The Anxious Presence and the Gift of Peace and Being Called by Name
Over the past week, I was given the gift of retreat—time set apart with clergy who deeply value rest and renewal, learning in community, and shared fellowship. In that space, I was reminded of the simple and the profound: the gift of stillness, the presence of peace, and the sacredness of being called by name.
There is often an anxious presence in the rooms in which we find ourselves —unspoken, but palpable. It lingers in locked doors, hushed conversations, and in the spaces between our breaths. Anxiety lives in the future and is not bothered with the present moment – it narrows our vision, convincing us that what we most fear is all there is: uncertainty and a fragile hope.
The disciples knew this feeling well in the days following the crucifixion. Gathered behind closed doors, they were not simply grieving—they were living in the fear of the future and the unknown. Afraid of what had happened, afraid of what might come next, afraid that everything they had trusted had unraveled. And into that very room—thick with anxiety—appears Jesus Christ. And Jesus does not begin with correction or explanation – He begins with peace:
“Peace be with you.”
This is not a dismissal of the disciple’s fear, nor a command to calm down. It is a gift—a grounding presence that does not erase anxiety but meets it in the midst of it. The peace Jesus offers is not dependent on circumstances changing; it is rooted in his presence among them. The doors remain locked. The future is still uncertain. And yet, peace enters anyway.
This same pattern unfolds in the garden on the morning of the resurrection. Mary Magdalene stands weeping outside the tomb, her grief blinding her to what is right in front of her. She mistakes Jesus for the gardener. It is not until he speaks her name—“Mary”—that recognition breaks through and everything changes.
There is something profoundly intimate about being called by name. It cuts through confusion, grief, and the noise of our internal worlds. To be named is to be known, to be seen, to be reminded that we belong—not to our fear, but to something deeper.
In both encounters, we see a sacred rhythm: presence, peace, and personal calling. Jesus does not wait for anxiety to dissipate before showing up. Jesus enters into it, speaks peace into it, and then calls people by name—reminding them of who they are, even when they have forgotten (when we have forgotten).
Perhaps this is why the gift of retreat matters so deeply. To step away—even briefly—from the noise, expectations, and relentless pace of daily life is not an act of escape, but an act of return. Retreat creates space where anxious presence can be named rather than managed, where peace is not forced but received, and where community becomes a mirror for truth. In these sacred spaces, we are reminded that we are not alone. Others sit in the room too—holding their own questions and stories—and together, something holy unfolds.
We all carry anxious presence into rooms—into conversations, relationships, and even our own inner lives. And yet, the resurrection story reminds us: peace is not something we manufacture. It is something we receive – It is given.
In a world that reduces us to roles and expectations, this is the quiet miracle: that we are met in our anxious spaces and we called by name and reminded of a peace that exists well beyond our understanding.
Peace be with you my Friends!
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Palm Sunday: The Truth We Don’t Want to Hold
The past few years have disrupted our sense of self and what it means to live in community in ways I don’t think we’ve fully been able to name. There have been moments when days blurred together—What day is it? How long have we been doing this? Memories, moments and news cycles have felt like forever, and yet somehow also fleeting.
And then comes Holy Week. Palm Sunday, in particular, refuses to let us stay disoriented in a vague way. Instead, it disrupts us on purpose. It pulls us directly into the story—into a moment in time that is both ancient and immediate. It is wondrous, yes, but also deeply jarring.
Palm Sunday asks us to hold together what we would much rather keep separate. We begin with palms waving, cloaks spread on the road, voices crying out, Hosanna! It feels triumphant, hopeful, full of possibility. But before we can settle into that moment, the tone shifts, and suddenly we are standing in the crowd again—only now the cries have changed: Crucify him!
And if we’re honest, it’s not just the crowd that changes—it’s us.
Each year, this day confronts us with a truth we resist – The people who welcomed Jesus and the people who condemned him are not two different groups. They are the same people. Which means this story is not about them – It is about us.
There is a part of me that wants to look outward, to place the blame somewhere else. To find a scapegoat—someone or some group to carry the weight of what’s about to happen. History (and arguably, our present moment) shows us just how dangerous that impulse can be. And then, Palm Sunday interrupts that deflection – It whispers, Don’t look outward. Look within. And when I do, I don’t always like what I see.
I see my own inconsistency. My tendency to praise what is easy and abandon what is costly. I see the ways I participate in systems I claim to resist. I see how quickly I distance myself when things become uncomfortable or inconvenient. Like Pilate, I recognize the temptation to wash my hands and step away.
Palm Sunday holds up a mirror we cannot easily turn from. And yet, it does not leave us there. Before we enter fully into the Passion, we hear words that ground us—words that remind us who Jesus is. Because without that, the story of this week can feel chaotic, even incoherent.
Jesus is not simply a victim of human volatility. Jesus is the one who chooses the path of humility. The one who empties himself. The one who enters fully into the suffering of the world—not to condemn it, but to redeem it. Who Jesus is gives meaning to what Jesus does.
