life.
Give us courage not only for dramatic moments,
but for daily faithfulness.

Help us release what we need to release.
Help us receive what we are afraid to receive.
Help us trust the tides of Your love.

And when we feel lost in the currents of change
carry us gently back to You again.

Amen.

As a closing song for this final Eastertide reflection, I wanted to share a piece inspired by this whole journey of waiting, returning, and carrying the fire forward — a reminder that even when we feel lost in the currents, God continues to call us back with the tide.

Thank you again for walking through Eastertide with me. Your encouragement, reflections, prayers, and presence throughout this season truly meant a great deal to me.

My hope moving forward is that we would continue growing into the new life God is preparing for each of us — whatever shape that may take. Some seasons begin dramatically. Others begin quietly, almost unnoticed. But may we keep listening for the Spirit, and may we keep returning to Love again and again.

If you would like to stay connected, reflect further, or explore spiritual direction or creative spiritual practices together, you are always welcome to connect with me through SD-Resources.com.

I am also available for one-on-one spiritual direction conversations for those seeking space to reflect, discern, process transitions, or deepen their spiritual journey. If this speaks to you, you are warmly welcome to reach out through this link: SD-Resources.com - Contact

Thank you again for walking through Eastertide with me.

May the peace of Christ, the love of God, and the fire of the Holy Spirit go with you into this new season.

This week I am learning that resurrection life is not only about rising, but it is also about releasing.

Last Thursday was Ascension Day—the day when the disciples gathered on the mountain and watched Jesus ascend into the clouds.

And somehow, I keep thinking about what that moment must have felt like.

After all the losing and finding again… they had finally found Him.

After the grief of the crucifixion. After the confusion of the empty tomb. After the quiet recognition by the shore and around the table.

And now, once more, they had to learn how to let Him go.

This is the part that feels hard for me to understand: the rhythm of losing, finding, and losing again.

“For it is to your advantage that I go away…”
— John 16:7

He left not because He abandoned the disciples, but because resurrection was never meant to keep them clinging to the old way of knowing Him.

And perhaps this is where Ascension connects back to the tenderness of Eastertide itself.

Last week, I reflected on the romance of Eastertide—the quiet ways the risen Christ revealed Himself again and again. Calling Mary by name. Waiting by the shore at dawn. Preparing breakfast after a long night of empty nets.

There is something deeply intimate about these resurrection stories.

The disciples were not only witnessing miracles. They were learning how to recognize Love again.

Not in triumphal power.
Not in certainty.
But in presence.

In familiar voices.
In shared meals.
In wounds still visible.

And maybe that is why Ascension feels bittersweet.

Just when the disciples were beginning to recognize Him again, they were invited into another kind of trust.

A love that could no longer be held onto physically.

A Presence that would now come differently.

Through Spirit.
Through breath.
Through fire.
Through one another.

And honestly… letting go is hard.

Even good things can be difficult to release.
Old seasons.
Old identities.
Old ways of relating to God.
Even moments of consolation we wish could last forever.

Releasing the need to control outcomes.
Releasing certainty.
Releasing old images of God.
Releasing the versions of ourselves that cannot follow where the Spirit is leading.

Sometimes I want God to remain familiar and predictable. But the Spirit often moves like wind and fire—alive, untamed, impossible to contain.

Yet Ascension reminds me that Christ’s presence did not disappear.

It expanded.

No longer limited to one shoreline in Galilee.
No longer confined to one visible place.

The Spirit would now dwell within ordinary people. Within frightened disciples. Within waiting hearts.

And perhaps that changes the disciples’ waiting entirely.

Because when they returned to the upper room, they were no longer hiding there in fear like before the resurrection.

This time, they waited with hope.

They still did not fully understand what was coming next. They still did not know what the Spirit would look like. They still did not know how their lives would change.

But now their waiting carried expectancy.

“Wait for the gift my Father promised…”
— Acts 1:4

“You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you…”
— Acts 1:8

Perhaps this is part of resurrection life too:

Learning how to wait without clinging.

Learning how to love without possessing.

Learning how to trust that God’s presence can continue even when it changes form.

Because resurrection life flows differently.

It begins with receiving.

Receiving breath.
Receiving Presence.
Receiving power.

I am wondering if this is also where many of us find ourselves during Eastertide too.

Still learning how to let go.
Still learning how to wait.
Still learning that God’s presence can continue in forms we do not immediately recognize.

In this week’s podcast episode, I will also share a small creative contemplative practice around open hands, waiting, and letting go—an invitation to gently make space for the Spirit within the changing tide of Eastertide.

Next week, we will move toward Pentecost—toward fire, movement, and being sent.

And at the end of this Eastertide journey, I hope we can gather together for a small creative online retreat on May 30: a space to pause, reflect, create, pray, and notice what has been unfolding within us through these weeks.

Because maybe Eastertide is not about having everything figured out.

Maybe it is about learning how to live in the in-between.

Learning how to trust the Spirit in the movement of the tide.

And learning that even when Christ disappears from sight…

Love is still here.

A Closing Blessing

May the Spirit meet you in the waiting.
May you find courage to release what no longer gives life.
And may you discover that even in the changing tide,
the Presence of God is still carrying you.

An Ascension Reflection Song

This is an Ascension reflection song I wrote called Carried by the Tide.

As I sat with the story of Ascension—the disciples learning to let go while still holding onto the promise of the Spirit—I kept returning to the image of the tide.

Jesus was no longer with them in the same visible way as before. Yet somehow, they were still being carried.

Not abandoned.
Not forgotten.
Still held within the movement of God.

May it accompany you gently in the waiting.

Mary Magdalene stands near the tomb weeping.
The disciples return to fishing.
Both stories carry this deep ache, longing, and disorientation.

And yet—in both stories, Jesus comes toward them first.

Together, we explore the ancient image of The Harrowing of Hell—Christ descending into the deepest darkness searching for humanity—and how Eastertide reminds us that there is no darkness Love is unwilling to enter.

Sometimes resurrection is already present around us… but we do not recognize it yet.

And maybe Eastertide is the season where we slowly awaken to the realization that Love has been standing on the shore all along.

At the end of the episode, I’ll share a Celtic prayer song created for this Eastertide journey.

Creative Reflection Invitation:

Take one slow breath.

Imagine yourself standing on the shoreline at dawn.

The night has been long.
Your nets feel heavy or empty.
You are tired.

And yet…
there is already a small fire burning on the shore.

A welcoming fire.

A fire that says:
“There is still warmth here.”
“There is still hope here.”

Now imagine Jesus gently calling your name.

Maybe like He called Mary.
Maybe like the voice calling across the water toward the disciples.
Maybe even like that ancient question asked in the garden:

“Where are you?”

Not as condemnation.

But as invitation.

As Love searching for humanity once again.

And quietly, within yourself, place your own name there.

“_____… where are you?”

And simply notice what rises within you.

No pressure.
No performance.
No perfect answer.

Only the possibility that Love is still calling us out from hiding…
and leading us home again.

I know it may seem like I’m jumping around.

Last week, I was writing about fishermen casting empty nets into the sea. This week, somehow, I’m writing about romance during Eastertide. But maybe that is exactly what a tide does—it carries you forward, then pulls you back before moving you forward again.

And perhaps that is what Eastertide has been doing to me, drawing me deeper into the currents underneath the resurrection story.
This week, even the scattered thoughts have begun to come together.

The more I sit with Eastertide, the more fascinating it becomes—not only the resurrection itself, but everything surrounding it: the longing, the recognition, the awakening, the love.

