But I have a sense that we’re all grieving something more than her accolades. There are many people who pass on without much praise. Countless talents have lived and died who don’t elicit the same kind of honor and awe we side on both sides of the aisle. Whether you liked her songs, or watched her movies, or visited her theme park or not…. chances are you still liked her.

And how could you not? She was as charming as she was charitable; sweet as she was savvy; funny as she was friendly. Dolly exuded the kind of glow you only get from your funniest friend, your favorite aunt, your cheekiest grandma. She was a force to be reckoned with, and a friend to all.

So the more I think about why this death hits harder than most, I wonder if it’s about something more than her accomplishments. We’re not just shedding tears over a persona, but the loss of a person.

I wonder if we’re all just grieving our dear aunt Dolly.

Dolly wasn’t an idol to me in the way some people have posters of celebrities in their bedrooms or dedicated bios on social media. Aside from the few songs I knew she sang, the only art I could really attribute to Dolly is the godmother she played on Hannah Montana. But although I was never a die-hard Dolly fan, I always watched on her with admiration.

I watched the way she could whip up a joke in any circumstance. The way she handled critique and controversy with no chip on her shoulder. The way she stood tall on her beliefs without belittling those who didn’t. And the way she built her craft fearlessly without building an ivory tower.

Despite not being her “Biggest Fan,” I remember watching the way she handled the world, as sweet or as sour as it came. Whether it was escaping Appalachian poverty, or navigating professional waters, or becoming the butt of every boob joke1 imaginable, I watched Dolly handle the world with grace, even when it didn’t handle her with the dignity she deserved.

To live in a harsh world and still remain soft? She always put on one sparkling show.

Despite my personal distance though, I still teared up last week when I heard the news. Maybe it’s because we lost a real showman. Or maybe I missed her softness. But then I remembered: your favorite aunt doesn’t just make you feel in awe. They make you feel like yourself.

Dolly made an art of making people feel okay, on all sides of the spectrum. It’s not only that she famously said, “Figure out who you are, and do it on purpose,” but that she refused to wear any shame when she those principles into practice.

Might we be missing someone who risked the fear of being themselves? Might we be grieving someone who paved the path we’re still on? Might we be sad to lose someone who looked at us and said, “I love you just the way you are”?

And isn’t that all worth grieving?

Maybe it’s just that I’m getting older, too. There’s a grief in reaching that point where your heroes – coaches or idols or favorite aunts – eventually pass away.2 It’s a growing pain of growing up; a pivotal time in which we say goodbye to loved ones and send them off into the great unknown, surprised they didn’t stick around forever.

But despite my own feelings, I think it’s her legacy of love that lives on.

It was Martin Luther who once said:

“The Christian shoemaker does his duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes, because God is interested in good craftsmanship.”

I believe that’s the legacy Dolly leaves behind. She dedicated her life to good craftsmanship. Not only with music and movies and entertainment, but with the mark she made on people. She embroidered love into her work, weaving goodness and generosity into each seam she meticulously sewed. Whether it was for her fans, or for her family, or for the millions who benefited from works like the Imagination Library, Dolly poured it all out, and somehow that hum still rings true here on this side of heaven. It’s like a song that never quite leaves our conscious.

I’ve never met Dolly Parton. I’d honored to meet her on either side of heaven, but when and if I do, I have a feeling I know exactly what I’d get. Because while we never “knew” her, we loved her.

And how can you not? She’s everyone’s dear aunt Dolly.

Yet, here we are either way. And in an attempt to roll the relational dice again, I recently decided to switch up one of my prompts to find people more aligned with my interests.

Hinge Prompt: “I could stay up all night talking about….”

My answer: “1) Spirituality 2) anthropology and 3) reality TV.”

If you’ve been on a dating app before, you know it’s hit or miss whether people will “get” you (your personality, humor, or intentions). Not everyone will, of course. I try not to take it personally. We’re all strangers on the Internet.

But I got a response recently that left me scratching my head. Not because it was “wrong” or “bad,” but because it felt like a microcosm of my own tensions with faith and church at large. To my prompt on spirituality, someone replied:

“Did you mean theology?”

Now, I didn’t match with this man on Hinge. I didn’t find us compatible for a myriad of reasons, nonetheless his not-so-subtle correction. But if I had, my first response might have read something like this:

“No, I meant spirituality.”

Like any good speech (or sermon), let me start by defining my terms. Out of all the definitions you can find on God’s green Internet, here are the two I’m going to use today:

Theology (n): the study of the nature of God and religious belief.

Spirituality (n): the experience or expression of the sacred1

Of course, there are many ways to interpret both camps. To some, theology might mean the sum (rather than study) of religious beliefs. To others, spirituality might mean any general concern with the human spirit or soul.

But the way I see it, one of these things is defined by the study of God. The other is defined by the experience. One involves belief; the other, practice.

To give you some examples, theology might sound like this:

• What is the gospel?

• What is the Trinity?

• What is your belief on grace? On sin? On justification?

Spirituality, then, might sound something like this:

• When was your first interaction with God? (Or something transcendent?)

• When do you feel most at peace?

• What’s something you find hard to pray for?

• What do you think you were born to do?

It’s not that I think there’s a Sophie’s choice here. Spirituality is bolstered by a sturdy theology, and vice versa. But the older I get, the less enchanted I’ve become with using doctrine as a litmus test for someone’s lived experience.

The older I get, the more I see belief as a starting point. Not the solution.

Depending on which circles you sit in, American Christianity has the potential to skew toward knowing over doing. Western Christians are applauded for collecting knowledge, building religious rebuttals, and spending time in deep study over interacting with the spiritual.

Now, trust me. I love collecting information. I love learning new things. It’s just that the longer I spent gathering knowledge, the more lopsided my soul became. It almost felt like a race toward certainty. My brain felt full, but my body, anemic. My soul longed to know the guy my theology actually revolved around.

It’s the reason I studied spiritual formation2 in the first place. I wanted to know how to become the things I was studying, rather than rearranging my beliefs to best accomodate current events. “In the church, we know what we think about our relationship with God,” Krispin Mayfield writes.3 “But that can be different from how we feel about it.”

When I think back to why I’ve stuck with Christianity so long, it’s not just right beliefs, but the way I’ve seen it show up in the world. Something happens to a follower when they let faith get under their skin. Somehow, spiritually, they are formed.

The people I’ve always admired have the fragrance of God all over them. They’re people who’ve spent time with Him; who’ve been shaped by Him. People who’ve learned how to get angry with God, and learned to lament with Him, too.

It’s not just that, though. I admire the people who do theology like a crossword puzzle (using a pencil instead of pen4) who let God be God, leaving certainty to the cross. There is assurance that shows up in their bodies. There is seamlessness from principles to practice. It’s as if their brains and bodies sing the same song, in sync.

That’s spirituality.

I don’t hold anything against Hinge Guy. Maybe his question was born out of genuine curiosity. Maybe I would have asked the same question a few years ago. And maybe he hasn’t given that message a single thought since.

But if I was his friend (not a potential girlfriend), I would challenge him to get in touch with his spirituality. Everyone has one, whether we’re numbing or nurturing it. I believe it was Dallas Willard who said it’s just a matter of travel – twelve inches or so from the head to the heart.

And I also get it. At one point I wanted to be a master of spiritual information. But now, faith means something much different to me. Something softer, yet more solid. Something plaited with much more mercy.

Now, I just want to know how your faith forms you. How it challenges you. How you best marry the body and the brain. I want to know where you worship, and what makes you wonder, and which practices bring you peace. I want to know how you’ve talked to God lately, and how you’ve seen him talk back. How your belief becomes embodied.

Because to me, spirituality is just faith metabolized. So while I didn’t not mean theology, I stand my ground.

I still meant spirituality.

If I ever teach said class, I think I’ll start with this clip from Hannah Brown’s 2019 season of The Bachelorette. It’s a few years old by this point, and my taste in reality TV has shifted over the last seven years. Still, I think this scene brilliantly spotlights four different expressions of masculinity you might encounter in the wild, and I’d like to break them down for you today.

Before class begins, my credentials are below:

• I watched The Bachelor/Bachelorette for a long time, even the Bachelor Pad days.

• I created a podcast all about healthy masculinity with my friend Caleb, “called “The Men Who Made Me.”

• A few months ago, I stole no fewer than 15 minutes explaining the implications of this clip to a friend who was definitely trying to get some work done, and she told me this would be a good Substack.

Alright. Class is now in session.

If you haven’t seen the show before, I’ll give you a few moments to watch the six minute clip above. For context, you’re seeing a rose ceremony aired toward the end of a season of The Bachelorette. At the start of the episode, Hannah has four suitors left, trying to discern who to bring into the next week. Somewhere between the beginning and end of the episode, she sends Luke P. home for, let’s call it, irreconcilable differences. Our scene begins with Luke returning to win Hannah back.

In this clip, Hannah’s three remaining suitors are waiting to start the rose ceremony. As Luke intrudes on a scene he’s not invited to, I’m interested in the way each man interacts in this scene, especially with regards to Luke and Hannah. Of course, I offer all the caveats: I don’t know any of these men personally, I can’t know their motivations, and I can’t know how they’ve grown since 2019.

But still, I believe their interactions display four different types of masculinity (in the context of romantic relationships), and I’d love to offer my interpretations below.

The “Macho” Masculine: Luke P.

Motivation: Pride

Many articles, essays, and TikToks have been created about the Luke P.’s of the world. He’s the overly confident, Crossfit Christian caricature who vows to protect your heart and promote his pride Bible study. He says “I love you” on the first date, doesn’t play well with others, and leaves the girl feeling like a shell of herself. I don’t have time to get into Luke’s lack of boundaries, aggressive behavior, or controlling tendencies. But let’s just say I don’t want to know his thoughts on the Manosphere.

In this clip, Luke is displaying behavior that aligns with someone who believes masculinity means “winning,” with a need to display his dominance to both the men and woman. In Luke’s case, this comes with an air of spirituality, too, using Bible verses when it’s convenient, and capitalizing on a shared faith to lay a (shaky) relational foundation.

Perhaps on the outside, his pursuit for Hannah is wrapped in the package of “persistence,” but it spirals into blatant disregard and disrespect when Luke does not get what he wants. From what I can gather from the clip, Luke appears to be interested in winning back a position or title rather than a partner in Hannah. He is disinterested in her perspective, her boundaries, and her emotional reality. He only seems to want to “win” a game with performance and persistence, a game he appears to be losing. This is not a man pursuing a woman in love or respecting her personhood; this is a man unable to cope with a wounded pride. I’m calling this the “Macho Masculine,” where the point of masculinity is in its shallow (and hollow) display.

