Wendell Berry, 1934-2026

Wendell Berry has died at age 92. Lord have mercy. What a beautiful, beautiful soul. In the days since, I have enjoyed reading what he meant to so many people.

While many will remember him as a devoted farmer who resisted much of the trappings of modernity, Berry’s greatest gift was his theological imagination and acute awareness of grace. He taught me to pay attention to people and place and the holiness of ordinary things. His poem “How To Be A Poet” helped dissolve for me the distinction between the sacred and the secular I had absorbed growing up. Years ago, the line “Live a three-dimensioned life” from the same poem motivated me to start trail running. At the time, I had become one-dimensional, and my mental and physical health were suffering for it. I’ve been running ever since.

I think learning to write poems and learning to pray share a lot in common. Good poets pay attention and convey. The same is true of those who know how to pray. Most everything that Berry says about where poems come from could just as easily be said about prayer. So much of prayer is about learning to accept what comes from silence.

“Best of any song is bird song in the quiet,” he writes in another poem, “but first you must have the quiet.” Easier said than done. Silence is uncomfortable because it feels so unproductive. Yet scripture tells us that something important happens in stillness. “Be still, and know that I am God,” the psalmist says. So, in honor of Berry’s life and prolific witness, take a moment today to sit down and be quiet. Accept whatever comes. “Make the best you can of it.”

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Pietà, Vincent Van Gogh

This piece by Graham Tomlin about the exhaustion that seems to characterize our age is worth reading. The part that most resonated with me was Byung-Chul Han’s description of ours as an “achievement society.” Han argues that previous generations were defined by obligation and duty. We are defined by possibility. If the old demand was “you should,” the new demand is “you can.”

You can accomplish more. You can improve yourself. You can take on another project, read another book, get in better shape, be a better parent, travel somewhere more interesting, make better use of your time. As Han says, this sounds like freedom, but we usually don’t experience it that way. The knowledge that we can be doing more tends to wear us out. Can you relate?

Both Han and Tomlin suggest finding ways to slow down, which is, of course, much easier said than done, especially for those embarking on a new school year, raising young children, or building a business. And even “slowing down” can sound like one more thing we’re supposed to accomplish. What does it actually look like?

“Take refuge in your senses,” writes John O’Donohue in his Blessing for One Who Is Exhausted. “Open up to all the small miracles you rushed through.” I appreciate how concrete he is. Go for a walk. Drink a glass of water. Listen to a beautiful song. Pray. “Gradually,” he promises, “you will return to yourself.”

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The Last Supper, Duccio

In light of the new school year, I thought I would revisit Jennifer Berheny Wallace’s book, “Never Enough: When Achievement Culture Becomes Toxic — and What We Can Do About It.” As a parent raising two young sons, I appreciate Wallace’s approach to the achievement quandary. Every parent I know wants (and feels partly responsible for) their children's success and happiness. And almost every parent I know isn’t completely confident they are striking the right balance between motivating and affirming their kids. In an interview about her book, Wallace said:

This is great advice for gracious parenting. But it’s also great advice for gracious living. From the time we’re born, we experience judgment, and that judgment continues throughout our lives, whether from teachers, parents, bosses, spouses, friends, and even ourselves. The only one truly qualified to judge, however, is God, and God does not condemn us. He calls us friends. He prioritizes affection. Amen.

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The Penitent Magdalen, Georges de La Tour

In the gospel reading for this Sunday, Jesus tells us to worry less about what comes from outside of us and more about what comes from within. He’s talking about rules and rituals around food, but of course he’s talking about much more than food.

As usual, the Pharisees take offense. It’s not hard to imagine why. We tend to believe that our problems are external. If only this person would change, or that situation would improve, or life would finally arrange itself the way we think it should, then things would be better. I wish it were that simple, but it isn’t.

Years ago, the writer Anne Lamott reflected on some of the wisdom she had picked up in what she calls the “third third” of her life. Among other things, she said she has learned that when you have a problem, especially with another person, eventually you have to go look in the mirror.