So we stand in the tension this day creates—between praise and betrayal, clarity and confusion, devotion and denial. We resist the urge to rush past it.
Because somewhere in that uneasy space, truth is waiting.
And grace is already on the move.
Blessings on the journey –
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Playing Pretend: Reframing the Everyday in these dry bones
There are days when life feels like a quiet performance. We show up, say the right things, move through the motions—smiling when expected, producing when necessary, holding it together just enough to be perceived as fine. It can feel like playing pretend in the most ordinary, exhausting ways.
There have admittedly been days (perhaps even years) in the past when I have played pretend. Simply showing up in a certain manner because I was expected to. And the reality is, I played pretend well – the job got done and I performed in the way that was expected of me that pleased others. The reality was – I played pretend in a landscape of dry bones. Some of the bones were mine and some were those of others – some were comfortably familiar to me while others remained foreign. Regardless, playing pretend in a field of dry bones is where I lived.
In Ezekiel 37:1–14, the prophet is carried by the Spirit into a valley filled with dry bones—bones that are not only lifeless but long removed from memory, from hope, from possibility. God asks Ezekiel a haunting question: “Can these bones live?” It’s a question that echoes into our own lives, especially in seasons when parts of us feel brittle, disconnected, or beyond repair. And if we are honest, we know what it’s like to stand in that valley. We know what it is to keep functioning while something inside us feels hollow and dried-up —going through the motions while wondering if the breath has quietly left the room.
There is a lesson in Ezekiel’s vision and one in which I have found myself reflecting on in the past few years. Scripture tells us that there is a rattling, and bones come together. Tendons and flesh appear. Breath enters. What once seemed impossibly lifeless becomes a living, breathing community. So, What is the lesson?
The lesson is simple: In our own lives, the Spirit moves in quiet, unseen ways. In the spaces where we feel most dried out—emotionally, spiritually, relationally—God is not absent. God is inviting participation. Speak life. Act as if renewal is still possible, even when you don’t believe it. This is the lesson.
So, if you find yourself going through the motions, playing pretend in a valley of dry bones, unsure if anything is shifting – take heart. The valley is not a dead end! Even here—especially here—life is still finding its way back into the bones.
Blessings to you on this journey –
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Living in the Light in a Complicated Season
There are seasons in history that simply feel simpler in hindsight. And then there are inherited seasons – layered with uncertainty, tension, grief, and competing truths about how the world seems to be. Many of us did not choose the conditions of this moment, yet we find ourselves feeling the weight and responsibility for how we will live within it.
Into this kind of complicated world, the words of the Apostle Paul in Ephesians 5:8–14 speak with surprising clarity: “For once you were darkness…Live as children of light. Paul does not deny that darkness exists – he names it plainly. The early Christian communities knew social division, political pressure, and moral confusion. Their world was no less complex than ours. Yet Paul reminds the people that the defining reality of their lives is not the darkness surrounding them but the light within them.
Light, in this passage, is not merely a private spiritual feeling rather, it is a way of living. Paul describes the fruit of light as all that is good and right and true. In other words, light becomes visible in the choices we make and the lives we shape.
In complicated seasons, it can be tempting to retreat into cynicism or exhaustion. When the problems feel inherited and overwhelming, the temptation is to believe that our small actions cannot possibly matter. But the witness of the gospel suggests otherwise. Light does not overwhelm darkness by force – it reveals what was hidden and makes a different way visible.
A single light in a dark room changes everything. It does not eliminate the shadows immediately, but it alters the atmosphere. Light allows people to see one another again. It creates the possibility of movement.
Paul also includes a striking phrase: Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. Exposure, in this sense, is not about condemnation for its own sake. It is about truth-telling. Light reveals injustice, cruelty, and indifference for the purpose to invite transformation.
For those seeking to live faithfully today, this may mean practicing quiet but persistent forms of courage—telling the truth when it would be easier to remain silent, choosing compassion in a culture that often seems to reward cruelty, and refusing to participate in systems that diminish the dignity of others.
Paul ends the passage with what many scholars believe was an early Christian hymn: Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you. The call is not simply to believe something new but to awaken—to become aware of the light already breaking into the world through Christ.
Perhaps that is the invitation for this complicated season we have inherited. We may not have chosen the world as it is, but we can choose how we will live within it. The work of the faithful is not to control history but to embody light wherever we stand. And sometimes, living in the light begins with something simple: refusing to let the darkness define who we become.
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Reflections on Purim Through a Lenten Lens
Lent is a season of stripping away—of illusion, certainty, and self-protection. It is a time when Christians sit honestly with vulnerability, mortality, and the long road toward the cross. And yet, in the midst of this solemn season, this week our Jewish neighbors celebrate Purim—a festival marked by costumes, laughter, noisemakers, and joy.
At first glance, Purim and Lent seem worlds apart.
