Life has a way of turning the lights out on our carefully mapped plans. Job loss, diagnosis, relationship breakdown, political upheaval - moments when the vessel we were counting on breaks apart. Abraham was called to leave the familiar empire for an unknown promise, trading sight for trust. Ash Wednesday reminds us we are dust - our carefully constructed plans are fragile. But this isn't cause for despair; it's invitation to discover that God's guidance doesn't require our vision. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is take the next right step without needing the whole staircase illuminated. Kate Bowler's wisdom rings true: "I can't see the plan, but I can see the next right thing." This week we explore how to move forward with trust when sight fails us, learning that God's call often leads us into uncertainty precisely because that's where faith becomes real.

Valentine's Day weekend arrives with its annual prescription for perfect romance: candlelit dinners, flawless relationships, love that looks like a greeting card. But what about the other 364 days? What about love that

In a world that promises the sacred only comes through special moments—retreats, worship services, spiritual highs—Brother Lawrence discovered something revolutionary: God is as present in the monastery kitchen as in the chapel. This 17th-century monk developed what he called "practicing the presence of God" while washing dishes and preparing meals, learning to find the divine in the most mundane tasks.

We live much of our lives in grocery stores of the soul—routine tasks, daily commutes, endless errands that feel anything but holy. But what if these aren't interruptions to the spiritual life but the very place where it happens? When we learn to pay attention, the grocery store becomes a cathedral: we notice the hands that grew our food, the systems that brought it to us, the abundance that surrounds us, the neighbors we encounter in every aisle.

This isn't about adding more spiritual practices to an already busy life; it's about discovering that presence itself transforms ordinary moments into encounters with God. Whether folding laundry, stuck in traffic, or yes, wandering the cereal aisle, we can learn Brother Lawrence's secret: that there is no moment too small, no task too mundane, no place too ordinary to practice the presence of the One who is with us always.

The goal isn't perfection but attention—learning to notice God's fingerprints on the everyday moments that make up most of our lives. In a culture that constantly pulls us toward the next thing, the practice of presence invites us to discover the sacred right where we are.

Generosity

Purpose

This is usually the week we abandon our resolution to read more books and just buy more books instead. But what if learning isn't about self-improvement projects or productivity hacks? Biblical wisdom celebrates the lifelong learner—not because knowledge makes us better people, but because curiosity is a spiritual discipline that keeps us growing in wisdom and wonder. Jesus himself grew in wisdom, always asking questions, always learning. The goal isn't to hack our learning but to let learning change us. There's a difference between information accumulation and transformation, between collecting knowledge and cultivating wisdom. In a world obsessed with optimization, we're invited into the slower work of wonder—learning from failure, staying teachable regardless of age, and discovering that our neighbors (especially those different from us) have wisdom we need. The beginner's mind isn't just humble; it's holy, opening us to the ongoing revelation of God in every conversation, every setback, every surprising moment of growth.

Start With Why

When God wanted to announce the birth of the Messiah, who got the invitation? Not the religious authorities or political leaders or wealthy elite. God went straight to the shepherds—the people considered too unclean for temple worship, too untrustworthy for legal testimony, too marginal to matter. Their inclusion wasn't an afterthought or an act of charity; it was a declaration that God's hospitality is scandalous, consistently choosing those whom human systems exclude. The shepherds' story reveals that God doesn't just work through the unexpected—God prefers the overlooked, the marginalized, the people who know most intimately what it means to need good news. As we prepare for Christmas, their story challenges us to examine our own guest lists and discover what radical welcome might look like in our lives and communities.