Month: May 2026

Liturgical Dance—NOT for me!

There are many things in life I am willing to try spontaneously and without much hesitation. But if you had asked me to make a list of activities I would never participate in, creative movement or liturgical dance would have been near the top.

Never.

So when the Gathering small-group descriptions came out, I read the following invitation, and I was surprised that I paused.

Praise in Motion
Leader: Carin
Kids welcome!

What if, within our church, we viewed dance as another form of communicating praise and worship to God? If you have an interest in joining a group of diverse members in giving this a try at Eastern, this is the group for you. Young and not-so-young are invited to gather together to create a unique non-spoken expression of worship. The song we will be using is “Where Can I Go?” by Ellie Holcomb — the lyrics lend themselves to beautiful and gentle movements.

Why did I pause when I already “knew” I would never do something like this?

Perhaps it is because I so deeply admire how Carin moves through the world with gentleness, authenticity, and courage.

Perhaps it is because Molly, Pearl, and Sam have become some of my heroes in living authentically, and the invitation to experience something alongside them felt safe and kind.

Perhaps it is because Eastern has become a space where trying something new does not feel performative or pressured, but simply welcomed.

Or perhaps it is because somewhere along the way, I have begun to believe that worship involves more than words alone.

Carin chose a song connected to Psalm 139 because movement helps her children engage more deeply with the passage. Memorization can be difficult for them, but pairing motion with the words opened a pathway for learning, connection, and expression.

And honestly, there is something profoundly beautiful about that.

Psalm 139 is not simply something to be understood intellectually. It is something to be experienced in the body and soul:

Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Where can I flee from Your presence?

Perhaps movement helps us remember what our minds sometimes struggle to hold — that we are fully known, fully seen, and never abandoned by God.

And perhaps worship is not about getting the motions “right,” but about being willing to respond to the invitation and enter in!

Where can I go?

It takes a village—to live a life

The phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” has always felt true to me. Children flourish when surrounded by people who nurture, guide, protect, encourage, and simply remain present.

But the older I get, the more convinced I become that the saying is incomplete.

It does not only take a village to raise a child.
It takes a village to live a life.

And perhaps what I really mean by village is community.

One of the more difficult questions I find myself wrestling with at this stage of life is surprisingly simple:
Who is my village/community?

Not who do I know.
Not who knows me casually.
But who walks with me closely enough to help carry life when it becomes difficult? And whose burdens am I willing to help carry in return?

I think our culture often measures community in numbers. How many friends. How many followers. How many invitations. How many people fill the room.

But I am learning that the health and depth of a village is rarely about quantity.

It is about how we show up for one another.

And honestly, I think I learned that first from my Dad.

This was written by my sister and shared at his funeral

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He taught us:
Show up.

Show up to church when your community gathers to worship.
Show up for your friends when hard things happen.
Show up for your family when they perform in a concert, play in a game, celebrate a milestone, or lock their keys in their car again.

He loved solving problems.

And if someone he cared about was stirring the pot for a just cause, he would grab a spoon, show up, and stir that pot right alongside them.

He was with us—and I dare say with many of you too—in real and tangible ways when we needed someone exactly like him to show up.

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The older I get, the more I realize community is often less about grand gestures and more about faithful presence.


The people who text when they know something heavy is sitting on your heart.
The people who stay through grief instead of disappearing in discomfort.
The people who celebrate goodness without envy and sit beside pain without needing to fix it.

And perhaps community is not simply about finding people who will show up for us.

Perhaps it is equally about becoming the kind of people who show up for others.

Because true community asks something of us.
It asks for vulnerability.
Consistency.
Time.
Patience.
Forgiveness.

Yet when we experience it—even imperfectly—it becomes one of the clearest expressions of grace we encounter in ordinary life.

Maybe that is because we were never meant to carry life alone.

Not as children.
Not as parents.
Not as aging adults.
Not in seasons of joy.
Not in grief.
Not in uncertainty.

It takes a village to raise a child.

But even more than that—

It takes a village to live a life.

For Such a Time as This

There is a mystery to living life—both on the best of days and on the days that feel deeply difficult. That mystery draws me into curiosity, asking why I have been the recipient of such deep love, abundant grace, unwavering support, and unexpected peace.