Also, notice that Luke refuses to leave the scene without intervention from the other men. This displays, to me, a hierarchy of respect toward men, disregarding the “sought after” woman and her wishes.

The Passive Onlooker: Peter

Motivation: Peace

Peter (seen left in the diagram above) is the second expression of masculinity. There’s not much to say about him from this clip in particular, but in my opinion, Peter is a textbook example of the “Passive Onlooker.” This is a display of masculinity that takes a shrinking or passive posture toward confrontation. While Jed and Tyler move toward the issue (Luke) at hand, Peter shrinks away from it. It appears he copes with conflict by staying quiet or cool-headed, with a strong motivation to keep the peace at whatever cost.

However, I would discern a difference here between peace-making and peace-keeping. Instead of using a cool head to de-escalate the situation, Peter checks out from it all together, forfeiting his power to passivity. While I will give points to Peter for being the only one who physically moves toward Hannah during the altercation, he still appears emotionally absent and lacks the ability to attune to her, waiting for the storm to pass.

By the way, from what we learn of his dynamic with Barb (his mom) in later seasons, this story checks out.

The Vengeful Competitor: Jed

Motivation: Control

Jed is an interesting display of masculinity at hand. Throughout the season, Jed is a clear front runner, holding Hannah’s attention and winning roses left and right. Some might think he wouldn’t feel the need to compete for control with another “competitor.” But Jed hates Luke, and he’s been trying to convince Hannah to dump him for weeks. So when the opportunity for confrontation comes, it appears Jed’s hatred for Luke far outweighs his care for Hannah.

Unlike Peter, Jed does confront Luke when he refuses to leave the rose ceremony. He rushes to Luke’s side to compete for control, demanding he leave the premise and spewing insults where he can. Some might point to Jed’s actions as being protective or loving, or even heroic. However, during the altercation, I interpret Jed’s anger as his own insecurities boiling over in resentment toward Luke, forsaking any comfort he might offer to Hannah for control of the situation. His motivation as the “Vengeful Competitor” prioritizes his focus on defeat and dismissal; another disguise for vengeance and vanity.

I would argue this is just another expression of masculinity that’s centered in the self rather than in sacrifice for another. It may be a display of power, but I would argue it’s a protection of the pride, not of the partner.

By the way, Jed was cheating on Hannah the whole time he was on the show. He came in with a girlfriend, won, and then tried to gaslight Hannah after they got engaged. One can only imagine how that plays into his psyche.

The Attuned Protector: Tyler C.

Motivation: Respect

It’s been years since Tyler C. has graced our TV screens, and obviously, I’m still talking about it. Without commenting on anything outside of this six minute clip, I’m dubbing Tyler C. as the “Attuned Protector” for a couple reasons I’ll share below.

For one, I’m impressed with his attunement to Hannah. Tyler is the only man who addresses Hannah in this altercation. Peter is physically present, but emotionally withdrawn. Jed is only interested in battling his own enemy. But Tyler functions as the only partner who communicates with the woman he claims to love, empowering her voice and ensuring her needs are protected.

Second, Tyler is the first one to step forward during the altercation. He gives Hannah the space she needs too resolve her own issues until there’s a clear need to intervene. Even so, he displays a patience and restraint that is rare for reality TV. You could argue that Tyler is bigger, stronger, and able to physically take Luke in a fight. But it does not appear his motivations are to display dominance or vengeance. Instead, he uses his power to de-escalate, maintaining a calm composure as he goes.

I’m cheating a little, because I’ve seen Tyler’s consistent character over the course of a whole season. But across the board, I believe he displays a masculinity that is strong and protective while approaching his partner with equity and respect. I’m not exactly here to answer what masculinity means for you, but for those who link masculinity to power and protection, you might want to take a page out of Tyler C.’s book.

Wow, that was fun. I need to do more TV breakdowns in the future. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to see in the comments. Also, reports are due on my desk by Monday morning.

Alright, good work today. Class dismissed.

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When I dream
I don't dream of sardined schedules
or rusty rungs on corporate ladders
I don't like my knuckles white
or my views too blind and blurry
I want a life slow enough to see

When I dream, I take the scenic route
I spread out in spontaneity 
I swing by corner coffee shops
and stop to smell the churros
I make room to meet my neighbors
and market myself in margin

When I dream, I want a life slow enough to savor
Basked in the haze of summer heat
or huddled under rolls of thunder
I dream of embodied belief
that life is all about unwrapping
slow, suspended moments
I dream of sitting
and staying awhile

When I dream
I dream of colorful meals
and long, drawn out conversation
I dream of connections that warm
as dinner crumbs grow cold
I dream of knowing
and being known
on back porches and patios

I'm penciling in my own peace

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Yet, there are days (like today) that many of my Big Thoughts I’d like to put in written form are far too tangled for Substack. Some days, I can’t settle on just one theme, or feeling, or topic. Some days, there are too many ideas (from dating to theology to pop culture) I can’t quite de-web, so they stay twisted in time. Not forever, I imagine. But certainly for now.

Still, I want to write. That I know for sure.

During grad school, I got out of the regular habit of writing biweekly. And while I have grace for myself in the avalanche of expectations between full time school, work, and play, I also want to step back into habits of writing with regularity. Thanks especially to my paid subscribers for sticking it out the last few months.

So today, you’re getting a happy medium. I’m writing to you a reimagined All Good Things. Or in other words, a few captivating things I feel are worth sharing. In short form, that is.

A good read: Yesteryear

I feel like I’m preaching the gospel the way I’m trying to get every person I know to read Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke. Maybe it’s my interest in the life of tradwives or social media or religious influence in general. In her debut novel, I think Caro masterfully weaves a story about all three with both grace and caution. If you’ve read it and want to talk about it, my line is OPEN. (Also, I listened to this on Spotify at 1.2x speed, and it perfectly matched my allotted Premium hours.)

A good watch: That Thrifting Show

To no one’s surprise, I’ve been watching a lot of TV this summer. Summer House, America’s Sweethearts, Vanderpump Rules, and St. Dennis Medical. When I’m feeling crafty, one of my favorite shows is That Thrifting Show, a competition based around thrifting an entire room from only discount stores, estate sales, and Facebook Marketplace. If you liked Flea Market Flip, you’ll love this one, too. I swear Lara is sponsoring this with her own money, just for the love of the game.

A good meal: Zero Zero

My sister snagged a reservation to the best Italian scratch kitchen in Kansas City, and it lived up to the hype. The focaccia was fluffy, the caesar salad was to die for, and the spicy vodka pasta was all I had been dreaming about. (Also PSA: I recently became victim to gluten like many people in their 30s, but using my gluten “cheat day” at Zero Zero, my body responded pretty well.)

Some good fun: The Dutch Team in KC

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not a soccer fan. Over the years, I’ve tried and failed to find it interesting. But I’ve loved living in a city that hosts the World Cup, and I found this Dutch chant (and orange takeover of the city) absolutely delightful.

A new flair: Sparkly barrettes

I deemed this a “Zara Larsson Summer” a few months ago when I couldn’t stop listening to Midnight Sun. Plus, I liked Zara’s style which rivals 2006 Aquamarine (iykyk). So I went out bought some sparkly star barrettes to share with a few friends because why not, you know? You’ve gotta live a little.

A good practice: Well-worn neighborhood walks

One of the most consistent (and unglamorous) practices I hold is going for a little neighborhood walk. I don’t live near any manicured trails or walking paths. In fact, most of the sidewalks in my area are exposed or closed for construction. However, I love walking as a practice in being present with my city. From college to Covid until now, it’s one of the best ways I’ve gotten out of my head and into a tangible town, reminding me of the neighbors I live by and the businesses that surround me and the trees that give shade to passersby. Sometimes, I think of the wagon wheel tracks left by westward expansion that are still visible today. While neighborhood walks will never feel that extreme, perhaps they provide good purpose. And maybe each time I walk the same loop, I wear a little more of my own worn path.

A good listen: Expectations

It’s the way that Olivia Rodrigo has never made a bad song in her life, actually. Expectations is not only one of the best beats of the summer, it’s the song every member of my bike team can expect to hear on RAGBRAI next month. Plus, in the wake of relationships where I’ve allowed too little for too long, it’s a great anthem to have on stand by.

A good effort: Self portraits

I famously hate selfies. Not the act of taking a photo of yourself, per se. I just hate being photographed and being in front of a camera. While we don’t have time to dig into all of that, I did create a square on my BINGO board this year tasking me with creating one “self portrait” a month. Even if you have a complicated relationship with the camera, I’d recommend it. I’ve been pleasantly surprised with how much easier it’s gotten and I feel grateful to have built a catalog of my life this year. Here’s a selfie to prove the progress – messy office and all.

Some good progress: 2026 BINGO update

Speaking of BINGO, maybe it’s time for a little mid-year update. You can read about my love of annual BINGO boards here. But here are a few notes from squares in progress:

• I’ve been cataloging how much time I’ve spent outside, and I’m around 143 hours. I’ve got a camping trip that is sure to put me over the halfway mark soon, but if you have any fun patios in KC or parks you recommend, let a girl know.

• I’m watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills but there’s so many seasons, you guys. I don’t know if this one’s for me.

• Finding a good bread recipe have been tough. I won’t lie. I can’t figure out if I’m going wrong with the gluten free flour, the yeast, or the recipe. Open to ideas.

• I think I was the most excited about building a post-grad syllabus when I made this board in January. I’ve definitely compiled a list of books I want to read. Now, it’s the narrowing down part I have yet to do.

• Post-grad Paige has gotten into crocheting. So I’m anticipating finishing a project any minute. And by that I mean, probably a few more hours. Still, progress is progress.

Well, that’s all for now. In the words of All Good Things: Read. Laugh. Linger. Reply. However you choose to engage, I'm happy you're here. Whether you show up via Substack, email, or Instagram, thanks for reading along.

Oh, and I’d love to know (at least one of) your “good things” down below.

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That’s the question I’ve been asking for months now. It feels heavy; weighty. Like a seal sitting on my chest, or a lump in my throat I haven’t yet learned to swallow.

“What’s at stake for women?”

No, this doesn’t just come in response to the SBC’s decision to keep women out of the pastorate, or Al Moher’s weird conviction that women shouldn’t speak on podcasts. It’s deeper than that. As a woman in the church, I’ve been wondering this for awhile.