“If it’s out there, it’s not gonna work,” she said. “If it’s another country, if it’s a perfect spouse, if it’s a perfect diet, if it’s out there, it’s gonna work only for part of a day. It’s not out there. No, it’s an inside job…horribly, horribly. It’s an inside job.”

Lamott knows this isn’t the answer we want. And she’s right. I would much prefer God to fix the people and circumstances that bother me or get in my way. But it’s an inside job.

So today, with The Killers, we pray, “Give me the eyes that I may see / the good in my people and the trouble in me.” Amen.

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A few years ago, I purchased a new running hat in anticipation of running in the Texas summer heat. When the package arrived, it included a marker and a calendar with the header, “No Days Off.” The idea was simple: put an X through each day I ran to encourage me to run more. The thing is, I did not feel encouraged. Even though I was running frequently at the time, the calendar felt more like judgment.

Something similar can happen in our spiritual lives. Practices meant to draw us closer to God can become another way of measuring ourselves. And the results are rarely positive. Even good habits like prayer, Bible study, or worship can become the means by which we judge ourselves, or worse, imagine God judging us. This is the kind of thing St. Paul called law.

Meditation teacher Dan Harris offers simple advice to people overwhelmed by the pressure of doing something every single day: try doing it dailyish. Whether it’s running, making the bed, or praying, the goal is to build habits without the burden of rigid perfection.

Daily habits are wonderful ways to cultivate discipline and devotion, and I hope you've found practices that sustain your spiritual life. But when you miss a day (or a week), as you inevitably will, don’t spend the next one feeling guilty. Just begin again.

In the words of the beloved hymn,

‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
and grace will lead me home.

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Navidad en los Andes (Christmas in the Andes), Josué Sánchez Cerrón

The Washington Post ran a piece over the weekend on the increasing number of people turning to AI for moral guidance. You might think this is further proof of the decline of religious practice in our culture. Except that isn’t what David DeSteno, who teaches at Northeastern University, found. Instead, he claims it is actually people of faith who more regularly turn to AI for moral guidance and spiritual advice. He claims, “Those who believe in God are more inclined not only to seek moral wisdom from AI but also to embrace it as a source of divinely sanctioned knowledge.” Oy vey.

I admit I don’t know entirely what to make of this, or of AI in general. I do not want to be a luddite, and I am sure there are good uses for AI in our lives. But this piece broke something in me. Dear reader, you have my email. Many of you may even have my phone number. Please feel free to call or email me before asking Claude for moral or spiritual guidance.

Christian theology has long held that we are embodied, relational, and mortal beings whose lives unfold in space, time, and community. Part of what makes our lives meaningful is sharing them with other embodied people. AI may simulate or mimic human relationships, but it cannot replace the messy, vulnerable, or—most importantly—grace-filled nature of real relationships. And so we pray…

O God, who wonderfully created, and yet more wonderfully restored, the dignity of human nature: Grant that we may share the divine life of him who humbled himself to share our humanity, your Son Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (BCP)

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Kate Bowler’s new book on joy is very, very good.

Joy is surprisingly difficult to describe. "It's a slippery thing," Bowler writes. The poet Christian Wiman once called joy "that durable, inexhaustible, essential, inadequate word." And yet Bowler somehow manages to make this elusive thing a little easier to recognize.

She says that joy is uncontrollable and unpredictable. We cannot manufacture it or summon it on demand. It arrives unexpectedly, as grace often does. Still, there is something we can do. Karl Barth once wrote that we can hold ourselves "in readiness for joy," which I take to mean moving through the day with a little more attentiveness, half-expecting something that might delight us.

Bowler calls these moments “microjoys.” They are the tiny flashes of delight that surprise us in the middle of ordinary life, even when things are difficult. None of them changes the circumstances of our lives. But each one reminds us that beauty and grace are all around us. A few of the tiny delights people shared with Kate include:

1. “I’m having a great hair day.”

2. “My son is home from college tonight.”

3. “Got to take a meal to a neighbor who had a procedure today.”