These questions rarely come with answers. Instead, they linger quietly, inviting my heart to reflect and wonder.

And often, I land on a recurring thought—one that begins in my mind and settles deeply into my heart:

For such a time as this.

The questions on harder days are not filled with the same goodness. They are often more complicated, shaped by thoughts that do not feel nearly as hopeful:

Why is life so complicated?
Where am I supposed to find peace in these spaces?
Why can’t I stay on track with the goals I long to accomplish?
How do I dismantle the thoughts that stand in the way of goodness?

And yet, when I begin to unpack even these difficult questions, the answer somehow remains the same:

For such a time as this.

Sometimes this phrase becomes a statement of trust—a reminder that I am deeply loved and held by a radical Savior who knows and understands these moments far better than I ever will. And so, for such a time as this, I am held, loved, and cared for.

Sometimes “for such a time as this” becomes a statement of assurance—that the goodness I am experiencing is real, trustworthy, and full of promise.

But always, “for such a time as this” becomes a statement of comfort. It reminds me that this very moment is not accidental. It reminds me that I am called to a life of continual growing and changing, and that if I simply keep taking one step at a time, all will be well.

Not easy.
Not always clear.
And likely not what I anticipated.

But still, for such a time as this, all will be well.

Mother’s Day as a single woman

I am a single 56-year-old woman who has never birthed children. Mother’s Day could feel like a sad day for me.

But it doesn’t.

Somewhere along the journey of my heart, I learned that caring for, nurturing, and loving children is not only the privilege of those who gave birth to them.

I am grateful for a family and community that have supported my life as a single woman. I am surrounded by people who love me well. I have siblings who love and support me, and I have had the great joy of loving and supporting their children — and now their children’s children.

But really, it began before that.

I grew up in a family where marriage was celebrated, but not expected. I am deeply grateful that my family embraced single living as well as marriage. I never felt that marriage brought more worth or value to my life.

That does not mean I did not long to be married or have a family of my own. But it does mean I have been able to live with peace in the life that is mine.

So many life events seem to take shape around marriage and children — wedding showers, weddings, anniversaries, school events, graduations, births, birthdays.

And then, of course, there is Mother’s Day.

In my family, I have been celebrated right alongside my mom and my sisters who are mothers. I have learned that nurturing and loving children — whether biological, chosen, borrowed, or beloved — is a celebration of the way lives are shaped by the tender heart of a woman.

As a child, I remember reading the book Are You My Mother?

Although the story is about a little hatchling searching for its mother, the question has stayed with me in a different way. Perhaps we are invited to offer one another glimpses of that kind of love — love that protects, nurtures, notices, teaches, and stays.

I am who I am because of my mother’s love. And I am also who I am because of the many women who have poured into my life.

I may not have biological children, but I have chosen to pour myself into others. I have nurtured and loved with my whole being. As Mother’s Day approaches, I can see so many faces of children I have loved. Here are a few, but there are so many more I hold close to my heart and in my prayers!

The question, Are you my mother?, has become part of my story. Not because I need the title, but because I know the call: to love those around me with purpose, passion, and commitment.

This Mother’s Day, I hope you are able to love and be loved.

If you have children, may you be at peace and be blessed by those around you.

If you do not have children, may you be embraced and blessed.

If you have lost children, may you experience comfort and be blessed.

And if you long for children, but do not know if the desires of your heart will be honored, may you hold hope and be blessed.

Listening to Hesitation…

On Sunday, I felt the Spirit speak through music. As I sat with it later, I knew it was something I didn’t want to rush past. It felt like a message meant to stay with me.

This morning, I woke up wondering: Where will I hear the Spirit today?

Today, I heard it in my hesitation.

I was at the car wash, taking advantage of what felt like an early spring day. I decided to vacuum out my car, taking a little extra time. As I worked, a car pulled up next to me. I glanced over—and then looked again.

The driver, an older woman, was carefully navigating a walker.

I felt the immediate nudge to step in and help. But just as quickly, hesitation followed. I wondered if I was misreading the situation. Maybe the walker belonged to someone else. Maybe I would be interrupting. Maybe I would get it wrong.