As I continued learning about the ancient traditions surrounding Easter, I came across an image known as The Harrowing of Hell. The idea comes from mysterious passages in the Bible describing Christ descending even into death itself to proclaim freedom and life (1 Peter 3:18–20; Ephesians 4:8–10). Over the centuries, Christians imagined this through poetry and art—Christ breaking open the gates of death, reaching for Adam and Eve, lifting humanity out from darkness into life.

I am wondering, what did they say to each other? What does it mean that before resurrection morning fully dawned, Christ first entered the deepest darkness looking for humanity?

Sometimes we do not realize how deeply asleep we have become until Love begins calling us awake again.

On the Easter week when I watched footage from Jerusalem of the Holy Fire ceremony before Easter morning, people stood in the darkness holding candles and torches as the flame was passed from person to person—one light becoming many lights. When I watched it, I also wondered if the timing itself carries meaning. Why does the light appear while it is still dark? Why before resurrection morning fully arrives?

Maybe because resurrection often begins before we recognize it—before understanding, before clarity, before certainty. Light enters the darkness first. Love moves toward humanity first. And perhaps that is what the image of Christ descending into the depths is trying to tell us: there is no darkness too deep for Love to enter—not death, not grief, not shame, not despair, not numbness, not even the hidden places within ourselves we no longer know how to reach. Christ goes there too—not merely to visit suffering, but to bring humanity home again.

And somehow, the more I pondered about this, the more I hear echoes of Song of Songs running underneath it all—a book filled with longing, searching, desire, and belonging: “I looked for the one my heart loves.” Traditionally read during Passover, the same season surrounding Jesus’ death and resurrection, it gives a different tone to Easter. Not smaller, but deeper. More intimate.

The resurrection is not only about victory over death—it is also about reunion. The Beloved searching for humanity. Humanity awakening to Love again. Maybe that is why many resurrection stories feel like recognition scenes.

Mary stands in the garden weeping, thinking Jesus is only the gardener. Until He says her name. “Mary.” And suddenly everything changes. “Rabboni,” my teacher, she replies.

Not because she solved a theological puzzle, but because love recognized Love.

Then there is that quiet moment in John 21. The disciples have gone back to fishing—back to routine, back to survival, back to the only thing they know how to do. They cast their nets through the darkness and catch nothing.

Many of us know this feeling. Waking up, going to work, trying again, repeating routines, carrying an exhaustion we cannot always name. Sometimes the deepest darkness in our lives does not look dramatic.

Sometimes it simply looks ordinary—an ordinary tiredness, an ordinary numbness, an ordinary sense of drifting through life without knowing if anything will truly change.

And yet, in the middle of all this ordinary exhaustion, there is suddenly a figure standing on the shore. A voice calling through the morning mist. The disciples do not recognize Him at first. But then the disciple whom Jesus loved says, “It is the Lord.”

Recognition awakens. The heart comes alive again.

Maybe this is the romance of Eastertide—not romance in a shallow sense, but in the deep sense of belonging. The realization that humanity is not abandoned. The realization that Love has come looking for us. The realization that even after fear, failure, and darkness, Christ still stands on the shore waiting for us.

There is already a fire burning there.

A meal being prepared.

A place waiting for weary people to come home.

And perhaps this is what resurrection slowly awakens within us—not merely the belief that Jesus rose from the dead, but the astonishing realization that we are deeply loved, called by name, and invited into relationship again.

Maybe that is why Eastertide matters.

Because before the disciples carried the fire into the world, they first had to awaken to the truth that they belonged to the One calling them.

And maybe we do too.

Maybe Eastertide is the season where humanity slowly awakens to the realization that Love has been standing on the shore all along.

Creative Invitation: Listening for the Voice

Take a quiet moment sometime this week.

If possible, sit near a window, outside by water, or somewhere you can notice the movement of light.

Place your hands open on your lap and take a slow breath.

Imagine yourself standing on the shoreline at dawn.

The night has been long.
Your nets feel heavy or empty.
You are tired from carrying what life has asked of you.

Now imagine a small fire burning on the shore.

Not a consuming fire.
A welcoming one.

A fire that says:
“There is still warmth here.”
“There is still food here.”
“There is still hope here.”

Stay there for a moment.

Then ask yourself:

• Where in my life have I become numb or exhausted?

• What part of me is longing to awaken again?

• What would it feel like to hear Love call my name?

• Where might Christ already be waiting for me in ordinary life?

If you would like, place your hand over your heart and softly speak your own name aloud.

Listen.

Notice what rises within you.

You do not need to force an answer.

Sometimes Eastertide begins simply by becoming aware that we are being called awake again.

A Blessing for Eastertide Awakening

I created this Celtic prayer song for this Eastertide journey.
You can play it throughout the day as a reminder that Love still calls us by name.
May your heart awaken to this Love.

Below is the wording of the song:

May the One who entered the deepest darkness
bring light to the hidden places within you.

May the Voice that called Mary by name
awaken your heart again.

May you recognize Love waiting for you
in ordinary mornings,
in tired routines,
in quiet moments by the shore.

And when your nets feel empty,
may you remember:
there is already a fire burning in the distance.

You are not abandoned.

You are seen,
you are called,
and you are deeply loved.

May your heart slowly awaken
to the Presence that has been beside you all along.

And may you, too, find yourself whispering:

“It is the Lord.”

Amen.

Easter has come and gone. Resurrection has been proclaimed. And yet… here we are—back in our ordinary lives.

Eastertide is meant to be a season of joy, but often it feels more like disorientation. What does it mean to live in resurrection when everything around us looks the same? When we return to the same work, the same patterns, the same quiet striving?

Not because resurrection didn’t happen—but because we are still learning how to live from it.

For generations, this light has been remembered as a flame carried from the tomb—passed from one person to another—a reminder that resurrection is not just something that happened, but something still being received.

The disciples were the first to receive this light—the first witnesses, the first to carry what had been awakened in them. And yet, even they did not fully know what to do with it. So they returned to what they knew.

And perhaps this is where it begins—not in clarity or confidence, but in a quiet returning where the light meets us again.

And now, somehow, that same light has reached us—
not by our own effort, but by grace.

Which means this story is not just theirs. It’s ours, too.

Because while we may not be fishing at night, we know what it feels like to keep trying… and still come up empty.

In our own ways, this shows up in everyday life.

For me, it can look like reaching out again and again—sending messages, following up, doing what I can—
and ending the day not with abundance, but with exhaustion.

Maybe for you, it looks different.
But the feeling is the same.

Nets empty. Energy low.

And a question underneath it all:

Can I keep going like this?

It’s into a moment like this that we hear a voice from the shoreline—

in John 21: “Do you have any fish?”

It sounds like a simple question. But it’s not really about fish.

It’s a question about provision.

Do you have what you need to keep going like this? Enough energy, enough clarity, enough hope—for the life you’re living right now?

And the honest answer, sometimes, is no.

What strikes me is this: after the resurrection, the disciples did not step into a completely different life. They returned to the same sea, the same nets, the same long night of trying—and even the same emptiness.

And then… something familiar happens.

A voice.
A question.
A direction about where to cast the net.

It feels like a déjà vu, because this wasn’t the first time.

At the very beginning, when they were first called, they had been here before—another empty night, another unexpected invitation to trust and respond.

And now, after everything that has happened, it comes again—not as repetition without meaning, but as a deepening.

As if to say: the life you were first invited into is the life you are still being invited to live.

Resurrection didn’t replace their calling—it brought them back to it with new eyes, preparing them for what that calling would become.

And then comes the question again:

Do you have any fish?

Not to expose failure or shame the emptiness, but to bring us into honesty—because we cannot receive what we are not willing to name.

And there, on the shore, we discover something unexpected:

a fire already burning.

A quiet, steady fire—not dependent on our effort, not waiting for our success.