How about you? If you notice a microjoy today, don’t let it go by unnoticed. Write it down. Mention it around the dinner table. Send me an email. Let’s practice holding ourselves “in readiness for joy.”

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Between World Cup matches, lots of tacos, and catching up with old friends, I managed to spend some time with a stack of good books on vacation. Here are five I'd gladly recommend to anyone looking for a summer read!

Liturgies of the Wild — Martin Shaw
I’m not quite yet sure what this book is. Memoir? Myth? Theology? “Here be dragons, but also grace in almost indecently extravagant abundance,” writes Catherine Coldstream. She’s right. Shaw is a natural storyteller who invites readers to rediscover the wildness of both creation and the human soul. But it can’t be skimmed or rushed. As he writes, “The worst thing in the world is to ask a teller to ‘get to the point.’” This is a book that rewards the lingering.

Joyful Anyway — Kate Bowler
Kate Bowler has become one of our best guides for living honestly. Joy can be difficult to wrap our heads around. Where does it come from? Is it something other than happiness? Rather than treating joy as optimism or positivity, she shows how it can coexist with grief, disappointment, and uncertainty. She’s as funny as she is wise and a wonderful storyteller.

The Cost of These Dreams — Wright Thompson
Part sports writing, part Southern history, part meditation on America, this collection is remarkable. I can’t say enough good things about it. Thompson has the ability to tell stories that begin with athletes and end up revealing something much larger about memory, place, ambition, and grace. Each story stands on its own, making it the perfect book to bring to the pool or on a flight.

How to Watch Soccer Like a Genius — Nick Greene
With the World Cup on, this one has been especially fun. Greene shows you where to look and what to watch, revealing the movement and strategy most people miss, including everything happening off the ball that makes the game so beautiful. Once you read it, you’ll never watch a match the same way again.

Nonesuch — Francis Spufford
Set in London during the Blitz, Nonesuch begins as the story of a formidable young woman trying to make her way in a world that underestimates her, then unfolds into an utterly original and delightfully strange mix of fantasy, romance, espionage, and wartime adventure. Described as “Narnia for grown-ups,” it’s funny, inventive, and impossible to predict. It ends on a cliffhanger, but Francis assures me the sequel is almost finished!

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Let’s talk about soccer again.

The World Cup starts tomorrow. Over the next six weeks, the world’s attention will be fixed on 104 matches featuring the best players on the planet competing on the sport’s biggest stage. There will be moments of glory and plenty of joy.

There will also be own goals. I’m talking about when a player accidentally scores on his own team. During the last World Cup, there were 11. To put that in perspective, that is more than were scored in the previous fifteen World Cups combined!

After German defender Mats Hummels scored an own goal against France in the opening round of the tournament, Brian Phillips wrote this reflection on what own goals reveal about being human:

Like it or not, own goals are part of our lives. Like Philips, we know what it feels like to make the wrong decision, miss an opportunity, damage a relationship, or realize too late that we have hurt ourselves and others. But this shared sense of vulnerability is what generates compassion, forgiveness, and humility. It is hard to be self-righteous when you know you are capable of scoring an own goal yourself. It is easier to forgive when you remember how often you have needed forgiveness.

So thank God for own goals. They remind us that we are human. They teach us to be merciful toward one another. And they prepare us to receive the grace God offers again and again.

I’m stepping away from Thoughts and Prayers for a few weeks to retreat, enjoy some time with family, and, of course, watch as many World Cup matches as possible.

Leave The Rest To You, The Porter’s Gate

Today’s post is a collection of things that have been swirling around in my head for the past couple of weeks. The newly released song by The Porter’s Gate, featuring my friend Taylor Leonhardt, Wendell Berry’s poem, The Peace of Wild Things, which I quoted in my sermon on Sunday, and then Andy Crouch’s talk here in town on Monday night on technology and human flourishing, put on by friends at the Lakelight Institute.

The common thread running through all of them is the importance of living at a human scale: faithfully attending to what is ours to do, making room for rest and renewal, and leaving the rest to God.