So I stayed where I was.

I went back to focusing on the crumbs under the car seat, but I couldn’t quite shake what I had seen. When I looked again, she was clearly making her way toward the vacuum which seemed positioned just slightly higher than seemed comfortable to reach.

We made eye contact.

She smiled and nodded, as if to say, “I’m okay.”

I smiled back and gave a small wave. I put my vacuum away, still feeling the quiet tension within me—the desire to help, and the equal desire to respect her independence.

As I pulled forward toward the wash line, I noticed she was pulling hard against the suction of the vacuum hose.

I paused and watched as she worked through it. When the hose finally released, there was a small but real sense of victory.

She turned toward me. Our eyes met again.

I rolled down my window and said, “Way to go—that is some serious suction.”

She laughed. “I won.”

“You sure did,” I said.

“God bless you,” she replied.

“And may He bless you with abundance,” I answered.

And that was it—a moment, a smile, a blessing exchanged between two people who would likely never meet again.

As I drove through the car wash, I found myself wondering why I had hesitated. Why I hadn’t stepped in more directly. Why I didn’t offer help in a clearer way.

But then I realized something.

The Spirit wasn’t only in the action I considered—it was in the hesitation itself.

In the pause.

In the noticing.

In the shared humanity that didn’t require fixing, only presence.

There was hesitation in me to offer, and perhaps hesitation in her to receive. And yet, in that space, something still happened. Something good. Something meaningful.

I was reminded of the goodness of others. The quiet strength people carry. The importance of slowing down long enough to truly see one another.

I can imagine how I might respond differently next time. But I also carry this with me:

Sometimes the Spirit speaks not in what we do, but in how we pause long enough to listen.

And for that, I am grateful.

Where have you felt hesitation—and what might it be trying to teach you?

When music speaks

I’ve often wondered what would draw me back to writing.
I miss the rhythm of it—and yet I haven’t returned.

This morning in church, I sensed it clearly:
it’s time.

May has become a month of remembering for me.

May 8, 2015
My Aunt Anita died.

We spent a lot of time together. She was matter-of-fact yet kind—stoic, loyal, and deeply devoted to family.

May 18, 2017
My Aunt Follie died.

We made regular trips to Canada to visit her. She kept her strength in spirit, even as Parkinson’s took it from her body.

Aunt Dot, Aunt Follie and my Mom and I

May 21, 2018
My dad died after a seven-week illness.

His death changed my life. And yet, who I am today has been deeply shaped by him—and by my mom.
I will always carry him in my heart.

Nick, Ryan and my Mom and Dad

May 10, 2023
My Uncle Bob died.

He was married to Aunt Anita. They didn’t have children together, but he became someone I spoke with daily—just to make sure he was okay.
Aunt Anita had asked me to look out for him—and I did.
That relationship changed me for good.

Uncle Bob, my Mom, Aunt Wilma, Aunt Dot and Uncle Adrian

May 25, 2025
My Aunt Dot died.

We did so much of life together. She was not only my aunt, but also my neighbor and dear friend.
We traveled. We shared meals, stories, laughter, and heartache.
But most of all, we shared family.

Jonna, Andy, Trish, Mom, Aunt Dot, Arlene, Suzi, Nick and Dan

May is also the month we always celebrated Hermie—our dear, dear friend who became family.

We celebrated her life through her 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and all the way to 98.
Last year, on her birthday (May 30), she moved to Trillium Woods and began the final stage of releasing her grip on this world.

Johanna, Aunt Dot and Hermie (Grandma B)

This morning in Church we sang Softly and Tenderly

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling for you and for me
See on the portals He’s waiting and watching
Watching for you and for me

Come home, come home
All who are weary come home
Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling, “O sinner come home”

O for the wonderful love He has promised
Promised for you and for me
Though we have sinned He has mercy and pardon
Pardon for you and for me

This song brought every face back to my heart this morning. The following video is why…it was a beautiful moment as Hermie was transitioning from this world to the one we all long for. We will all be called someday to come home…Jesus will call your name—“Come home.”

Grace and peace, ❤️ Trish