The fire that leads us forward is not the one we managed to keep alive, but the one we discover was already there.

And from that place, a simple invitation comes: “Cast your net on the other side.”

Not louder effort. Not more striving.

Just a different way of listening—
learning to attend to His voice…
a different way of responding.

Sometimes we take a small step in trust— and only in time do we recognize
that it was the Lord who was guiding us.

The disciples didn’t know it was Jesus yet—but they responded anyway. And the nets—once empty—began to fill.

This is the quiet beginning of resurrection life—not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary ones that feel unsustainable. Where the risen Christ meets us not at our best, but in our fatigue.

Because of what has already been finished, we no longer have to strive as if everything depends on us.

Now there is a light—not to remove the night, but to guide us through it.

The sea is the same. The work is the same. But the presence is not.

Not after we recover.
Not when we are stronger.

Right here—right in the middle of exhaustion—there is an invitation to receive the light.

A Creative Practice — Casting Again

Take a quiet moment today. Sit with your hands open, as if holding an empty net.

Name, honestly, where things feel empty or unsustainable right now.

Then gently ask:
“Lord, where might You be inviting me to cast differently?”

Don’t rush to fix anything. Just listen.

Notice any gentle prompting that aligns with His voice.

Choose one simple response. Let it be small. Let it be enough.

Closing Prayer

Jesus,
You meet us in the ordinary—
in the places where we are tired, where our efforts feel empty,
where life feels unsustainable.

You do not turn away from us there.
You come close.

Teach us to be honest about what we carry and what we lack.
Help us to notice the fire already burning—Your presence,
Your provision, Your steady light.

Give us the courage to listen and to respond,
even when we do not fully understand.

May the light we receive guide us—not out of our lives,
but deeper into them, with You.

Amen.

Looking Ahead

What if… before we recognize the light—
we are first recognized by it?

What if the turning point doesn’t begin with us seeing clearly,
but with being seen… and called?

Next week, we will step into another resurrection moment—
not by the sea, but in a garden—
where someone is weeping,
not knowing that the light is already near…

until she hears her name.

Together, we’ll explore what it means to live the resurrection in our everyday lives…
especially when things don’t feel clear or settled.

Through short reflections, scripture, music, and creative spirituality,
this series is an invitation to slow down, listen, and notice
how God is present—even in the ordinary.

I’m excited to walk this Eastertide journey with you.

New episodes and Substack reflections are released weekly.
If you’d like to continue the journey, you can follow along at:
👉 https://creative-spirituality.com

Reflection:
Where do you find yourself in an “in-between” space right now?

If you’d like to listen on the go, you can also find this on Spotify here

The other day, I was watching TV, and a clip from Jerusalem caught my attention.
People were gathered, some holding candles, others carrying torches, as a flame was brought out from what is believed to be the tomb of Jesus—a tradition that has been carried on for more than a thousand years.

The light was passed from person to person—one flame becoming many.
Something in me paused.
It felt quiet, sacred, alive.

And I found myself wondering:
What does it mean to carry that kind of light?

We thought resurrection would feel like arrival—like everything finally makes sense, like peace that stays, like the “happily ever after” we have been waiting for. After walking through Lent—through returning, ashes, and longing—I thought maybe this was it: living in resurrection, living in dynamis power.

But I found myself still asking questions. Like Mary Magdalene in the garden—seeing but not recognizing. Like the disciples, returning to what they knew, unsure what resurrection life actually looks like.

And I found myself asking: How do I live this resurrection life? What does it mean to carry this light… in this kind of world?

Maybe resurrection is not the end of the journey, but the beginning of learning how to live it.

Because the world didn’t suddenly become easy. There is still uncertainty, still distraction, still darkness that feels very real. And somehow, resurrection doesn’t remove us from it—it meets us inside of it.

Easter doesn’t end the story. It begins a movement. A tide.

Lately, I have been drawn back to that image—a flame carried out from the tomb, passed from one person to another. Maybe that’s what this season is: not just witnessing the light but learning to carry it.

And somehow, we find ourselves holding a small light, learning what it means not just to receive it, but to carry it into the world.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t step into Eastertide right away. Resurrection felt quieter than I expected, and life didn’t slow down for me to take it in.

I’m still learning how to live it.

So, I find myself entering this season midstream—not at the beginning, but somewhere in the flow. And maybe that’s how Eastertide meets us. A tide doesn’t wait for us to be ready; it carries us when we step in.

For the next few weeks, I want to continue Sparks in the Dark in a simpler, gentler way: a short podcast each week and one creative reflection to follow—something you can carry with you into your commute, your work, your ordinary days.

We will follow the movement of resurrection as it unfolds: from receiving the light, to recognizing the voice, to letting go, to being sent.

And as we move toward Pentecost, I’m also holding the idea of gathering together for a small, creative online retreat—
a space to pause, to move, to notice, to listen, and to recognize the fire we are now carrying.

I’ll share more soon.

So, if you are just stepping into Eastertide too, you’re not behind.

You’re right on time

Sparks in the Dark — Eastertide Podcast Intro
A small beginning for a new season.

You can also follow and listen on Spotify here
I’m looking forward to walking this Eastertide journey with you.
New episodes are released weekly.

As the sun rises this Easter morning,
I find myself wondering:

Do we really know
what kind of power raised Jesus from the dead?

Not just in words— but in experience?

The first time I encountered the word dynamis—power—
I realized how little I understood.

We speak of God’s power so easily.
But what we know is only a drop in the bucket.

Like discovering how a tiny fragment of uranium
can release unimaginable force and even that is only a small spark

Because resurrection power is not destructive.

It does not consume.

It burns from within.

Like the fire in the bush that was not burned.
Like a heart set ablaze with love.
Like a living stream, full of life.

This is dynamis.

Not power that crushes— but power that awakens.

Not power that takes—but power that fills.

And slowly, I begin to see: This power is not something we chase. It is something we return to.

All these weeks, we have been returning.

Through fire and ash.
Through letting go.
Through abiding.

Like branches returning to the vine.
Like salmon swimming back to the source.
Like sparks returning to the fire.

And here at the empty tomb, we discover the power was there all along.'

The stone was rolled away.
The seal was broken.
The guards had no authority.

As it says in Gospel of Matthew 28:2—
the earth shook, an angel descended and sat on the stone.

Death has been overcome.

And this same power… lives in us.

Not as something distant but rooted deep within. A life so full, so grounded in love that you are no longer searching. You are abiding.

You are not striving for anointing— you are already connected to the Source.

The oil flows.
The fruit comes.
The life overflows.

This is resurrection life.

This is shalom.

A life where you feel whole.
Complete.
Alive.

Where Christ is in you and you in Him.

Joy.
Power.
Hope.

Jesus has risen. And we are rising with Him.

A Simple Easter Practice: Receiving the Fire of Life

Take a moment…

Rub your palms together. Feel the warmth.

Place your hands on your heart then wherever your body needs blessing.

Whisper:

“The life of Christ lives in me.”
“The fire that does not consume burns within me.”

Let your body respond—
a breath,
a sway,
a small movement.

Just receive.

Blessing

May the resurrection power of Christ
rise within you—

not as force,
but as life.

Not as striving,
but as abiding.

May you know the fire that does not consume,
the love that does not run dry,
the life that cannot be taken.

Christ is risen.

And you are held
in that rising.

Amen.

And as you go— carry this quiet knowing: The stone has been rolled away… and something in you has already begun to rise.

As we come to the close of this series, I want to thank you for journeying with me through Sparks in the Dark. Your presence has meant more than you know. Please enjoy this final song that wraps around the heart of our journey…

May it stay with you—
a gentle reminder that the spark is still alive,
and always finding its way home.