Andy suggests that one of technology’s great promises is to give us “superpowers.” We should be wary of that promise. To resist the effortless power offered by our “glowing rectangles,” he shared that his family turns off their devices for one hour a day, one day a week, and one week a year to worship, feast, play, and rest together. Whether those exact practices make sense for your life or not, it’s worth considering what daily, weekly, and yearly practices help you live at a human scale.

How might you create space in your life for rest, relationship, and delight—and then leave the rest to God?

Almighty God, who after the creation of the world rested from all your works and sanctified a day of rest for all your creatures: Grant that we, putting away all earthly anxieties, may be duly prepared for the service of your sanctuary, and that our rest here upon earth may be a preparation for the eternal rest promised to your people in heaven; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer)

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Receive the Holy Spirit, Jyoti Sahi

The World Cup is only fifteen days away. I realize I may be in the minority here, but I am pumped.

Most Americans think soccer is boring. The classic Simpsons parody of a soccer match — “Fast kickin’! Low scorin’! And ties? You bet!” — works precisely because so many people think so. But hear me out.

Soccer is basically a game of space and time. Players spend most of the match deciding where to move, when to run or hold back, and how to create space for someone else. Most of this happens nowhere near the ball. This is why it can seem boring. But anyone who loves the game knows that the real drama is usually unfolding off the ball. A player drifts a few yards into open space. Another makes a run that pulls a defender away. Thousands of small, seemingly invisible decisions create the possibility of something beautiful happening. The Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano says the beauty of the game matters more when you know you can’t take it for granted. When it arrives, he says, “It’s a miracle.”

So too with the kingdom of God. Before he ascended into heaven, Jesus told his disciples they would be his “witnesses.” To be a witness is mostly an off-the-ball job. And like soccer, much of that work can look unimpressive or boring from the outside. A hidden act of kindness. A simple word of encouragement. A prayer offered for someone else. A decision to forgive, even without an apology. Small movements that seem almost invisible, but which the Spirit somehow uses to bring about something beautiful. And when it happens, it’s a miracle.

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Late in Saul Bellow’s novel The Adventures of Augie March, the title character looks to an older mentor for guidance. “You will understand, Mr. Mintouchian, if I tell you that I have always tried to become what I am,” Augie says. “But it’s a frightening thing. Because what if what I am by nature isn’t good enough?” His mentor replies, “You must take your chance on what you are…. It is better to die what you are than live a stranger forever.”

I was surprised to learn recently that Virgil, Franz Kafka, and Emily Dickinson all requested on their deathbeds that some or all of their work be destroyed. Can you imagine? Think of what we might have lost.

Maybe you are tempted to think what you have to offer the world isn’t worth keeping, or that whatever gifts you were given are too small, strange, or insignificant. I hope not. We’re all stewards of the “manifold grace” of God. Take a chance on the gift given to you.

“O Lord, you have taught us that without love whatever we do is worth nothing; Send your Holy Spirit and pour into our hearts your greatest gift, which is love, the true bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whoever lives is accounted dead before you. Grant this for the sake of your only Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.”

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Vertumnus, Giuseppe Arcimboldo

In one of the Easter collects, we pray that we might “abide” in Christ. What does that mean? Jesus said it this way: “I am the vine; you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.” It is an image of connection and dependence. Branches don’t strain to produce fruit. They simply remain attached to the vine. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more passive description of the Christian life.

Paul Walker says to abide in Christ is “to swim around in His forgiveness, to lollygag in His love.” Lollygag is probably not the word most of us would choose to describe the spiritual life. Especially not one that bears fruit. We tend to think it requires effort, discipline, striving. And of course, there is a place for all of that. Dallas Willard used to say that grace is not opposed to effort but earning, which I think is true. And yet, the spiritual life is paradoxical. The less we do, the more we usually discover God doing in and through us. And so we pray…

O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light: Grant that we, who have been raised with him, may abide in his presence and rejoice in the hope of eternal glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be dominion and praise for ever and ever. Amen.