“What’s at stake when women can’t fully show up?”

When women can’t teach. Or preach. Or lead in full. It’s not just a question for women, I hope you know. It’s a question I pose for all of us: the church of Christ at large.

Protestants love to debate theology. We love pouring over details and deciding which one fits the bill best. I know I’m guilty of this, at certain times with certain subjects. Still, I wonder if it’s our own Tower of Babel, a steeple of certainty to climb in search for some spiritual reassurance.

“You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me!” John 5:39

I’ve studied the Scripture all my life now. I know which verses are used on throw pillows, and which ones are used to keep women out of the big leagues. I’ve been taught to stomach both with a smile.

And yet I’ve read about the women who, in their faithfulness to God, functioned as prophets and judges and deacons and apostles. I’ve read about the businesswomen and prostitutes and teachers and rulers, all invited into the kind of work was God doing.

I look at Jesus, too, who had no problem elevating women in his day, even when it raised some eyebrows. It was a woman he performed the first miracle for (John 2). It was women he refused to treat as unclean (Mark 5:25-34; John 4:7-29). It was women who did not abandon him at the cross, and it was women he entrusted to first preach his resurrection.

If Jesus had a problem with women in his circles, he didn’t show it. In fact, you might just exegete the opposite.

Notice the question I ask is not (just) a theological one. It’s a personal one. A social one. A business model, if you want to talk about ROIs.

What do we lose when women can’t fully participate? What potential is punted? Which voices are muted? How many saints have been born with sacred gifts, but their biology has kept them in the background?

I’m asking what’s really at stake if half the church sits under subjugation? Who do we silence when there’s clearly a tiered system? What do we lose when women functionally show up as shepherds, but never get to keep the title on their nametag?

I can’t tell you what it means for other women. But I can tell you what it looks like for me.

It looks like being asked to lead in the church, with limits. It looks like growing concern for the women who sit under abusive (or invisible) systems. It leaves you wondering if your church is a safe space for discomfort and difficult questions, or if you too will face backlash and branded guides meant to keep you in place?

On the whole, it means wondering where you fit into the church at large. Witnessing women run out of places they once loved.1 It means, even if you love your church and pastors and male friends, you can’t keep from wondering which beliefs lie beyond the surface. Which stories about women swim in their circles – and whether they’re biblical, or created by some other societal belief.

I lament the women who, by the millions, are prohibited from teaching and preaching without fear of explosion. I’m frustrated to know women have gifts that might never see the surface. I witness regression right before my eyes, wishing churches cared to reverse the effects of the curse (Gen. 3:16). It’s like looking up at an ornate glass ceiling, and learning to call it holy.

If the church is meant to be a home, I simply wonder which rooms women can inhabit. And even for those who don’t wish to teach or preach or lead, it can still leave the whole house feeling uneasy.

I have a friend who shared her thoughts on the SBC’s most recent decision this week, and she ended with where she imagines Jesus in this midst of this:

“I don’t think we consider often enough where Jesus would be in the room, and what He would be doing, saying, or not saying, if He were joining our debates. I think we would be shocked by His responses to our certainty.

I have a feeling that as the men huddled around the text and disagreed over Paul’s exact meaning, Jesus would be gathering the women, teaching them, and sending them out to proclaim the best news the world has ever heard.”

Perhaps, at one point I would be interested in winning a theological debate, pouring over the Scriptures, striving to find certainty in my case. I don’t necessarily feel that conviction anymore. What I feel is the need to sit with my discontent and let the lament well up in my chest. I need to grieve the kind of cathedral we’ve all created.

But most importantly, I need to look at Jesus who treated women not with contempt and constraint, but with care and commission.

“What’s at stake?” I ask pointedly, again and again.

And perhaps with urgency, “Is it worth it?”

There are days I’m filled 
with heaps of hope
Littering each sidewalk
and sandbox 
I step across

There are days “individuality”
does not mean "drudgery"
When loneliness 
is not unlucky at all

But there are days
– like today
where the pain spills over
and hope spills out 

I scrape my knee
on hard Reality




I don't need a Bible
to convince me –




There are days
I can’t believe hermits
and housewives
live like this
Kept tight inside caves 
and condominiums

I consider myself an introvert
but even I'm far too social 
for this quiet captivity

My beloved solitude 
sours right before my eyes

It's just that I can't quite imagine life 
without quick asides 
and shared calendars
plummeting the depths
when no one paying attention

At worst you call it roommates
at best you call it romance
I just want somebody in my corner




I don't need a Bible
to convince me –




There are days when hope is enough
When I hinge my bets
on the best yet to come

And there are days 
when the quiet high runs dry
And Singleness
feels like a spell 
cast on those 
who can't resist

I don't need a Bible
to convince me 
what's written across my bones
I knew from brittle Beginning

It's no good for (wo)man 
to be alone

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I know that’s not a cool thing to say. There are media conglomerates to picket and profiles to darken, people to see in person and hours to spend outside. But I miss social media. I do. Which is precisely why I took a break.

Every few years, I take Lent as the opportunity to say goodbye to social media for a little while. That means no TikTok, Instagram, Twitter (I’m not calling it X), and Facebook (mostly Marketplace).

And for some, it might not be that much of a sacrifice. But for me? I feel the ache.

Sometimes I feel that pain like a petulant child, stomping her foot when she doesn’t get her way. I don’t like boredom. I don’t like limits. And I hate, hate, hate missing out on things. Some people feel relief when they go off the grid. I feel a low groan, calling upon this gritty, engrained need to always “know.”

But I also feel the pain in a nuanced, natural kind of way. I want to know what my friends are doing. I want to be caught up on pop culture and silly memes. I want a better clue in on current events and listen to the cultural interpreters who care to share.

There’s a temptation to paint social media in a wholly good or wholly bad light, but I’ve never quite bought into that piece of art. I’ve only seen its massive opportunity in both directions, and I feel its benefits and downsides like a kaleidoscope of colors.

So while I have so much more time on my hands (written like a true petulant child), I thought I’d paint a picture from my point of view.

The Good

My mind is clearer.

First and foremost, the most immediate benefit is a quieter mind. I’m being honest when I say it’s not unusual to spend early mornings and late evenings scrolling my phone for hours on end. Maybe it’s a video or a podcast or just the newsfeed of the day. But take that out of my regular routine, and what you have is a much clearer mind, with space to think and feel and reflect more frequently. I get why people avoid this clarity. It’s uncomfortable, at times. But both my body and brain feel a difference already. It’s a welcomed break from the constant jolt of disjointed media.

I have more time for creativity.

With a clearer head, comes more room for creative thinking. Any smart person with a degree or artist with a craft will tell you about the importance of being bored. We get it. We know it. We remember the days we were kids, letting boredom motivate us to create kingdoms on the playground or design dresses for dolls or make siblings play horse while sitting back in the imaginary carriage. Boredom is the fertile ground of creativity, and I’m spotting more ideas sprout than before.

I want to connect with more people.

The good news is when you’re not on social media as much, you don’t get rid of the urge to be social. At least that hasn’t been the case for me. I’m only a week or two into the Lenten season, but I’ve felt more motivated to connect over dinner tables and voice memos and group chats than I have in recent memory. For someone who loves and believes in the beauty of people as much as I do, I’m a terrible reacher-outer. I often forget that initiating is an option, and only now do I remember the beauty of being a words-first girl. The amount of “I should text ____” thoughts I’ve had and the number of neighbors I’ve tried to greet has grown. I’m not saying I’ve done a complete 180, but I feel like I’ve stepped back into a skill I’ve forgotten I once had.

I feel the dismantling of an idol.

I know the term “idol” is a bit of a Christian-ese word we don’t use much of these days. But I also couldn’t think of a better word to substitute. There really is something about social media that becomes an idol to people like me. It’s easy to access and quick to metabolize. It’s a piece of my life that takes more time and attention than I want to admit. I’m not saying I worship social media as an entity in itself, but there are times it has a better hold of me than I have on it. This season is one of those times, so a stint of saying no helps me realize the power it holds and the place I want it to rest.

The Bad

I lack a diversity of perspective.

Social media can be a lot of things. It can be frustrating and disorienting. It can be shallow and artificial. But one of my favorite things about social media is the ability to hear from a diversity of perspectives. At its best, I believe it’s a place where everyone holds an equal opportunity to share their perspective. Sometimes, it’s a photo or status. Sometimes, it’s a story or side bar. But most simply, I love the ability to listen to peoples’ firsthand experiences, and social media gives me that opportunity in a way I wouldn’t hear otherwise. I feel the gap in seasons like this.

I miss one of my research methods.

If you aren’t on TikTok or by some act of God stuck to your guns with AskJeeves, you might be surprised to learn that one in two consumers use TikTok as a search engine. That means people aren’t just using social media to send memes back and forth, but they’re using it as a real opportunity to learn or grow and try something new. I’ve used TikTok to research many a thing over the years, including, but not limited to:

• How to style my bangs

• How to cook a strip steak

• How to learn the Fake ID line dance

• Where to stop on a road trip up the coast of Maine

• Wasp removal methods (on a budget)

• New crochet stitches

• Best makeup for cool undertones

I have dozens of saved TikToks with recipes and outfits and workout routines I have yet to use. Maybe it’s good to give the algorithm a break, but I’m missing one of my oft-used means of research these days.

P.S. If I haven’t talked your ear off about this podcast episode titled “A Tale of Two Algorithms,” I can’t recommend it enough. The basic premise is that while Meta uses an algorithm bent toward confrontation and anger, TikTok’s algorithm is bent toward curiosity and delight. Which may be why learning comes more naturally on a platform like that.

I miss regular touch points with friends.

We all like to say face to face connection is better, and I believe that’s true. But realistically, there’s only so many times in the week I can sit down with someone for coffee. Sometimes, social media can feel like the inter-connective tissue of relationships – it’s not the most important part, but it surely helps tie things together. I’m surely not advocating for digital relationships over embodied ones. But there is something irreplaceable about the “shoulder to shoulder” interactions of social media. Or rather, fingertip to fingertip.

I miss laughing really hard.

When I created a Rhythm of Life for myself last year, I made an intentional goal to “laugh really hard every day.” And I’m going to tell you, it’s harder to do off social media. Sure, perhaps I’ll stumble upon a funny podcast episode or I’ll end up in the right group text. But my laugh-meter has taken a hit. I haven’t seen one person fall down this week. Not one. And I’m not trying to be dramatic, but it does impact my quality of life.