Sparks in the Dark Song:

This Holy Week, I feel invited to return…
to slow my steps and walk closely with Jesus.

So instead of moving straight to the final reflection,
I am choosing

To pause
To breathe
To return

While I will not be offering live Holy Week liturgies this year,
I invite you to revisit these contemplative, creative liturgies from last year—
now held through a lens of Returning.

Returning to love.
Returning to surrender.
Returning to the quiet presence of God… who has been with us all along.

May these days meet you where you are—
and lead you home.

Sometimes we return… and what was once familiar becomes newly alive.

Holy Week Creative Liturgies

You are invited to follow the Holy Week Liturgy below. Please check the link for reflection questions and creative embodied practices:

Wednesday, April 1, 2026
Anointing Liturgy: Mary Magdalene
Returning to Devotion
A reflection on the intimate and prophetic act of anointing.

Mary did not strive or explain—
she simply drew near.

* Where am I being invited to return with love, not effort?
[Reflection Questions – Click here]

Thursday, April 2, 2026
Commandment Liturgy: The Last Supper & Foot Washing
Returning to Humble Love
Enter into Jesus’ invitation to love one another as he has loved us.

We return to the table.
To the kind of love that kneels.

*Where am I invited to love—not from obligation, but from abiding?
[Reflection Questions – Click here]

Friday, April 3, 2026 (Midday)
Holy Passion Remembrance
Returning to Surrender
A quiet personal liturgy to remember the crucifixion.

This is the place we often avoid.
And yet… this is where love holds nothing back.

*What am I holding that I am invited to release?
[Reflection Questions – Click here]

Friday Evening, April 3, 2026
Vespers: Liturgy of the Shadows
An evening vesper to honor the mystery and grief of the cross.
[Reflection Questions Click here]

Saturday Evening, April 4, 2026
The Great Vigil of Easter
Returning to Stillness
Nothing moves.
Nothing resolves.

And yet… something is happening beneath the surface.

*Where am I being invited to wait without rushing the outcome?
[Reflection Questions: Click here]

Sunday Morning, April 5, 2026
Sunrise Easter: A Celebration of New Life
Returning to Life

Life does not return as force—
but as presence.
As breath.
As quiet, undeniable rising.

*Where do I notice life… returning in me?
[Reflection Questions: Click here]

We have been on a journey of returning…
and now, we slow our steps.

Not to arrive—
but to remain.

I’ll meet you at the dawn.

Across churches, we lift branches in our hands and cry out, “Hosanna.”

We remember the crowd who welcomed Jesus as He entered Jerusalem—hopeful, expectant, full of praise.

Branches are everywhere today.

Waving. Celebrating. Reaching upward.

And yet… at this Lenten season, reflecting the Sparks in the Dark Lenten Journey, I found myself wondering:

What does it mean not just to hold a branch—
but to be one?

—

Last week, in our journey of returning, we reflected on abiding.

Not striving.
Not proving.
Not becoming something else.

But remaining.

In John 15, Jesus says:
“I am the vine; you are the branches.”

A branch does not need to become stronger than it is.
It does not need to turn into something else.

It only needs to remain.

—

So today, as we see branches lifted high in celebration,
I want to offer a different kind of reflection.

Not just the branches in our hands…

But the branch that we are.

I created this short film, Little Branch, Little Branch, as a visual parable of that journey.

A branch that wandered.
A branch that tried to become something else—
strong like stone,
bright like fire,
free like the wind.

And a branch that slowly discovered:

Life was never found in striving…

Only in remaining.

—

Watch the short film here:

Listen to the original song of the intro from this movie:
Little Branch, Growing Still

Let the music be a companion to the story—
a quiet reminder you can return to.

—

As you watch and listen, I invite you not just to observe…

But to notice your own story.

Where have you been striving?
Where have you been trying to become something else?
Where are you being invited to return?

Little branch, little branch…

remain.

—

I’d love to hear what you notice or what resonates with you.

There was a time I found myself strangely drawn to the idea of doing a triathlon.

Not just any triathlon, but something beyond the usual—like an XTERRA race in Maui or Patagonia, jumping into cold, choppy water and moving through raw terrain.

Which is ironic, because swimming was never my strength!

And yet, somehow, I found myself there.

Later, in the middle of a race, I was smiling in the water, wondering, How did I get here?

It wasn’t by force or by figuring everything out, but by following something I didn’t fully understand.

As a child, I loved the water—until the day I almost drowned. After that, something shifted. The water no longer felt like home.

And yet, years later, something in me wanted to return.

When a friend invited me to do a triathlon, I hesitated. How could I do this if I didn’t even know how to swim?

And yet, something in me kept pulling.

So I said yes.

I started from the beginning: lessons, awkward strokes, learning to trust the water again.

But the turning point wasn’t technique—it was community.

We trained together, swam side by side, and kept showing up.

Slowly, the water stopped feeling like something that would swallow me. It began to feel like something that could hold me.

I still remember jumping into the deep end—18 feet down. At first, there was panic, fear, and resistance.

And then, I let go.

I trusted the water.

And somehow, I floated.

I also remember how we moved together during the race—swimming, biking, and running alongside one another.

Even though each of us was racing our own race, there was something about being surrounded by others, moving in the same direction, that carried me forward.

As we’ve been journeying through Lent together—through naming, turning, and abiding—I begin to see this week differently.

This is not a new direction, but a deepening.

A remembering of what has been forming in us all along.

Looking back now, my triathlon experience reminds me of the salmon migration.

When I first learned about them, I was fascinated. There is so much we can learn from the salmon—far more than I can hold in one reflection.

They give everything they have—swimming upstream, against the current. And yet, something within them carries them—a grace that moves from the inside.

From the outside, it looks like they are fighting the current. But from within, they are following it.

At some point, something within them awakens, and they begin to swim upstream—not to discover where they belong, but to return to what they have always known.

The current is strong and resistant. This is not drifting.

And yet, they move forward—not because the water is easy, but because something within them is stronger than the current.

They also do not swim together because it is beautiful. They swim together because they need each other.

The current is too strong for one fish alone, so they move as one body—sheltering, carrying, and making a way forward together. When one tires, another leads. The resistance is shared.

And I see it now: I did not learn to trust the water alone.

Sometimes, just knowing someone else is still swimming is enough.

Salmon return because something is written into them—a memory, a knowing.

And I wonder if this is true for us.

Because something in me recognizes this journey—not as information, but as longing.

It feels like remembering something my soul has always known, even if I cannot fully explain it.

This is not about finding something new. It is about remembering and returning to the Source we were made for.

Even in resistance, there is rhythm.

At first, this might sound like movement again—like striving after learning to abide. But it is not the same.

From the outside, it looks like swimming upstream.
From within, we are being carried by the flow of grace.

Salmon move with their whole bodies—steady and flowing. Nothing is wasted, and everything is aligned.

And maybe this is what prayer becomes—not something separate from life, but something we live.

A reaching.
A releasing.
A trusting.

Together.

When I cannot pray, I am carried.
When I have strength, I carry others.

This is how we move—within grace.

So this week, I hold this:

We are not lost. We are returning.
We return together. We are sustained together. We find the way together.

And somehow, even in the current, we are not alone.

A Creative Practice: “Swim” Together

Where does life feel like resistance right now?

Beneath the noise of daily life—beneath the striving, the goals, and the stress—what is the quiet pull guiding you upstream?

Ask yourself:

• What in me is still moving toward life?

• Who is swimming beside me?

Move your hands forward as if swimming.
As you reach: I return.
As you draw back: I trust.

If you can, do it with someone else.

You don’t have to swim alone.