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Psalm 85, John August Swanson

The Serenity Prayer concludes with the hope of being reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with God forever in the next. I have always appreciated the modesty of the first phrase. Though our lives are far from perfect, reasonable happiness can still be found.

The writer Helen Garner once wrote,

Garner is saying that happiness, like humility or joy, is a self-effacing end. The path to it is indirect. So she stops looking for it directly. Instead, she pays attention. She watches for what she calls “small, random stabs of extreme interestingness – moments of intense awareness of the things I’m about to lose, and of gladness that they exist.” Examples include:

Twenty minutes into a bout of gardening, when I notice I’m moving very slowly from task to task; when haste and impatience have left me.

My grandsons, who once curled in my lap and sucked their thumbs, striding down the steps into my kitchen: a room suddenly full of man.

I do not pretend to know what reasonable happiness looks like for you. But I am sure one way to discover it is to do what Helen Garner does. Keep track of your own “small, random stabs of extreme interestingness.” Write them down. Who knows, maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of grace out of the corner of your eye.

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Kirifuri Waterfall at Kurokami Mountain in Shimotsuke, Katsushika Hokusai

The writer Jean Rhys once said to an interviewer in the Paris Review,

Madeleine L’Engle said that Rhys was talking about service. To feed the lake is to serve. Stephen Colbert was saying something similar when he said, “At every moment, we are volunteers.” So was Rilke when he said the purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things. The point of life is to find a way to serve something bigger than yourself. Then you’ll know what Rhys meant when she said, “I don’t matter. The lake matters.” It is sort of unfashionable to say this nowadays, but I don’t think Rhys was diminishing her contributions. She was only recognizing that trouble follows when service becomes about recognition, control, or proving something.

When the disciples argued about whether they would be a great river or a mere trickle into the lake of God’s Kingdom, he told them they were missing the point. In other words: “All that matters is feeding the lake.”

What lake are you feeding?

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life-new life, Corita Kent

As I write this, birds are singing outside my office. The window is wide open. My favorite magnolia tree is bursting with color. I am wearing loafers without socks. I know we may yet endure a surprise snowstorm, but spring is here, thank God.

Every year around this time, I like to peruse Robert Capon’s book, The Youngest Day, which is a series of theological reflections on the seasons and how each relates to God’s grace and judgment. In the chapter on spring, he writes:

Spring is the youngest, freshest day of the world, the definitive disclosure of what life was meant to be and of the resurrection that won’t take no for an answer.” Spring is when God says, “Here: this is what I had in mind.”

As I see the blooming flowers throughout town and in my backyard, it’s hard to argue with Capon. Things are coming back to life. Resurrection won’t take no for an answer. This is what God had (and has) in mind—not only for creation itself but also for your life and mine. What a relief.

O God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light: Grant that we, who have been raised with him, may abide in his presence and rejoice in the hope of eternal glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with you and the Holy Spirit, be dominion and praise for ever and ever. Amen.

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The Resurrection, Sir Stanley Spencer

The gospel accounts offer different perspectives and timelines for Holy Week events from Monday to Wednesday. During these days, Jesus overturned the tables in the Temple, was anointed in Bethany, and frequently spoke to his disciples about his imminent death. Sometime on Wednesday, Judas Iscariot accepted thirty pieces of silver to betray Jesus. By the end of the week, the rest of the disciples had scattered.

One of the messages of Holy Week is that sooner or later, every disciple will abandon, deny, or betray Jesus. In Jesus’ last hours, not one of his disciples was a model of faithfulness.

Except Mary.

A pound of pure nard was an heirloom, worth more than a year’s wages. And Mary just poured it all out. We’re told the fragrance filled the house. It’s not hard to imagine it clung to Jesus’s body all through his final days, right up to His death on the cross. Even as he cried, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” He was comforted by the aroma of love and devotion poured out by Mary.

The life of faith contains moments when we, too, will inevitably abandon, deny, or betray our Lord. But there are also moments when we’re given the chance to pour out what we have. Like Mary, I pray we rise to the occasion.