The “I’m not sure.”

There’s also a category here of things I’m not sure are starkly “good” or “bad." Perhaps good in moderation, and bad in overconsumption? You can tell me what you think below.

I get a break from the news, and every ripple effect thereafter.

I’m not completely removed from the news when I fast social media. I still get emails from the New York Times and The Pour Over, and I hear what’s going on around the (metaphorical) water cooler. But I do feel a lot less clued into current events, and with that, I get a break from everyone else’s take on the news.

Part of me feels grateful for the mental break, and part of me feels like I’m shirking my “being informed” responsibility. But part of this fast was a need to remember “Oh yeah, I’m not God.” Nor do I need to know everything God knows. Fasting social media feels like a practice of Sabbath, laying down information for the sake of trusting someone (or something) can hold it momentarily. As someone who soaks information up like a sponge, there’s a real bittersweet taste in sacrificing that knowledge for a season.

I miss the “town square.”

I like to think of myself an early adopter of pop culture. That’s a term I made up a few weeks ago, so it’s still getting workshopped. But what I mean by that is I love talking about pop culture right when it’s happening. I love the chatter that happens around award shows and Big Games. I’m hungry to hear the hot takes on current events like Love is Blind and The Traitors Finale, and the Olympic closing ceremonies (all of which I’ve missed).

To me, there’s a real beauty in real time conversation with equal opportunity (that is, at its best). I think about social media as a “town square” of sorts with a lot of townies and cultural interpreters bringing their voices to the table. Like the citizens of Pawnee, they’re not all winning takes. But I still love and respect the forum, and I love getting to live in a time where more people get a voice than ever.

Like any town square, it gets rowdy. It’s annoying. I’m not trying to paint an untrue picture. But if social media is meant to make me feel more connected, I really do feel that most days.

And still, there are seasons for everything under the sun. There’s a time to feast and a time to fast. There’s a time to tune in and a time to tap out. Just like the best and blues of social media, there’s always a balance, isn’t there?

How’s that for a painted picture?

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Every year, I forget that spring just might be my favorite season. I always adore summer for its fullness and joy, but there’s something about spring that ushers in beauty that I can’t quite shake. It feels like magic. Or resembles something of the sort.

It’s “spring” days like these that spring up when nobody’s watching. It’s the way your skin, normally coated with quilted layers, remembers the warmth of the sun once again. It’s the way the birds chirp and branches chatter. It’s the way I’m reminded that despite all the signs of death and decay, new life springs up again and again. Year after year.

It reminds me there’s reason to hope.

Hope is a slippery notion.

On my good days, I like to preach on why hope is important. I think it’s good for the world, for our neighborhoods. We need hope for the body, the mind, and the soul. Hope, I think, is what keeps the world going. It’s what wakes us up and puts us to bed. It’s the motion that keeps the world turning.

I also know it’s hope that gets us hurt. I’m no stranger to its side effects. I have story after story of pains and aches. I’ve been bruised and bamboozled. I’ve been confident only to be crushed. Do you know how many churches I’ve tried? How many dates I’ve gone on? How many friendships fought me back, or how many sweet moods turned sour?

Hope is our betting currency. With hearts on the line, we gamble again, and again, and again.

But do we recognize the cost?

Every year feels heavier. Each year, I’m tempted to say this is the one feels out of sorts. We live in unprecedented times that now feels full of precedence. I know some of it is manufactured to keep us all in fear. But much of it is real. Its effects sure are.

I can’t know all the worlds sorrows, but it feels myself drowning like a boat takes on water. I keep scrolling through new information – new terrors, new evils, new reasons to outcry. I pay the weight of inflation. I feel the weight of my loneliness. I watch prejudice pour out on my brothers and sisters. I’m fearful. And famished. We’re all afraid.

Then I go back and look at things from 2016. 2008. 1995. It’s all the same thing. The world is ending. The government’s whack. There’s no hope. Or there’s only hope. (It depends on who you ask.)

The problem is all of this matters. All of it. Someone might try to tell you to throw in the towel, but it does matter how we love our neighbor, and which detergent we use. It matters how we behave and what to believe and what to cook for dinner tonight.

None of it is trivial. Yet all of it is tiring. So what do you do when the weight of the world matters? And what do you do when hope depletes?

Hope is a slippery notion. It heals and harms. It mends and maims. It’s the most important thing about us, and yet it gets us into trouble. Hope reverberates, in the best and worst ways.

And still, despite the cost, I think hope is our best bet.

It’s the wind in our sails and the star pointing north. It’s what lets our hearts believe in a better world, a better You, a better Me. Hope places us on the picket lines and it gives us courage to take on our enemies. Hope fuels our prayers and upends injustice. Hope is inherently helpful; despite its risk, it carries the cries we do not have words for.

And yet I think hope is as much a muscle as anything we practice. Sometimes we fatigue. That’s normal. That’s expected. But if hope is what fuels our engines, maybe we might be running on empty.

And then…

You stumble upon spring(ish) days. Somehow, it revives your tank a little. You forget how fresh the air can feel.

Or you come across your favorite house in the neighborhood – with the bright red door and the cobblestone path – and you smile, admiring whoever put a little extra effort in to design a cottage that looks like it could be center stage in a children’s book.

Or you remember the feeling of best friend’s daughter running into your arms at full speed, pinning her weight on you with a giggle. You remember the way she says your name, and how you did nothing to earn her love.

Or you find a really good Mexican spot with chips and margs where you make friends with the waiter. You talk with your friend (the human version, not the social media one) about boys and TV and her own personal troubles. Somehow, you end the night fuller and lighter all at once.

Or you call your sister when things feel too heavy, and she holds the weight of the world with you for a moment. She can’t fix it, but she gives you a moment to catch your breath and believes for you that you’re doing the best you can.

Or you play in the snow like you did when you were 7, and let your worries melt away before you have to meal prep. That sort of thing can wait.

Or you help a neighbor.

You learn a language.

You feed a friend.

Your fuel fills more.

Hope is a slippy notion. Sometimes it can feel like like death – a bad bet you made, with scattered pieces to prove it. And then sometimes, you remember it’s all you have.

And you catch the chatter of the trees and the chirp of the birds. You soak in a perfectly spontaneous spring day.

And everything is not okay. Not yet.

But there is reason to hope again.

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Here, I’ve got a list of a few of the year’s highlights, a few of my own personal mishaps, a few of my personal “favorites,” as well as a reading/watch list for your perusal. Enjoy!

Big Highlights of the Year

• I turned 30.

  • February marked the month of my 30th birthday, which included festivities like a combined b-day cruise with my friend Beth, a ticket to see How To Train Your Dragon in concert, and a book exchange party which was a lot of fun, despite the venue threatening to kick me out every 30 minutes. I heard someone say recently “I will spend the majority of my life being older than my 20s” so I hope to embrace the years as they come. Here’s to a new decade.

    

• I completed 75% of grad school.

  • I’ve always wondered how and if I’d go back to school. Growing up, I knew I loved learning, but I wasn’t sure if that’s because school was “all I knew” or if it was really that big of a deal to me. But with 75% of my degree behind me, I can earnestly say being back in school is one of my favorite things. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a LOT between full time work and full time school (plus life in general), but it’s reminded me how much I love to learn and how deeply I long to learn alongside others. I can’t believe we’re done in May.

• I bought my first home.

  • For the first time in five years, I moved out of my little apartment I’d grown to love. And for the first time ever, I bought my own place! If you want to read any more of those reflections, you can do so here. All in all, it’s starting to feel more like home.

• I completed my first triathlon.

  • Every year I do RAGBRAI, I realize how much my body is capable of when I give it the chance to grow. So this year, I decided to sign myself up for a mini-triathlon! It was difficult and hillier than anticipated, but I did it! I can call myself a triathlete, at least for the rest of the year.

• I got to help plan my sister’s engagement.

  • In February, my sister got engaged to the love of her life and I got to be in the room where it happened! Well actually, I was hiding in the office, as my job was to decorate and keep the cat away from the candles. But what a lovely day. She said yes, and I’m thrilled to be gaining a brother in law!

    

• I made my first full crochet project

  • It’s not the biggest accomplishment in the world, but it’s not the smallest one either. This year, I finished my first crochet project. The proportions were a bit off and I implore you to not look too closely. But hey, she’s done! And a new hobby: acquired.

    

• I got to watch Vivi grow up

  • When I looked back on my camera roll to remember everything that happened this year, I couldn’t help but notice all the pictures I had of my best friend’s daughter, Vivienne. I don’t have any true nieces of nephews of my own, but I consider myself “Aunt Paige” when it comes to Vivi, and it’s been a privilege to get to watch her grow up this year. Here’s a photo of us playing dress up at my house.

    

Big L’s From the Year (because we don’t talk about them enough in our yearly recaps)

• This year, I did some holistic health testing and after a lot of labs and tests, I learned I had to be gluten free. “For like a few months?” I asked the doctor at first. She paused a little too long, so then I said “oh, so like, forever.” It’s been a journey, but not as bad as I thought. If you have any good gluten free recipes, hit a girl up!

• This year, I quit RAGBRAI halfway through the week. It was sort of a cursed ride, in a lot of ways. On the first day, three of our friends went down hard in two separate accidents (and ambulance rides). The route was supposed to be easier, but the wind, storms, and rain made sure we still felt the burn. AND on the second day, a muscle I sprained in February decided it was the ideal time to flare back up. Awesome! What a great lesson to learn in giving up.

• Speaking of bikes, I tore a gaping hole in my tire after pulling a stop too fast on a training ride. Oops.

  

• Speaking of damage, I hit my new (to me) carport this year, even though I consider myself to be a pretty good parker.

• In good news, I installed a social media timer on my phone. However, in bad news, it’s very easy to bypass. I don’t wish to talk about my screen habits this year.

• I locked myself out of my sister’s house at 10:30pm while cat sitting. Yep, the car keys were also in the house. Kenny just stared at me like this while I cried.

  

• I couldn’t have been more excited to find a Christmas tree in budget this year at the thrift shop. Unfortunately, I threw my back out in the process of packing it up and bringing it home. I hate to say it, but my meds cost more than the tree.

• And at one point, I was really excited about the possibility of pursuing more school after wrapping up school, so I Googled this little gem.

  

A few things I liked…

• This year, I got the Lily 2 Active Garmin watch for triathlon training. I thought I’d only wear it during workouts, but I’ve loved using it for tracking my heart rate, sleep health, and more. Expensive, but an every day use for me.