Closing Prayer

Teach us, O God, to return.

Not in fear, but in trust.
Not alone, but together.

Let every movement become a prayer,
every longing a remembering,
every step a surrender into life.

And when the current feels strong, remind us:
we already know the way home.

And when we reach the Source, remind us:
this is where life begins again.

Amen.

A Final Invitation: Returning Together

We’ve been swimming together for six weeks—through naming, turning, and abiding. And now, with the salmon, we are remembering our way home.

We did not do this alone.

This Saturday, we gather one last time to reflect: What has surfaced in you? What is still calling you home?

As we prepare for Holy Week and open ourselves to resurrection life.

Final Online Gathering
Saturday, March 28, 2026
9:00 – 10:00 AM
(Room opens at 8:30 AM for optional silent reflection)

Please register at SD-Resources.com so I know you are coming and I can send you the zoom link for our meeting.

I would love to see you there—as we finish this swim together and step into what is beginning.

This week, I am sick.

Not just a passing cold, but the kind of exhaustion that slows everything down. My body feels heavy, my energy is gone, and my thoughts are foggy. And underneath it, I recognize something deeper: I am tired from trying too hard.

Somewhere along the way, I drifted—away from abiding, away from listening, away from the quiet, steady life of the Vine. And now, here I am again, invited to return.

Abiding: Not a Task, but a Place

In this Lenten journey, we are invited to bring both our fire and our ash—our passion and our longing, but also our weakness, our exhaustion, and our limits. Maybe this place of ash is not failure. Maybe it is an invitation.

An invitation to abide.

To abide is not to strive, to prove, or to force growth. It is to remain, to stay, to dwell, and to be held in relationship. “Abide in me, and I in you.” — John 15

Returning is the moment we turn back. Abiding is the life we are invited to stay in.

The Branch That Forgot

I see myself in a small branch, trying to become something else—strong like a rock, powerful like fire, free like the wind. But I am not a rock. I am not the fire. I am not the wind.

I am a branch.

And a branch only lives when it is connected.

When We Leave the Vine

When I am not abiding, I don’t just stop. I reach for other things—places that make me feel alive, but are not the source of life.

I try to prove myself. I say yes beyond my limits. I rely on my own strength. I try to produce what I do not have. And slowly, I begin to dry out.

This week, my body told me what my soul already knew: You are not abiding.

Coming Back to Myself

The turning point is not strength. It is honesty.

“He came to himself…” — Luke 15

This Lenten journey is not just something I am offering. It is something I am living. I am learning to notice where I have wandered, where I have forced, where I have tried to live apart from the source.

And again, I return.

Returning Together

Last Saturday, we gathered in person, and together we helped one another return. We listened, we received words, and we danced them.

There was no performance and no striving—just response. It reminded me that we do not return alone. Sometimes we need others to hold space, to reflect truth back to us, and to remind us who we are when we forget.

Green and Simple

Yesterday, when I wrote this, it was St. Patrick’s Day—a day filled with green, with life. And here in Southern California, spring is emerging all around us as well. I find it meaningful that in this Lenten journey of ash and fire, we are also being reminded of something simple: green life.

Branches that are alive. Leaves that remain. A life sustained not by striving, but by staying.

Scripture says, “God made mankind upright, but they have gone in search of many schemes.” — Ecclesiastes 7:29

God made life simple—to remain, to love, to trust, to abide. But we complicate it. We strive, we overthink, we try to control, and we run toward other sources. What was meant to be light becomes heavy. What was meant to be green begins to dry.

Maybe returning is not about becoming someone new, but about letting go of everything that was never meant to carry life.

A Reminder for Our Lenten Journey

Bring your fire—your passion, your longing.
Bring your ash—your exhaustion, your limits, your shame.

You do not need to perform.
You are invited to remain.

A Prayer for Abiding

Jesus,
True Vine,
Source of life,

I return to You.

Where I have wandered—
bring me back.
Where I have forced—
teach me to rest.
Where I have tried to live on my own—
reconnect me to Your life.

I bring my fire—
all my desire, my longing, my unfinished hopes.

I bring my ash—
my weakness, my failure, my weariness.

Hold them both.

Teach me not just to return—
but to abide.

To remain in Your love.
To receive what I cannot produce.
To trust that You are enough.

And that in You—
I am alive.

Amen.

Creative Practice: Abide

This week, try a simple practice:
Sit quietly for a few moments
Place one hand on your heart
Breathe slowly

With each inhale, whisper:
“I receive.”

With each exhale, whisper:
“I remain.”

If you feel led, gently move your body—
like a branch swaying, not striving.

Notice:
Where am I trying to force?
Where am I invited to simply stay?

Invitation: Journeying Together

We are nearing the end of our Lenten journey—
just two more weeks.

If you would like to continue this journey in community,
we will have one more online gathering: Saturday, March 28 2026- 9 am to 10 am PST

A space to reflect, to listen, and to return—together.

You are invited! Please register at SD-Resources.com

Over the past weeks in Sparks in the Dark, we’ve been walking a quiet journey.

We began with ashes — remembering that we are dust, fragile and human.

Then we noticed the fire — the breath of God within us.

Last week we reflected on returning — that moment when, like the prodigal son, we come to ourselves and begin the long walk home.

But what happens when we actually arrive?
What waits for us at the end of the road?

This week we arrive at the heart of the story:

the embrace.

When I planned the theme for this week — The Embrace: Healing from Shame and Rediscovering Belovedness — I didn’t know what story I would tell.

But three figures kept returning to me:

the prodigal son,
the runaway baby,
and the madman.

At first they did not seem related at all. One is a Bible parable. One is a memory from my childhood. And the other is a forgotten man from the streets of my hometown.

Yet somehow, all three stories are about the same thing:

what happens when someone is lost…
and someone else runs toward them instead of away.

Years ago, when I was three years old!!

My mother was a kindergarten teacher, and most days she took me with her to school. I loved being there — listening to her tell stories, singing songs with the other children, sitting in the classroom where she taught.

But for some reason that morning I had to stay home. In my three-year-old mind, the solution was simple: if my mother wouldn’t take me to kindergarten, I would just go there myself.

So I walked out of the house alone, without my nanny’s knowledge …

I remember small things — the feeling of the road under my feet, the noise of cars, the legs of adults moving past me. I was tiny among them.

At one point a car suddenly stopped in front of me. I didn’t understand what had almost happened. I only knew I needed to keep going.

Then a man with tousled hair, squatted in front of me …

People in town called him Paimin — the madman.

He picked me up and carried me through the streets.

People stopped and stared.

“Whose baby is that?” they whispered.

I only remember crying one thing:

“I want my mom.”

The madman said to me:

“You are lucky I found you… you will be my daughter.
We are the same. You lost your mommy and I lost my family.”

At that moment I did not understand what he meant.

But years later, I realized something strange and tender about that moment.

Two lost beings had found each other.

Looking back now, I realize something important.

Paimin was not the one who brought me home.

Eventually, we passed in front of a small store owned by my parents’ friends. They recognized me immediately. They offered Paimin some bread and gently took me into the shop while he ate.

That is how I was saved and brought back to my parents.

Paimin carried me for a while. But it was the community around my parents — their friends, and finally my parents themselves — who brought me home.

Looking back now, I sometimes smile at the innocence of that decision. I wasn’t trying to run away.

I was simply trying to go where my mother was.

As a child I did something foolish.

I walked into danger without realizing it.

For many years I looked back and thought:

Why did I do that?
Why didn’t I know better?

But eventually I realized something very simple.

I was three years old.

Of course I didn’t know better.

I only knew one thing:

I wanted my mother.

Sometimes we are not lost because we are rebellious.

Sometimes we are lost because we are small.