Almighty God, whose most dear Son went not up to joy but first suffered pain, and enterned not into glory before he was crucified: Mercifully grant that we, walking in the way of the cross, may find it none other than the way of life and peace; through Jesus Christ Your Son our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

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Before he was ever a bishop or a saint, a young St. Patrick was held as a slave in Ireland for six years after being captured by pirates. Then, led by a vision, he made his escape, traveling over two hundred miles to the coast and boarding a ship bound for Britain.

Knowing this, you can hardly imagine what he must have felt when God called him back to the very place of his captivity. Years later, he wrote in his Confessions, “After my many hardships and misfortunes, after such great difficulties and burdens, after my captivity and enslavement, after so many years living among the Irish, He should give me so great a grace on behalf of this nation of people — something that once, in my boyhood, I never dreamed nor could even hope for.”

St. Patrick’s story brings to mind the moment Jesus told Peter that he, too, would be led somewhere he would rather not go. We all have a place like this, whether it is a physical location or not. For some, it is a difficult conversation or a broken relationship. For others, it is somewhere deep within themselves, forgiveness they have refused to offer or a calling they have tried to outrun.

By his own admission, Patrick did not return to Ireland on his own strength. It was God-given grace that made the journey possible. And his story is a reminder that there is no telling what is possible when we make use of the grace given to us. And so with him we pray,

I arise today, through
God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me.
Amen.

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Solitude, Marc Chagall

This recent piece by Daniel Smith on the inherent boredom of parenting is full of surprising insights and connections to the spiritual life. I recommend reading all of it. Smith is clear that he loves his children. But he also confesses that much of parenting, especially in those early years, is simply…boring. I can relate.

“As the months and years passed, it consisted of nothing more than blunt, basic, run-of-the-mill boredom. The boredom of playgrounds. The boredom of picture books. The boredom of Cheerios, pasta, peanut butter, and Goldfish. The boredom, distilled and perfect, of the demand Again! Do it again, Daddy! Say it again! Play it again! Again, again, again, again, again, again!”

G.K. Chesterton once made a similar observation about children delighting in repetition. “They always say, “Do it again,” and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.” Chesterton had a flair for the dramatic. But he’s right. We are not good at being bored.

But boredom, Smith insists, is the price we pay for a life rich with meaning. He quotes the poet and essayist Joseph Brodsky, who once encouraged graduates at Dartmouth to prepare for a life filled with boredom, to give up trying to evade the feeling, and instead to start respecting it. And if they did, they might learn to appreciate their finitude. After all, “The more finite a thing is,” Brodsky claimed, “the more it is charged with life.”

I hope the connections to the spiritual life are obvious by now. Lent is a season in which we also learn to appreciate our finitude. “Teach us to number our days,” the psalmist prays, “that we may gain a wise heart.” And it may be that, by learning to exult in (or at the very least, endure) monotony, we discover our finite lives are charged with infinite meaning.

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Saint Peter realizing he has thrice betrayed Jesus, Cristoforo de Predis

This prayer by the French Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin feels especially fitting for the Lenten season. Shout out to Anna Langholz for introducing me to it.

Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new.

And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through some stages of instability—
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is to say, grace and circumstances acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

A friend pointed out to me recently that although Lent comes from the Old English word lencten, meaning “spring,” it is also related to the Latin word lente, meaning “slow.” How right on. Because the invitation of this season is to slow down long enough to contemplate our situation as finite creatures. I think that is why fasting has long been such a powerful practice during Lent. It limits us to doing fewer things. Hopefully, the result is that we pay better attention to what we usually speed past.

Centuries ago, Augustine cautioned against the desire to “live ahead of time.” He knew that Christians are a future-looking people. We regularly pray for God’s kingdom to come. But it doesn’t arrive all at once, and it can’t be rushed. Living slowly at a human scale and pace is therefore an expression of hope.

So, as an act of hope today, slow down. Savor the morning coffee. Take a meandering walk. Linger at the dinner table. Do fewer things. Trust in the slow work of God. “Give our Lord the benefit of believing that his hand is leading you.”

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