• When I moved, I put together a home registry (like you would for a wedding or a baby shower), and let me tell you, it has helped tremendously. As a single person who’s attended many a wedding and shower, it was amazing to receive the help and love on the other side.

• A bit basic, but I love my Hokas. I know I’m a few years behind the trend, but this worked to my advantage as I was able to obtain some very lightly used ones on FB Marketplace. I’m talking 20% of retail price cheap. Just a reminder to keep an eye out on the rich neighborhoods around you!

• My Golden Coil planner. I let myself splurge and get a really nice planner for keeping track of work + grad school. I know it’s pricey, but I cannot recommend it any higher. I use mine to keep track of work tasks, meal planning, house projects, books I’ve read, habit tracking, and more.

• The Savannah Bananas. I attended my first game this year and I mean it when I say the people yearn for hot men doing silly things. 10/10 time.

• Cinemark theaters: the cooler, cheaper sibling of AMC. Specifically, I really loved “Bring Your Own Container” Day.

  

A few things I watched…

• Vanderpump Rules: Although this reality show aired for the first time in 2013, I started seeing a resurgence online and decided to get in on the fun. Wow. If you like crash-out reality TV, I highly recommend.

• Dancing with the Stars: I obviously watched this growing like every other middle class family in America, but this was the year I decided I was going to full-send get back into DWTS. I don’t regret it one bit. I’ve probably watched Mark and Whitney’s freestyle more than a dozen times.

• Superman: I hated all the previous Superman movies. Anything DC-related was hard to get into. But this movie? Changed my life. I’m pretty sure Punkrocker by the Teddybears was in my Spotify Wrapped.

• Wake Up Dead Man: All the hype you’re seeing for the new Knives Out movie is wholly deserved. Somehow, Rian Johnson made an installment in his franchise that just might be the best one yet. Stunning. Moving. A thoughtful commentary on faith while remaining a fun, cheeky murder mystery. Also, Josh O’Connor neck tattoo… enough said.

• Christmas on the Alpaca Farm: It was as awful as it sounds. I do not recommend unless you are a connoisseur of bad TV and films like me.

A few things I read (which I’m sharing because I don’t have Goodreads)…

• When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi: Haunting, reflective, and beautifully human. (4 stars)

• Funny Story by Emily Henry: Ate it up, per usual. (5 stars)

• The Holy Longing by Ronald Rolheiser: Probably one of my favorite books from grad school so far. (5 stars)

• The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis: This book actually changed the way I think about heaven. (5 stars)

• Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins: Suzanne said “I have a few more things to say” and I will always be ready to listen. Devastating. Powerful. I loved it, and I’m never reading it again. (5 stars)

• Streams of Living Water by Richard Foster: I didn’t know I needed a dose of Christian history until I read this book. Incredibly helpful in shaping my POV for those who worship differently than me. (4.5 stars)

• The Dark Night of the Soul by Gerald G. May: I actually think everyone needs to read this once in their lifetime. (5 stars)

• Just For the Summer by Abby Jimenez: I really wanted to like this, but alas. Very chronically online. (3 stars)

• The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck: That guy was weird. (2.5 stars)

• Glittering Images by Susan Howatch: I had no ideas what was going on for the first 200 pages, but I ended up loving it. (4 stars)

Where I’m Going Next Year

Well, there’s your recap. If you read this piece last year, you know how much I love using BINGO boards for my new year’s resolutions. So while I have a year behind me with lots of wins, losses, and fun goings on, here’s my new list of goals for the coming year ahead.

As always, thanks for reading! I’m honored to get a small slice of your life and a small home in your inboxes.

As the year closes, I’d love to learn what you’re thinking about! Feel free to share anything you’ve learned, liked, lost, read, or accomplished this year. I’m delighted to keep learning, losing, and celebrating together.

— Paige

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I might not even remember why I carry grief at all. In the summer or in the sun, I might forget all the heaviness of my knapsack; all the excess weight and worry I carry day by day. But between the dreary days and the darkness (and the mad dash to find a hot, new winter hobby), the sentimentality of winter makes me more aware. Aware of the things I love, the things I’ve lost, and the things I’m still trying to let go of.

I wonder if it’s why we gravitate toward Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas. There’s always a hint of melancholy in his work. It’s cheerful, yet nostalgic. It’s childlike, but very adult.

The more you talk to anyone feeling the weight of the winter, the more you learn we all carry knapsacks stacked high. As much as we sing about peace, love, and joy this time of year (and genuinely, we want to enjoy it), we all feel the weight of some grief in these glacial months. And I’m convinced that doesn’t make you any less holly or jolly. It just makes you human.

There are a lot of true things about grief. Grief wants to be heard. Grief wants to be listened to. Grief, like our grandparents, want a good, sturdy place to rest.

But the one lie grief will try to tell? You’re the only one.

Sure, our knapsacks are all stuffed with all different packages. We come to the cold months with our unique collections: fantastic fears, personal longings, deep-seated regrets, and stubborn sadnesses.

Still, I believe grief is the most human thing we have. Things are not right. You know it. We know it. So grief gives us the language to connect. To commune. To share all the unique collections we carry in our knapsacks.

I believe grief is the other side of the Christmas coin. Grief comes pre-packaged with things like hope and joy. We hope for good things that won’t come true. We long for good things hidden behind our past. We celebrate good things as much as we see our own sorrow. Grief will always be paired with the gifts of life. And what is Christmas, if not the season of gifts? Of peace, hope, and love?

I say this all to say you’re not alone. Whether it’s winter or worn-ness or just a need for warmth, my guess is there’s something you’re carrying around this winter, too.

I wrote this poem for a friend going through a particularly unbearable season. I don’t know all the intricacies of her pain just like you cannot fully know the intricacies of mine. But what would it mean if we paused this winter, repurposing our grief as permission to connect?

May these words offer you somewhere to place your knapsack; a hanger for a heavy load.

War or winter?

Everything is heavy today
Even the trees can’t bear their 
full weight any longer
The ground and its patrons 
do all they can
But in reality, we all
cradle what we can
of the darkness 

We are just animals, you know
somehow surviving
these somber months 
And somehow we 
make meaning
What is the cost?

Cries begin low
and crest over lifted surface 
Like a mother giving birth
our somber language
sings the ballad of so many 
Our survivors 
Our asleep 
alike

The places we used to 
wander on home to
are dead now
(or feel that way)

What are we to do –
carry on as if we don't feel the cold?

The willows whisper
they've seen this before
But I'm not so sure
I'll withstand it

Is this war or winter?
I cry over the canyon 

The trees can't say
but, cramped hope,
shoulder space
for those who seek

If you’re new here, I wrote a post a few years ago declaring my intense hatred for soup. It remains my most controversial piece to date. Since writing it, I’ve gotten a lot of eye raises, fielded many questions, created a few enemies, and maybe even got a date out of it.

But I stand by my words. Soup is (from my vantage point) a soggy, disgusting mess. I know many of you are bursting at the seams to drink hot, soggy meat water, and if that’s you, more power to you.

But I stand my ground in my convictions. Smoothies? Fine. Dips? Great. But the moment you make me exchange my fork for a spoon, we might have some issues to settle out back.

Still, I must confess to you on this day a new revelation. A new woman, I am not. But I do find myself shaky in my own persuasions.

I tried a soup this week that made me rethink my most critical beliefs.

It was a Monday night. Potluck. I turned gluten-free a few months back, so the list of edible foods before me dwindle down to 15% in most places I go. Scrounging around the buffet table, I looked past plenty of deliciously gluttonous things to find any sign that says “GF.” Yes, the options were few. The only thing on that list? Lasagna soup.

Drat, I thought. My dearest enemy. But there I was, starving. Exposed. And nearly SOL.

It was a split second decision to be made. Serve it up or stay hungry. Sure, I hated soup, but I surrendered to the fact I could either eat now or wait several hours until nearly 10pm. What did I have to lose, really? Besides a writer’s dignity?

So I ladled the mixture into my bowl where even then, I noticed my own lack of aversion. Swimming in the soup were zucchinis, onions, tomatoes, and spinach. All of which were ingredients I would be thrilled for in any other concoction.

Not to mention the noodles. I’m picky about my pasta, but I noticed these right off the bat. Not too dente or too mushy. I was surprised; pleased, even (though I could hardly admit that to myself).

Even the soup’s consistency shattered my own preconceived notions. This was less of the sloppy wet mess I usually harped on, and more of a garden of great delight. I nearly stopped myself mid-thought. Was I really looking forward to taking this thing for a test drive?

I sauntered back to my seat and sat down amongst friends, attempting to tell them how big of a deal this soup excursion was. Nobody cared, of course. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, I was on the verge of reformation.

The first spoonful was savory. By the second, I was hungry for the third. Unashamedly, I littered the bowl with crushed tortilla bits to grow its taste and texture all the more. Is this what people liked, I wondered, about their sacred, soupy creations?

And now, I must admit to you, my dear friends, something I thought I would never say. I, indeed, went back for seconds.

And here’s where my confession becomes two-fold. Because this lasagna bowl wasn’t the only soup I’ve tried (and liked) this year.

Every year, my dear friend Madelynne makes for us a delicious Seder dinner. For the last two or three years on record, I’ve tucked away a tasty matzo ball soup that I didn’t even detest. I can’t say there was much to it aside from matzo, broth, and salt, but it still earns the title of soup, and so I must state it on the track of latest confession.

Now, if you’re a mathematician, that’s (count them) two soups I’ve tried this year that I actually liked. So what does that make me out to be?

A hypocrite? A heretic? Does this mean everything I’ve stood for is thrown away and thwarted?

Or does this make me evolved? Emerged? Am I still the same, but softening my spiky edges?

I don’t know the specifics of it, but I’m rethinking my own convictions. I’m feeling the DNA in my body slowly begin to shift. Not in an actual medical way, of course. But something different is taking place. I’m growing out of the black and white lines I had previously painted, I’m beginning to find my feet (and flavor profile) on greener (or, grayer) ground.

So why am I writing this, you may ask? (I may be asking the same thing.)

Maybe it’s because I’ve had writer’s block for months now. Maybe life has taken a few turns, and the things I want to say right now are too chaotic or too heavy or too shrouded in pain and uncertainly. And maybe the last time I tried to get out of a writing slump, I was encouraged to “just write something fun and dumb,” and that worked. So this is my next attempt to scamper out of stagnation.