In the story of the prodigal son, the son prepares a speech before returning home. He plans what he will say — his apology, his explanation.

But when he finally arrives, the father doesn’t wait for the speech.

Not:

Why did you leave?
Why were you foolish?
Why didn’t you know better?

He simply runs.

And when I think about it, when I was three years old, I didn’t even have a speech to give.

I was just a small child who had gotten lost.

My parents were simply overjoyed when their friends brought me back to them.

Sometimes love doesn’t wait for explanations — it is simply grateful that we are home.

Before the speech is finished.
Before the explanation is complete.
Before the son proves anything.

The father embraces him.

This is the moment when shame begins to dissolve.

Because shame says:

“You should have known better.”

But love says:

“You are home.”

Looking back at my childhood memory, I see something I did not see then.

The madman carried me.
A woman rescued me.
My parents embraced me.

Each played a different role in my return.

My return home did not depend on my wisdom.

It depended on the people who ran toward me.

And perhaps that is why, when I think of the prodigal son today, I do not only see a rebellious young man.

I also see the lost ones.

The confused ones.
The ones who wandered because they did not yet know the world.

Even the madmen wandering the streets.

Because sometimes the lost recognize the lost.

Healing from shame may begin with a simple realization:

we were never meant to find our way home alone.

Sometimes we walk away without understanding.

Sometimes we wander farther than we intended.

But somewhere along the road, love runs toward us —

before the explanation,
before the apology,
before we even finish our speech.

And in that embrace, we remember something we had forgotten:

we were beloved all along.

Creative Practice: The Unfinished Speech

In the story of the prodigal son, the son prepares a speech before returning home.

He plans what he will say — his apology, his explanation.

But when he finally arrives, the father interrupts him with an embrace.

Before the speech is finished.

When you have some time, take a few quiet minutes for this simple practice.

Take a piece of paper and begin writing the sentence:

“God, I am sorry for…”

Let whatever comes to mind flow onto the page.

You may notice explanations, regrets, or things you wish you had done differently. Write freely for a few minutes.

Then pause.

Imagine God gently interrupting you before you finish your speech.

Not with questions.
Not with accusation.

But with open arms.

Sit quietly for a moment and breathe.

Then reflect on this question:

Where in your life might God already be running toward you —
before your explanation,
before your apology,
before you finish your speech?

Stay with that question for a few breaths.

You may discover that grace has already arrived before you were ready to explain yourself.

Prayer of Returning

Loving God,

You see us long before we understand ourselves.

You see the child who wanders,
the heart that longs for home,
the places where shame still whispers that we should have known better.

Yet you do not meet us with accusation.

You run toward us with open arms.

Teach us to receive your embrace.

Heal the parts of us that still hide in shame.

Help us recognize your love even in unexpected places —
in strangers,
in broken stories,
in the quiet mercy that finds us when we are lost.

Remind us again that we are your beloved.

Amen.

Invitation

If you are in the Los Angeles area, I would love to invite you to join us this Saturday for an in-person Sparks in the Dark gathering.

Together we will explore these themes through reflection, creative practice, and conversation.

You can register at:

SD-Resources.com

You are welcome!

• Week 1: Fire & Ash — Standing at the double threshold.

• Week 2: Naming the Ash — Practicing honesty without shame.

• Week 3: The Turning — Like the prodigal remembering the way home.

• Week 4: The Embrace — Healing from shame and rediscovering belovedness.

• Week 5: Abiding in the True Vine — Releasing false attachments.

• Week 6: Returning to the Source — Swimming upstream.

• Week 7: Resurrection — Living in the reality of dynamis power.

We begin in ash.
We return through love.
We rise in resurrection power.

We will gather three times during Lent — two online (February 28 and March 28) and one in person (optional for anyone live around LA area- we are meeting on March 14) — for guided reflection, creative prayer, and embodied practice. You are welcome to join one, two, or all three.

And every Wednesday for seven weeks, I will post a new reflection and creative invitation here — so you can journey at your own pace, wherever you are.

If you would like to join the live gatherings and receive the additional weekly materials directly, please register at:

sd-resources.com

Once registered, you’ll receive gathering details, Zoom links, and reflection prompts for the journey.

You may also follow along through the weekly posts without registering. However you participate, you are welcome.

If you feel a spark stirring in your own darkness, what might happen if you stopped striving and simply started returning?

Optional In-Person Gathering — March 14 (LA Area)

If you live in the Los Angeles area, you are invited to join us this Saturday for an optional Sparks in the Dark in-person gathering.

Many of us are standing in a kind of in-between space — what has been passing, and what is coming has not fully taken shape yet. If you find yourself in this season between ash and fire, you are welcome to come.

Together we will explore the Lenten theme of returning — returning to love, returning to the Source, and returning to the fire that brings life.

Through creative reflection, collage prayer, and movement, we will listen for what God may be inviting us into in this season — and perhaps for the year ahead.

Come as you are.

Please register at sd-resources.com if you plan to attend.
You are welcome whether or not you have joined the previous sessions.

Together we continue learning how to dance between fire and ash — and return again and again to the life God is inviting us into.

Valentine’s Day always carries a special reminder for me — a reminder of returning, again and again.

The memory goes back many years.

It begins with six Valentine balloons tied to my bike.

They floated in front of me as I rode through the streets—bright, cheerful, dancing wildly in the wind. “I love you.” “Happy Valentine’s Day.” “Te amo mi amor.”

I had bought them for my friends—my “hunny bunnies,” as I liked to call them. I didn’t have a Valentine myself that year, but I thought it would be fun to surprise the people I loved.

So there I was, riding through town with balloons flying everywhere. People in their cars were smiling as they passed. Part of me secretly hoped they thought a boyfriend had given them to me. I hoped they thought I was so loved!

But inside, I was tired.

Life felt heavy then. I was trying to carry too many things on my own—responsibilities, expectations, and the quiet pressure to make everything work. At that time, I was also working many hours to pay my college tuition. Most days felt like work, work, work … and I was constantly trying to make life work on my own.

That morning in my journal I wrote a simple, honest question to God:

“Do you still love me?”

Sometimes that question comes when we are simply exhausted.

Later that day, after delivering the balloons to a few friends, I was riding along the road when suddenly—

Boom.

A van hit me. My bike went down. I hit the pavement and a strange thought flashed through my mind:

So this is it.

For a moment the world spun.

Then everything went quiet.

But when the dust settled, something unexpected happened. I slowly stood up. The bike was fine. I was fine too—no injuries, not even a scratch.

I was shocked that I had survived the accident.

Physically I was fine, but the rest of the day I felt shaken. I didn’t even go to work that evening. My whole body was trembling as the reality slowly sank in.

Life suddenly felt very fragile.

I kept thinking how easily everything could have ended right there on that road. In a second my life could have been gone. All the money I had worked so hard to earn could have disappeared just as quickly—spent on injuries, hospital bills, or damage from the accident.

I had been trying so hard to hold everything together.

That night, as I sat with those thoughts, another realization slowly surfaced.

It felt less like an answer and more like an invitation.

Almost as if God was gently placing a balloon into my hands.

And written on it were simple words:

“Would you be mine?”

Not: Can you fix your life?
Not: Can you try harder?

Just:

Would you trust me?

That moment became a turning point for me—not dramatic, but real. I realized I had been trying to carry my life on my own. I had thought returning to God meant trying harder. But that day I began to see that returning meant something much simpler: trusting that I was already loved.

Jesus tells a story about a young man who runs away from home. We often focus on the moment when the father runs out to embrace him. But the real turning happens earlier.

Scripture says, “When he came to himself.”