Or maybe I’m writing this because I think we’re all, at a very deep level, capable of change. To what degree? I’m not sure. But I’ve bet my whole masters1 on the fact that we can. I do know tastebuds change. And values evolve. And whether we want to or not, sudden events in our lives can rework both the silly or deep-seated in us. We change our minds; we shed our skin. And I believe that’s okay, even if just by a few inches.

Or maybe none of it’s that deep, and that lasagna soup was a standalone, spiritual experience.

Either way, it’s good for me to say it. So I’ll let you to come up with your own explanation while I leave you with a few cross-stitched sayings.

Try new things. Take chances. Because some day, you might change.

Or hate soup a little less, like me.

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Far away
in the not-so-near distance
A train calls out
instructing the night to slow
Stealing a breath, she shouts in shrill voice
“I’m here!”
The call, out of courtesy 
No one wishes her quieter

Cars stop; kids calm
The dark and the dust give cushion
to her creed
Squealing tracks proclaim
a parade of new passengers
Of grain and coal
and graffiti goods
“So much to see.”
she whispers
"Such majesty 
in the mundane." 

Finally, she passes by
with gusto and glory 
A glamorous giant
gliding by in the night

All who are parked take heed
All in their homes can hear
The pause, pregnant 
The grounds grumble 
For a moment
everything 
stops (enspelled)

She's right
The mundane is magic

Ready to resume 
we climb back in our cars
But we are ravished by reverence
So we salute
and march on

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One of my favorite things about living in my home is the proximity to the train. No, I don’t take the train into work; I don’t even know where it’s going, truth be told. But growing up, my grandparents lived right behind a set of train tracks in Independence, Missouri. By day, it was fun to watch the trains go by. But by night, it was the sound of the slow horns and whirring wheels that lulled us all to sleep.

Living close to the train today still haunts me with a touch of nostalgia. It can be easy to ignore the regular rhythms of city life. To be sure, train horns and traffic lights are nothing short of normal.

But in keeping in step with my friend Caleb’s Substack series on “noticing,” I wanted to write an imaginative ode to the giants outside this Sunday night. What might it feel to be so impressive? To take up that much space? To proceed with so much power? This poem is my best attempt at guessing, and my best attempt at saluting myself.

So now, I’m curious — where do you see magic in the mundane? Feel free to leave a comment or share a reply. I’m sure there’s plenty of magic to go around.

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Controversial, I know.

Especially intriguing, now that I own a home.

If you watch the interview in full, you know Collins isn’t saying you should never buy property or forgo owning a home (he’s owned several himself). Instead, his point is more nuanced: a house is a bad investment, because a house (in itself) doesn’t appreciate all on its own.

To make a house more valuable, he argues, you must put in endless dollars and ideas, making it yours and homey and valuable. It’s not just the mortgage, he reminds us. It’s plumbing and property taxes and remodeling you want done. It’s paint colors and utility bills and the wherewithal to fix the water heater you must (unexpectedly) spend your savings on.

There are “enormous expenses” owed, Collins states, the moment you sign the deed. Having already paid a plumber, an electrician, and a locksmith just months after moving in, I’m starting to get the picture.

If you’ve ever owned property (hell, not even a house, but a car, a phone, or any other big or small ticket item) you know I’m saying nothing new. Good things take green. Quality things need attention. To keep something worth saving takes an effort on our part, most of us agree.

Still, the thing that got me thinking was the following quote from Collins:

“Your house and my house are actively trying to return to dust in the Earth, and we have to spend copious amounts of time and money preventing that from happening.”

If you took seventh grade science, you’re probably familiar with the concept of entropy. It’s the idea that all things in our world are becoming more and more chaotic as time goes on. As James R. Newman puts it, “entropy is the general trend of the universe toward death and disorder.” (James R. Newman)

Think of something you’ve cared for — a garden, a body, a brand, a baby, a website, even a Tamagotchi — and you know this concept all too well. Everything we are and do and love in this world is trending toward chaos and disorder. Weeds overgrow gardens. Body age and groan. I don’t need to tell you that the things you love most need time, attention, and care in order to continue to be their best.

So of course, the same rings true for houses. Windows break and paint chips and foundations crack under pressure.

And still, we humans buy them anyway.

I just happen to find that beautiful.

You might have noticed by now that my writing doesn’t always follow a clear theme. If you don’t notice it, I sure do. I’m annoyed on this side of the page that my own writing jumps chaotically between theology and dating and reality TV.

But I think the “through line” I’m noticing is how we interpret our human-ness. What does it mean to be human? How do we live that out now? And what does it mean to live well in this current, broken state we’re given?

Maybe that’s why this interview struck me in the way it did. Because as logical humans seeking good investments, buying homes really shouldn’t make sense. In fact, it’s crazy to pick a plot of land trying to return to dust and care for it day by day. It’s also weird to throw hope into a business that might stall, and a family that might fail, and a meal to be consumed, only to leave behind dishes to wash and dry and store again.

It doesn’t make sense. Any of it. And still, we do it each day.

In my eyes, it’s one of the most beautiful things I can think of about our humanity. Our hope. Our hard work. That we’re willing to incur the cost.

We want to buy and keep and care for homes that are breaking. We want to do the work to keep quality things in tact. We want to fix up old cars and recycle plastic goods. In fact, these things are not only good not for our hands but our hearts; they give us meaning in the mess of it all. It’s not just our finances at stake, we must remember, but our formation.

What does it mean to be human?

Instead of walking away from that interview wondering how I could put my condo on the market, I actually walked away with the opposite feeling. I felt grateful. Grateful for the chance to care for a place “actively trying to return to dust.” Grateful to live in a world that gave me a little plot of land to hold.

Because what miracles do we muster day after day that keep our homes running and standing and safe? What meaning do we make by the mortar we touch?

In all this, we hope. We participate in the opposite direction of entropy. We believe the world can go a different direction than its spinning, and we do the work day in and day out to make that actually happen. We build and brainstorm. We clean and cook. We buy houses. We start families. We plant seeds and make clothes and get coffee with new people in the hopes that our investments will win out.

On paper, the ROI might be a wash.

But humans are funny and hopeful. Even intrinsically heavenward, I think.

Here’s what Collins might not have factored into his claim: that we are a people who still put flowers on gravesites. We love those struggle and can’t show signs of improvement. We choose to exercise even though we know our bodies are aging, and we ice our cakes with a flourish only to eat them moments later.

There’s something growing for us—in our humanity—in keeping entropic things alive. Maybe it’s painful. Maybe our investments won’t pay off. Maybe it will leave us with fewer pennies in our pockets at the end of the day.

But I argue we need this sacred practice for our own sakes. Not only for our homes or hearts or hearths. But for our own health and wealth: our humanness.

We stand on tall stilts
Stuttering, scampering
One leg: your promises
One leg: life’s pitfalls
Tumbling through valleys
and trouncing the hills
Towering over our
own shaky tendons
Time and trust
taunt us all

One foot is full
The other is faint
One stirrup is sure
the other uncertain
Even while standing
strolling
or sitting
we stumble, we fall
again
again
again

What does it mean
to find your footing?

We fashion our footprints
move our muscles
only to learn we're still frightened
of falling
We pray
wordless pleas
That, please! This faith
outweighs
our fear

Still, we need both feet
frail as they feel
Because valleys veer on
and walking is faithful

So we step out (on stilts)
Shaking or still
again
again
again

It’s always my goal to write for Substack as much as possible, but last month threw more life at me than usual. To be fair, I did finish a triathlon, wrap up my first year of grad school, and rode my bike (halfway) across Iowa. I also wrote a 10 page paper for school that I’ll count as my written work for July, but you’ll have to let me know if you want to see it. I wouldn’t subject you to that kind of torture without your permission.

Despite not spending much time on this platform lately, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about some less-than-light topics. Consent. Health. Grief. Mortality.

Those posts will probably come in time. But today, I’m thinking about diversity. Mostly, the spiritual kind.

This summer, my masters cohort read through Richard Foster’s Streams of Living Water, which highlights the six major traditions or “streams” of the Christian faith over centuries. You might have seen me geek out about the contemplative stream here, but there are five others, including the holiness, social justice, evangelical, charismatic, and sacramental streams. Each show up in different ways. Each worship, practice, celebrate, mess up, lament, embarrass themselves, and engage the world in different ways, too. Still, the point is despite their differences and diversities, they still flow into the same body of water; living water, that is.

“I’ve learned this class is emotional for a lot of people,” our professor warned us the first week of class. I almost laughed at the time, noting the title of our class included “history.” Maybe I’ve been taught by one too many high school coaches, but history has never felt emotional to me. It might be interesting at best, but dry and dull in my experience.

Yet the heart of the class took me by surprise. I spent the last two months diving into two millennia of Christian history, getting a taste of the mysterious ways God’s chosen to move over time. Some of it public. Some of it private. Some of it grandiose. Some unassuming. But despite its breakups and bad ideas and blunders and bummers, the church has moved in medley for many centuries. And the church, with its multifaceted dimensions, still stands.

Still all of it, by God’s grace, moves in its own unique measure. From the ancient church to medieval times, from the enlightenment to contemporary eras, God has made a point to move to meet his people with a myriad of methods. Maybe it’s in the quiet. Maybe it’s in the countryside. Maybe it’s in our character. Or maybe it’s in our customs.

If I learned nothing else this semester, it’s that diversity is God’s design. “Isn’t it interesting,” our professor prompts, “that the same Spirit who gives unity to the church is the same Spirit who gives the diversity of gifts?” Maybe each facet of the church carries a different feature of God’s character. Maybe all Those Other churches out there have something to say to us. Maybe uniformity isn’t the goal at all, but unity. And maybe we have something to learn from each other, if only we would listen.

Early in our class, our professor said that it’s common for those who grow up in spiritual traditions to feel like they grew up in one “room” of a big house. Sure, it may be spacious. It may even feel homey. But later in life, many emerge from their “attic” to find their little space wasn’t a house at all, but a piece of it. Not only is there an attic, but a kitchen, and a laundry room, and a basement! There’s many more spaces to explore, and many more hidden segments that fit under the same roof.

It’s normal, too, to feel some resentment seeping in learning how many rooms fill the house. For those of us who’ve grown up in a narrow segment, it may be a common belief that yours was the “only” or the “best’ way to do it, and when you learn there are others, there can be tension and anger and grief for all the spaciousness you missed out on from your days in that small section.

I was glad to hear this was normal. Because the emotions did come.

They came when I read about saints, young and old, whom God moved close to in mystery. They came when I read of churches of different cultures and customs that set my own up for success. They came when I encountered streams I felt at home in, like embracing a warm hug. They also came when I encountered streams that carried my baggage; ones that broke my heart and caused me doubt.

You see, history was not just walking through some third party’s account of the church. It was walking through mine, too. I am a storybook of experiences with pages of perspectives on what it’s like to live in, learn from, grow up, and grow old with many of these traditions myself.

It wasn’t neutral. Over and over again, I faced my own stories and (very real) scars collected one chapter at a time. I had to encounter the question, “Do I love diversity, or just the idea of it?”

Because the emotions came not only when encountering the history of the past, but facing the way I dealt with church of the present. Did I love the church in full? Or just the parts I fled to?

I don’t know what you think of when you hear Jesus say, “in my Father’s house there are many rooms” (John 14:2). As a kid, I guess I thought of Audio Adrenaline’s “Big House” with a big, big yard to play football (touchdown!). But I didn’t give much thought to why we needed it. I didn’t think about if those rooms might have different decor or varying smells or furniture I’d never pick out myself but someone else might treasure. Still, God prepares a place for us. And I would bet that place isn’t uniform.

I still don’t know much about the new heavens and the new earth, but I’m reminded in Revelation 21 that our differences remain. Things will be made new, but “heaven will not get rid of diversity,” my professor said. “It will glorify it.”

This summer, I sat with the idea that maybe all these (albeit, broken) rooms in the house really did have something to offer. Maybe I had something to learn from my praying brothers and picketing sisters. Maybe the streams I felt swept away in still had living water moving through its currents. Maybe I wasn’t meant to take up space in all six places, but what would it mean to appreciate them? What would it mean to see my scars, and still celebrate the good work well done in each unique space?

We need each other, I’m convinced. In life or faith or church or traffic, we’re all in this big group project together, so what does it look like to work together?

Maybe we need to learn from one another. Maybe there never was supposed to be one “right” way to worship God. Perhaps the contemplatives have something to say about God’s patience; the incarnational stream has something to say for God’s presence; and the charismatics have something to teach about God’s spontaneous nature. Maybe the buffet of options isn’t a bug but a feature; that is takes into account our hearts and abilities and even personalities. “Every follower of Jesus carries some part of the yoke of Christ,” our professor writes, “but no one carries the whole burden.1”

I hope you know what I’m not saying. I’m not saying we shouldn’t stretch ourselves to engage in other streams or that we shouldn’t care about sound doctrine. But maybe the point isn’t uniformity, but unity. Like any facet of our lives—the jobs we hold, the houses we build, the people we love, and the places we go—there’s not one “right” option. There’s a field of footpaths, some worn more heavy than others, but many to choose from and even new ones to forge ahead on. But maybe the point isn’t finding the “right” one at all as much as it is finding the one that makes you most you, while holding honor for the ones you did not choose and believing them worthy paths to travel.

What if we saw diversity as a feature of the faith, not a fissure? What if we saw this house as spacious and holy? And what if we learned to listen to those with differing postures and perspectives, viewing their work or worship as part of the whole?

Perhaps we’d believe the God who prepared a room for us wasn’t big on bulk decor. And maybe the rooms readied ahead of time are primed for many multitudes more.

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Stingy Love

I’m not afraid of being alone
I’m afraid of being lonely
linked to the life of another
Of spinning stories that 
life is meant to let me down
and that real love is the stuff
of legends

I’m not afraid of being alone
I’m afraid of encountering indifference
and calling it intimacy
Wishing for the sun
and settling for fluorescents
Catching crumbs
and calling them adequate 
for an empty stomach 
— “that’s quite enough for me”
I’d claim

I’m not afraid of life alone
I’m afraid of believing there’s
danger in my discernment
Choosing cheap connections
over hard-earned qualities
Carving roads of my own contempt
by settling down
for the sake of somehow "catching up"

I’ve learned the opposite of love is not loneliness
— it’s stinginess
calling "a little" by the name “a lot”

It’s unlavished liking
and tightfisted tenderness
It’s withdraw and withholding 
It’s selfish and stiffness

Yet we wade into shallow waters — why? 

We’re thirsty
We drink
what we think
satisfies

I’m not afraid of being alone
I'm afraid of dehydration
Knowing which waters I’d drink
When drought disrupts my better judgement

So I’ve made the choice
To befriend the boogeyman
— singleness, that is —
Believing being alone is not second best
And solitude offers solace
Fermenting patience 
and preference
and privilege
and power

I’m not afraid of being alone
I'm afraid of all the love lost 
to loneliness
when souls shrivel
and thirst settles
in exchange
for stingy love

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This semester, my classmates and I are diving into the ideas behind Richard Foster’s Streams of Living Water. It’s an exploration of six different expressions of the Christian tradition, all centered around Christ with a variety of different “flavors” and faith practices lived out among each. Think evangelical versus charismatic versus social justice streams and more; all made up of the same “living water” and yet all flowing into the same body. (If you’re interested, here is a helpful summation if you just want the Cliff Notes. Well worth the short read.)

Last week, we explored the “contemplative” stream, which is often characterized by silence and solitude and dubbed the “prayerful” tradition. This stream is defined by curiosity, quietness, (well) contemplation, but I like how my professor put it: those in this stream take seriously “the role of being present to God.”

If some traditions are good at recognizing God’s power and others are naturals at living out his compassion, the contemplative stream is one marked by its ability to “pay attention” to God. While “contemplative” may sounds like it’s centered around academics and ideation, I would argue it’s one with a little bit more liberty, with a bent toward discernment and delight.

The history of this tradition is a fascinating one. While contemplatives often get a reputation for social isolation or retreat, the origins of this tradition came about when Constantine took over Rome in the early church and the desert mothers and fathers fled toward something else. Foreseeing a world where their faith and politics would be intertwined for the first time, they found it important to meet with God apart from politics and power. They sought to protect their own inner lives as they spent time alone with God, even gaining the name “athletes of God” as this work produces a particular stamina for those who choose long stints of silence and solitude.

I like to think of this stream as brimming with wonder. As a culture marked by a lack of attention, I think it’s kind—even courageous—to sit alone with God and be still with your own thoughts.

I may be biased, however. I find a particular home in this stream, though I haven’t had words for it most of my life. I love sitting in silence. I love the gracious nature of solitude. Call it overstimulation or an interest in the Holy, I’m not always sure. But I do adore my time with Creator and Created. It’s something that comes naturally to me.

All that to say, last week, we were asked to write a few responses to the following prompts around the contemplative stream. Here are my responses to our class conversation. As always, if you ever have questions around faith, formation, or spiritual life, free to comment, DM, or continue the conversation offline.

Identify and discuss one aspect of the "Contemplative Stream" that sticks with you and perhaps has a strong personal importance into your own life and spiritual formation.

The more I read, listened, and pondered the words of wise teachers this week, the more excited I became about the contemplative stream. To put it simply, I think it gave words to my natural inclinations with Jesus over the years. To put it more complexly, it swelled me with excitement to believe this time I spend with God (which often feels selfish or wasteful) is actually a kind, common, and compassionate way to love the world through Him.

I’ve never known how to describe my “contemplative” time, or even why I was doing it in the first place. I’m not moving physically, but I feel active. I’m not reading studiously, but I am learning. To me, being at home with God often starts with noticing and being. Becoming aware of his posture toward me, and noticing my feelings toward him. Even in my prayer life, I don’t naturally lean toward speaking first. I like to listen and learn first. Eventually, perhaps I’ll pray for myself or pull out my list of peoples’ prayer requests. But often, I enjoy so much the experience of simply being with God. It feels creative. And connective. There is so much happening beneath the surface, but even as a writer, rarely do I begin with my own words.

I love how the desert fathers and mothers framed it — that this practice feels “athletic.” Not in the physical sense, of course, but I’ve always thought it brave to enter into a room with just me and God. Nothing to do. Nothing to distract. Here, there will be a lot to face. And here, there will be things certainly brought to the surface.

Holt says “spirituality is about being,” and I couldn’t agree more. While I am in awe of my brothers and sisters who dance and shout and serve and picket, I have always felt at home somewhere in the stillness and wonder of God. Being at home with God means simply being with him. And it’s here I am transformed.

As you think through modern-Christianity, what is the state of solitude and quiet in the church? Are we good at it? Why? Why not? What cultural forces shape this?

In today’s age, I think there are two cultural categories in following Christ: the first is corporate worship, and the other “quiet time.” Obviously, structured gatherings on Sunday or Saturday mornings leave little, if any, room for silence and solitude. By nature, they are meant to be shared, and where this is shared space in this culture, there is usually noise.

On the other hand, I do see “quiet times” encouraged more in the last decade or two than years past. In some ways, I think this is a healthy and helpful pendulum swing the other way, yet I still think it comes up short. At least in my own experience, I’ve found that “quiet time” usually means sifting through guided studies or structured prayer times. Perhaps it's a guided checklist or structured schedule. It seems less common that one might just sit before God with no agenda or outcome needed.

That being said, the study Dr. Swoboda posted (where people would rather be in physical pain than be alone with their thoughts) actually made me laugh out loud. Because it's true! Most of my friends and family — even very thoughtful ones — have a difficult time being alone with their thoughts. Whether it’s mental health or screen addictions or a dizzying amount of busy thoughts, silence doesn’t seem like something people instinctually go for.

However, I do believe we crave it, even if we cut it out. I think of the influx in practices like yoga, solo trips, and even those Calm meditation apps, and I think people want to want it. Perhaps they don't know how. My imagination is that somehow, people need a safety and structure to begin, and perhaps practices like learning to sit with our friend Jesus would be a great start on that path.

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My friend asked me the question this week, after telling him (what I thought) was a humorous narrative about unraveling my new rug under my bed, running back and forth and back and forth until I probably-but-not-so-sure pulled a back muscle in the process. “But I did it!” I said, punctuating the story, feeling triumphant in my individualism and fortitude. What’s a good ole rug story without a pulled back muscle, anyway?

“I mean, good job,“ he acknowledged. “But next time, just call me. I would’ve been happy to help.”

It makes me laugh and cringe a little, because he’s right. It’s a good reminder that individualism isn’t the ideal (nor is throwing out my back just for the sake of the story). It’s one of the many the lessons I’m learning as a single person living alone.