The son is still far away. Nothing around him has changed yet. But something shifts inside him. He remembers. He remembers where home is.

The turning happens before he reaches home.

Looking back now, that moment on the road felt like that. I was still lying on the pavement. Nothing in my life had changed yet. But inside, something shifted.

I remembered that I did not have to carry my life alone.

I could turn.

I could return.

Before going further, I want to thank those who joined the Sparks in the Dark gathering this past week. Together we explored this journey not only with words, but with our bodies—dancing our fire and our ashes. As we moved between the two, many new insights surfaced. Sometimes our bodies understand things before our minds do.

Over the past two weeks in Sparks in the Dark, we have been standing at what I call the double threshold of fire and ash.

Fire is the longing inside us—the dreams, the desires, the things that still burn with life.

Ash is what remains—our struggles, disappointments, and limits.

Last week we practiced naming our ashes. Not to shame ourselves, but simply to tell the truth.

And something surprising happens when we tell the truth. Honesty creates space for turning. Pretending keeps us far from home.

The prodigal son does not return because he becomes strong.

He returns because he becomes honest.

He admits he cannot keep living the same way, and that honesty opens the road home.

What I have learned since that Valentine’s Day is this:

Returning rarely happens only once.

I still try to carry too much.
I still believe sometimes that everything depends on me.

And again and again God gently reminds me:

Return.

Return to trust.
Return to God’s love
Return to the place where I don’t have to carry life alone.

What surprises me most now is this: returning does not begin with us. It begins with love.

Before the prodigal son turns toward home, the father’s love is already waiting.

Before we figure things out, God is already calling.

The Song of Songs says, “You are altogether lovely.”

Not after we fix ourselves.
Not after we become strong.

Even in our weakness.
Even in our ashes.

Returning begins not with our effort, but with God’s love calling us first.

We return because Love has already been calling our name.

A Creative Practice for This Week

The Turning

Take a few quiet minutes this week.

Stand still and face one direction. Let this direction represent the road you have been walking—the road of trying harder and carrying everything yourself.

Pause there for a moment and gently ask:

• Where have I been trying to carry life on my own?
• Where might I be invited to trust God again?
• What part of me is ready to return?

When you are ready, slowly turn your body.

Let the movement be simple and unhurried.

Then take one small step forward.

Returning rarely happens in big leaps. It usually begins with one honest step.

Sometimes I still picture those Valentine balloons floating behind my bike that day—bright and light, dancing in the wind.

I thought I was the one delivering love that morning.

But now I see something different.

Love was already coming toward me.

And every Valentine’s Day since, I remember again: returning begins not with our effort, but with God’s love calling us first.

We return because Love has already been calling our name.

Lent reminds us that we do not return by striving harder.
We return by turning.

And sometimes that turning begins in a very ordinary place.

For me, it began on a road with six Valentine balloons floating behind my bike.

And every Valentine’s Day since, I remember again:
Love was already on its way to find me.

And perhaps this is what this Lenten journey is helping us remember too — that the way home begins the moment we turn.

Reflection

As you reflect on your own journey, look at the road behind you and the invitation before you.

What part of you is ready to return?

It was dark and raining the night we went.

We got lost on the way.

More than once.

If it hadn’t been for my neighbor insisting we keep going, I might have turned back. The place wasn’t easy to find. The streets were unfamiliar. The rain kept coming.

By the time we finally arrived, I was cold, unsure, and already wondering why I had said yes.

The sound reached me before I fully stepped into the room.

A drum. Deep. Steady.

Thum… thum… boom… boom.
Thum… thum… boom… boom.

The stick struck harder every few beats — a full-bodied BOOM that echoed through the floor and into my chest.

The air was thick with smoke — the earthy scent of burning sage rising toward the ceiling. Voices lifted together, strong and full, singing in a language I didn’t understand. I couldn’t follow the words, but I could feel the devotion.

They were singing with their whole bodies.

The rhythm wasn’t random. It was steady. Intentional. Like a heartbeat gathering everyone into the same pulse.

For a moment, I just stayed still, taking it in. It felt sacred. It felt unfamiliar. It felt larger than me.

Then the singing softened.

The drum slowed.

A feather began to move from hand to hand.

One by one, people said their names. And then they named the struggle that had almost overwhelmed them.

The room didn’t shrink from their words.

It held them.

No one rushed in to fix.
No one looked away.

Just listening.

When the feather reached me, my own heartbeat felt louder than the drum had.

I didn’t know what to say.

Last week, we stood between fire and ash.

We talked about longing and humility — what burns inside us and what has already burned out.

The more I sit with it, the more I see this:

The key to life is learning how to dance between fire and ash.

Fire without ash becomes striving.
Ash without fire becomes giving up.

But when we move between them —
when we let longing rise
and humility ground us —
something healthy grows.

This week, we lean toward the ash.

Not to feel bad about ourselves.
But to tell the truth.

Ash is what remains after something has burned.

We all have ash.

The dream that didn’t work.
The habit we still struggle with.
The insecurity that shows up again.
The quiet fear that we are not enough.

Ash is not shame.

They feel similar — but they are not the same.

Shame says,
“There is something wrong with you.”

Ash says,
“You are human.”

Shame isolates.
Ash connects us.

When someone says, “I struggle too,” something softens.

That night in the circle, honesty did not crush people.

It freed them.

If I am honest, one of my ashes is this:

I want to look like I have it together.

Even when I don’t.

I want my projects polished.
My words meaningful.
My work strong.

But lately, I am learning something simpler:

I am not perfect.
And I don’t need to be.

That sentence feels like ash to me.

Psalm 103 says that God remembers we are dust.

Not with disappointment.
With compassion.

God knows what we are made of.
God is not surprised by our weakness.

Lent is not a season to punish ourselves.

It is a small permission slip to stop pretending.

To say,
“This is hard.”
“I’m tired.”
“I still struggle.”
“I don’t know.”

Without adding shame on top of it.

If you want something practical this week, you might try the examen — a simple practice of looking back over your day with God.

At the end of the day, sit quietly and ask:

Where did I try to appear perfect today?
Where did I feel small or insecure?
Where did I receive grace?

Don’t fix anything.
Don’t judge yourself.
Just notice.

Naming the ash is enough.

Ash is not the end of the story.

Dust is where breath first came.

And sometimes, when we stop performing and start being honest,
we find ourselves back in the place
where breath can reach us again.

What ash might you name this week?

We are learning to return together.

We’ll gather this Saturday, February 28, 2026, from 9:00–10:00 AM (PST) for a creative, embodied reflection on dancing between fire and ash.

The Zoom room opens at 8:30 AM for quiet time and a gentle examen.

You can register at sd-resources.com.

Let’s return together. I’d love to see you there.

Here is the Dance of Fire and ashes as we move to the next phase of returning … what happened when you are burned out already and remembering the way home.

After naming our ashes and finding grace there, this Dance of Fire and Ash becomes a doorway into returning—when even in our exhaustion, the heart begins to remember the way home

Some of us enter this season tired.
Some restless.
Some carrying the remains of what has burned out.
Others carrying ideas that burn like a fever inside.

We find ourselves at a double threshold — somewhere between fire and ash.

Lent is often framed as a season of subtraction. A time to give things up. To shrink. To quiet down.

But Lent 2026 feels like an invitation to a different movement.

Not just subtraction — but returning.

Returning to the Source.

In the quiet, unfinished places of our lives, there is often a spark that refuses to go out. It may feel small. It may feel hidden. But it calls us home. It steadies us. It rises even when we feel at our lowest.

This journey is not about working harder to be holy.
It is about standing in the dark long enough for the sparks to begin lighting the way.

To walk the Lenten path is to stand in paradox.

We begin with ash beneath our feet and fire within our bones.