I’ve lived with roommates for ten years. Technically, I lived alone when I was 18, but my “dorm” room was more like a closet, with shared bathrooms and neighbors and noisy halls. So this is the first time I’m really, truly living alone. With my own fridge. And my own balcony. And my own HOA dues to pay.

When I bought this property, I was more preoccupied with seller’s disclosures and plumbing scares to really think about what would happen next. If you’ve ever moved, you know there are a million things to do with a million tasks on each list. So up until now, my mind was (mainly) on moving day. I didn’t think as much about the aftermath.

That being said, I’m learning there’s a lot of aftermath to be had. There’s no shortage of Marshall’s trips, IKEA runs, and what feels like a revolving door of servicemen coming in and out to fix the pipes. No! The plumbing. No, this time, to mount the TV.

I don’t mean to complain. I’ve been long told these are the joys of homeownership, and in actuality, it feels good to get to steward this little patch of Earth. However, it does mean there’s a lot of ground to grow and a lot of soil to till. What I’m learning is there’s no shortage of projects of be done. But neither is there a shortage of hands willing to help.

I suppose I know this in theory. If you’ve known me for any longer than five minutes, you probably know how deeply I care for and consciously root myself in community. When I think of a “rich” life, it’s one surrounded by friends and family from of all walks of life for the long haul. I feel strongly about committing to and deeply convicted that we all need embodied communities.

Even still, it’s hard sometimes to be on the receiving end of its beauty. It’s risky. It’s vulnerable. If you throw a need into the mix, you wonder if the foundations are as strong as you faithfully believed. Everyone loves the idea of a village until it’s their turn to receive its mercy. At least, that’s the lesson I’m trying to unlearn.

The registry is a great example, for instance. Last week I wrote and posted a piece about moving and mourning. I made a small mention of a home registry I built for myself. I figured since I haven’t been married or had kids by this point, it might be worth asking for a few people to pitch in with the financial transition.

Supposing maybe one or two people would want to chip in, I didn’t think much of it. But over the last few weeks, I’ve been blown away by the generosity displayed by friends and family from all across the country. Friends I haven’t seen in months and friends I haven’t caught up with in years went out of their way to get the link. Without hesitating, they offered their warmth (and wallets) to make this place feel more homey, making my needs feel welcomed; not too big or too much.

It feels tacky to write about gifts I’ve been given, trust me. But I feel compelled to point out what it feels like to be on the receiving end of of such generosity. Not begrudgingly. Not transactionally. But with willing hearts and open hands. I’m reminded of this day after day with each new Amazon package at my door. It may not seem like much, but the truth is tangible. I’m surrounded by the willing love of my little village.

It’s hard to properly illustrate the stories single people believe, or the questions we commonly ask: Will I be okay? Will this life be a full one? Am I allowed to ask for help? And will my community really show up?

It’s through blurry vision that I get to share I’ve not felt alone one single day since I’ve moved. I’m sure I will have my lonely days — those with husbands and children will inevitably feel it, too. But I’ve been blown away by the sheer amount of people who’ve gone out of their way to make me feel seen, assured, and assisted.

“Can I help you move?”

“Do you like this lamp for your living room?”

“Do you need help unpacking?”

“Can I come over and offer you a second pair of hands?”

I don’t say this shame anyone into (or out of) their stewardship. I don’t even feel all-the-way comfortable sharing my own insecurities when it comes to what I believe (or wish I could) about marriage, money, or community.

But I do want to celebrate what community looks like when you allow yourself to receive it. How humbling. How heartening. How encouraging when you realize people want to show up when you let them. It just starts by extending the offer.

I’m sure this is a lesson I will be learning for most of my life. It’s not like two weeks of willpower can knock the American individualism out of me, and even as I type this, I can think of a dozen more projects around the house I’m assuming I can do alone.

But with that, I think I’ve got a big, beautiful lesson ahead of me: to let people help. To call the friend. To ask for assistance. To extend the invitations—to the grocery store, Home Depot, or a body double in the living room—even when they’re met with no’s or “not today’s.”

Because it’s important, I’m realizing, not to idealize the village, but to belong to it. Yes, this means doing my part: showing up to communal events and gathering around shared meals and being an embodied presence for other peoples’ celebrations.

But it also means receiving from the village, too. It means giving them a chance to cooperate with me, whether in celebration or contribution or simply by showing up. It means clueing them into my little patch of Earth — showing them where the seeds are and how to tend to the toil. It’s means developing that “rich” life over a lifetime, even if it’s slower or inefficient, because that ferment produces better fruit over time. It turns out, you have to put your (needy) foot first and the rest will follow.

But man, those are lofty goals. I’ll probably start with rugs first.

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I’ve moved a lot in my twenties, from college dorms to Disney college housing to home rentals and temporary rooms. I think I’ve counted eight moves over the last decade (give or take) and still, moving never gets easier. Well, aside from hiring movers — I’ll never not do that again.

At one point in my life, I thought I’d be a missionary. I romanticized the ability to live in far off places, unattached to places and people. I thought it was some sign of maturity to move on without mourning, without giving a second thought to some sort of change. And without sadness, no less! I could only imagine.

As I’ve moved around, I realized how far that is from my reality. It turns out I’m very attached to places, even when their times have come to pass. My therapist calls me a romantic, which means I see everything — people and places — as sacred. She reminds me this is a good thing, too, although I’m working to believe her. Yet her point rings true: if all things are sacred, of course homes will feel holy, too.

I’m coming to terms with all this as a sit and write in my new place. My back is sore from the numbers of boxes I’ve moved. My eyes are still a bit puffy from all the tears I’ve shed. Even though this move came at the perfect time, in a preferred city, into a near-perfect place, I can’t help but grieve when change happens. Not because it’s bad. But because there’s always grief in growth.

I’ve been thinking about moving for awhile, but back in December, I felt a real change coming down the pike. I felt a prompting to get curious (more like a calling than a command) and to go closer to that restlessness. So I got a realtor and a mortgage calculator. I crunched some numbers and followed Zillow closely. And with that combination of savings and some holy nudging, I was able to find in a spot that I can finally call my own. I lovingly call it The Treehouse, which though it’s still getting settled, already lives up to its name.

And yet, I’m sad. Annoyingly sad. Not because moving is the wrong decision or because transitions aren’t inevitable. But because change is still hard and homes are still holy, and I’m learning that regardless of my readiness of maturation, I still need a second to sit with it all.

I think of this change sort of like a repotting. If you garden or grow things at all, you know that there comes a time when a plant gets too big. The roots need room to spread out and the leaves need more space. So for the sake of the plant’s health, it eventually needs a bigger pot.

That’s what moving feels like to me. I loved my old apartment, truly. I loved its shag carpets and big, bright windows. I loved living in close community, through Covid and community groups and countless Chiefs parties. There has been fun. There have been fights. There has been so much sweet life filling the place. I know it’s just four walls at the end of the day, but to view it as a sacred season still feels like the right thing to do.

I realized, back in December, I was already starting to grieve. Below is some of my prayerful processing as I felt the grief in the midst of growth:

I think I’m grieving that I’m not 24 anymore. I’m not 24 in need of a soft place to land. I’m not 25 in desperate grief or in need of friends. I’m not 25 and beginning a relationship with a boy I thought would go somewhere, and deeply in need of friends and social circles to pick me up after that loss. I’m not 26 anymore and in need to prove myself. I’m not 27 and needing the cheap rent in order to travel. I’m not 28 and really settling into my friends and my community. And I’m only 29 for a few more days, realizing my life has split, but not in an unfortunate way; in a flourishing one.

This apartment gave me all the guts and roots I needed to stand on my own two feet. This apartment brought new beginnings and Covid quarantines. It brought a safe space for prayers and pity parties and pillows to cling to when boys broke my heart or broke their promises. This place left me with a pathway to all parts of the city. It dropped me near little parks I’ve loved and parking lots I practiced skateboarding in. It offered me walking paths on my good days and bad, summer days, and winter, and all the seasons in between.

It gave us watch parties and theme parties and sleepovers with friends and family, offering safe places for small groups or sisters to hide away or hammer away at the karaoke machine. We have been blessed with amenities like pools and workout rooms and chimneys and balconies (facing trees!). We (almost always) had enough parking for anybody who wanted to attend, enough bathrooms for people to share, enough space for all of us to grow privately among the public spaces, and enough width to cover our wants as well as needs.

But I also know I’ve grown. And bigger plants need bigger pots, I’ve heard. I feel I’m grown too large to share space with flowers who have also grown to wider widths. I am already feeling sentimental — sad to this apartment off someday. But I am also grateful for what You’ve done to assist in this little garden; this greenhouse 3B.

There are surely things I won’t miss about the apartment. I won’t miss the loud dryer that drove nuts. I won’t miss the small fridge they refused to replace. I especially won’t miss the dozen wasps and I had to catch and release in my own Christian apartment.

But I will miss my home for half of my twenties. I’ll miss coming home to hallway conversations with friends and the mismatched living room furniture. I’ll miss the walls that watched me go through heartbreak and the porch nights that helped me process my pain. I’ll miss the little patch of warm carpet in the winters (where we all took the occasional nap) and writing corners and coming home to gatherings that I had no part in planning, just appreciating their presence.

That’s just grief, I think, in all its godly feelings. Repotting isn’t without mess just as moving isn’t without mourning. There will be a both-and to all changes; a gratitude for what’s coming and a grief for what once was.

My grandfather always said “life is a series of changes,” and he’s right. Change is inevitable. But what we don’t always account for is the mess of muddled feelings that happen in the aftermath. I’m learning to be okay with that. To let those big feelings (like those big roots) breathe. It doesn’t mean change isn’t sad, but that life is sacred. We’re allowed to be affected by people and places that matter.

It’s easy to get distracted when there are a million things going on with a move, but on closing day, I felt the gentle reminder from God that He was, in fact, the one who first cared for my soul and soil. Finding this place wasn’t luck, in my opinion. Nor was it God’s way or the highway. Instead, it felt like an invitation to be repotted, if I wanted. A place for my leaves to stretch and my roots to grow.

I’m reminded that even now, amidst all the memories and mess of moving, there is still growth to come. I will not be the same person in another five years or ten or twenty. All growth takes time, and all grief will accompany it. Life is a series of changes, but that does not mean we are alone or unaffected by its nature. All we can do today is the same as every day: take root, stretch out, and see to life as change comes.

I’ll leave us both with this benediction: may way we be surprised by what’s sacred, and may we make room for what sprouts anew.