We don’t choose one or the other. We need both.

The ash humbles us. It tells the truth about endings, limits, disappointments, and things that have crumbled.

The fire animates us. It whispers that death is not the final word. It is longing. Desire. The quiet energy of God that refuses to be extinguished.

The ash reminds us we are finite.
The fire reminds us we are breathed upon.

Earlier this year, I noticed something that felt symbolic. The Lunar New Year — associated this cycle with fire — arrived just one day before Ash Wednesday. Fire and ash, side by side.

Not as superstition.
Not as prediction.
But as image.

At first, my imagination went dramatic — volcanoes, phoenix rising.

But the fire we are invited into this Lent is different.

It is not frantic.
Not destructive.
Not self-generated intensity.

It is resurrection fire.

The kind that glows in the dark.
The kind that death cannot put out.

The New Testament calls it dynamis — power. Living energy. The force that raises what was dead.

This fire does not consume us.
It purifies us.

It redirects our desires.
It burns away ambition disguised as calling.
It frees us from trying to prove we are alive.

We begin Lent with ashes on our foreheads — “dust to dust.”

But dust was never the end of the story.

Dust was the beginning.

Dust was where God chose to breathe.

When we remember this, ash no longer feels like condemnation. It becomes potential. It becomes the place where breath can be received again.

Our ashes are not the end of us. They are the ground where God meets us.

The power that raised Christ from the dead is not something we manufacture. It is something we receive.

This is the difference between ambition and dynamis.

Ambition says: strive harder.
Dynamis says: receive.

Ambition says: prove you are alive.
Dynamis says: you are breathed upon.

This is why Lent is not about extinguishing the fire inside of us.

It is about returning that fire to its Source.

Transformation does not come from swimming harder in the wrong direction. It comes from swimming upstream — back to where life begins.

It is a returning to the embrace.

Over seven weeks, Sparks in the Dark will follow this path of returning together:

• Week 1: Fire & Ash — Standing at the double threshold.

• Week 2: Naming the Ash — Practicing honesty without shame.

• Week 3: The Turning — Like the prodigal remembering the way home.

• Week 4: The Embrace — Healing from shame and rediscovering belovedness.

• Week 5: Abiding in the True Vine — Releasing false attachments.

• Week 6: Returning to the Source — Swimming upstream.

• Week 7: Resurrection — Living in the reality of dynamis power.

We begin in ash.
We return through love.
We rise in resurrection power.

This is not a space of performance.

It is a Sabbath from the pressure to achieve.

We will gather three times during Lent — two online and one in person — for guided reflection, creative prayer, and embodied practice. You are welcome to join one, two, or all three.

And every Wednesday for seven weeks, I will post a new reflection and creative invitation here — so you can journey at your own pace, wherever you are.

If you would like to join the live gatherings and receive the additional weekly materials directly, please register at:

sd-resources.com

Once registered, you’ll receive gathering details, Zoom links, and reflection prompts for the journey.

You may also follow along through the weekly posts without registering. However you participate, you are welcome.

If you feel a spark stirring in your own darkness, what might happen if you stopped striving and simply started returning?

Bring your fire.
Bring your ash.

Let us return together.

For a long time, I have thought about life as a kind of bank account. You start the year with a fixed amount—let’s say $10,000 worth of energy, capacity, joy, or resilience. Each day, life makes withdrawals. Responsibilities, relationships, work, caregiving, grief, and even good things slowly drain the account. Thriving, in this mindset, becomes about managing depletion: trying to recharge just enough to get through the next day, the next week, the next season—until eventually the account feels dangerously low again.

Even our spiritual practices can slip into this logic. Prayer becomes a way to “top up.” Rest becomes maintenance. Tending becomes managing exhaustion.

Last Saturday, we gathered for the Thriving: Tending the Life God Has Given writing retreat, and I want to begin with gratitude. Thank you to each person who showed up—with honesty, weariness, hope, curiosity, and courage. The space felt gentle and alive. What emerged through writing, silence, Scripture, and shared reflection was deeply inspiring and quietly powerful.

But during the retreat, we paused and named something important: this is not God’s economy.

God’s economy is not a closed system. Life is not a finite account to be protected from running dry. Scripture invites us into a different imagination—one where life is more like a field of seeds entrusted to us.

Seeds are not meant to be stored away or anxiously preserved. Seeds are meant to be planted. And when planted, they grow—not through our striving, but through patience, care, and trust in timing we do not control. Our work is not to force growth, but to tend what has been given: watering, clearing space, paying attention, and waiting.

This shift matters.
When life is a bank, we fear loss.
When life is a field, we learn trust.

During the retreat, we connected this image with Psalm 84:7:

“They go from strength to strength.”

Not from strength to exhaustion.
Not from strength to depletion.
But from strength to strength.

This is the rhythm of God’s economy—strength that emerges through movement, through pilgrimage, through continued trust. Not because we are pushing harder, but because we are being sustained.

At the heart of this tending is connection to the Source. Jesus names this in John 15 as abiding. Branches do not generate life by effort. They bear fruit because they remain connected. Tending, then, is less about doing more and more, and more about staying rooted.

The apostle Paul echoes this wisdom when he writes that even as our outer selves grow tired or worn, we are being renewed inwardly day by day. Renewal is not always visible. It does not always feel dramatic. But it is real.

A Reflection That Came After the Retreat

In the days following the retreat, another passage lingered with me—this time from The Message translation of 2 Corinthians 6:11–13:

“Dear, dear Corinthians, I can’t tell you how much I long for you to enter this wide, open, spacious life…
We didn’t fence you in.
The smallness you feel comes from within you…
Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively.”

This felt like an invitation echoing what we had already touched: that the life God offers is not narrow, cramped, or scarce. When we experience smallness, it is often not because God is withholding—but because fear, fatigue, or survival has slowly tightened our inner posture.

Tending, then, is also about reopening—softening what has clenched, loosening what has closed, and trusting again in spaciousness.

A Practice for the Season

If you’d like to continue the retreat practice, here is a simple invitation:

• What seeds has God entrusted to you in this season?

• Where might you be treating life as something to spend rather than something to plant?

• What would gentle, faithful tending look like right now—without forcing growth?

You might write with these questions.
You might pray them.
You might simply carry them with you.

At the Threshold of Fire and Ash

This year, we find ourselves at a powerful double threshold. The Lunar New Year—the Year of the Fire Horse—arrives just one day before Ash Wednesday. Fire and ash. Energy and surrender. Spark and dust.

Fire reminds us of vitality, movement, courage, and desire.
Ash reminds us of humility, mortality, and return.

Together, they form a holy passage—not toward depletion, but toward rooted life.

It is from this place that we step into Lent.

Beginning February 18, we will enter Sparks in the Dark: A Lenten Journey of Returning, a seven-week offering shaped around this very movement—from fire to ash, from striving to tending, from scattering to rootedness.

Lent is not about fixing ourselves. It is about returning—again and again—to the Source of life. To remember who we are. To relearn how to live from strength to strength.

Life is not a bank to be managed.
It is a field to be tended.
And God is faithful to bring growth in time.

Invitation: Sparks in the Dark — A Lenten Journey of Returning

As we stand at this double threshold—fire and ash, energy and surrender—I want to extend an invitation.

Beginning February 18, we will enter Sparks in the Dark: A Lenten Journey of Returning, a seven-week series shaped around reflection, Scripture, creative practices, and quiet attentiveness to God’s renewing work. This is not a program about fixing ourselves, but a shared practice of returning—again and again—to the Source of life.

If you are longing to slow down, to re-root, or to listen more deeply during Lent, you are warmly welcome. More details and registration information will be shared soon.