Purim, which is celebrated this year on March 2nd, is rooted in the Book of Book of Esther, and tells the story of survival in exile. The Jewish people face annihilation under a royal decree, and deliverance comes through the courage of Esther, who risks her life to speak truth to power. The remarkable feature of Esther’s story is that God’s name is never mentioned. There are no burning bushes. No parted seas. No voice from heaven. And similar to times and seasons in our lives, in this country, and on the world stage, God seems hidden.
Lent, too, is a season when God can feel hidden.
We walk through wilderness texts. We sit with temptation, betrayal, and suffering. We pray prayers that sometimes feel like they disappear into silence. The cross looms ahead. Like Esther in the Persian court, we often find ourselves navigating systems of power and uncertainty without dramatic divine intervention – Where are you God?
Through a Lenten lens, Purim offers profound spiritual wisdom.
First, this season grounds us and reminds us that hiddenness does not mean absence. Just because God is not named does not mean God is not present. In Esther’s story, providence works through timing, courage, relationships, and human agency. Deliverance unfolds not through spectacle, but through brave choices made in complicated circumstances – Do we hear this day what scripture is telling us?
Today, we are reminded through scripture and this Holist of Seasons, that there is courage shown constrained spaces. Esther does not choose her position; she finds herself there – “For such a time as this,” as her cousin Mordecai tells her. Lent invites us to consider the same possibility: that our particular moment—however uncomfortable—may be holy ground for faithful action. We may not control the systems we inhabit, but we can choose how we respond within them.
And let us not forget that Purim ends in joy! What was meant for destruction becomes celebration and yes, in the darkest of times we are allowed joy. Sorrow turns to feasting. Lent, too, moves toward reversal. The cross gives way to resurrection. Grief does not get the last word.
Through a Lenten lens, Purim becomes a quiet companion in the wilderness—a reminder that even when God feels hidden, courage matters, faithfulness counts, and unseen grace is at work. What is scripture telling us this day, in this time, in this moment?
In seasons of uncertainty, we are not abandoned.
We are invited.
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FindiFinding Ourselves in the Wildernessng Ourselves in the Wilderness
Reflections on Matthew 4:1–11
Lent begins, not with certainty, but with wilderness.
Before Jesus teaches, heals, or gathers disciples, Matthew tells us that he is “led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted.” This detail matters. The wilderness is not an accident or a punishment. It is not a detour from God’s purposes. It is the place the Spirit leads him.
Which raises an important question for us during Lent: What is the wilderness, anyway?
We tend to imagine the wilderness as a barren, empty place—a season we rush through or try to avoid. Yet in Scripture, the wilderness is rarely empty. It is full of testing, clarity, introspection, vulnerability, and encounter. Israel wandered there for forty years. Elijah fled there in despair. John the Baptist preached there. And now Jesus stands there, hungry, alone, and face-to-face with temptation.
The wilderness is where illusions fall away.
In Matthew 4, Jesus is tempted not with obviously evil things, but with shortcuts—easy power, quick fixes, visible success. Turn stones to bread. Prove yourself. Take control. Each temptation asks the same underlying question: Will you trust God, or will you grasp for certainty and control on your own terms?
The wilderness exposes what we rely on when comfort, approval, and certainty are stripped away.
That is why Lent so often feels uncomfortable. We give things up not because they are bad, but because they reveal how quickly we use them to numb, distract, or define ourselves. Silence can feel loud. Fasting can feel vulnerable. Slowing down can surface truths we’ve been avoiding.
The wilderness does not create our struggles—it reveals them. And yet, the wilderness is also where identity is clarified.
Jesus enters the wilderness immediately after his baptism, after hearing the words, “This is my beloved Son.” The temptations that follow all try to undermine that identity: If you are the Son of God… Jesus does not argue. He does not prove himself. He rests in who he already is.
Perhaps that is the invitation of Lent—not to become someone new, but to remember who we are beneath the noise.
For many of us, the wilderness shows up as uncertainty, grief, transition, or exhaustion. It may feel lonely or disorienting. But Scripture reminds us that wilderness seasons are not wasted seasons – They are formative ones.
Lent invites us to stop resisting the wilderness and instead ask: What is being revealed here? What is being stripped away? What truth is waiting to be named?
We do not enter the wilderness alone. The same Spirit who led Jesus there also sustained him. And on the other side of the wilderness, Jesus emerges not diminished, but grounded—clear in purpose, rooted in truth, ready for what comes next.
This Lent, may we trust that the wilderness is not where we are lost—but where we are found.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Kelly
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At the Well: Resisting the Culture of Othering
A Lenten Reflection on John 4:5–42
This week’s Lenten Gospel lesson found in John 4:5–42 in a stark reminder that scripture continues to speak to us in these modern times. Jesus, weary from travel, sits beside a well in Samaria and asks a Samaritan woman for a drink of water. It is a brief interaction, but it breaks through several deeply entrenched cultural barriers.
Keep in mind, Jews and Samaritans carried centuries of hostility toward one another. Religious and ethnic divisions ran deep. Social customs discouraged men from speaking publicly with women they did not know. Yet Jesus does something quietly radical—he speaks to her. He engages her in conversation. He treats her not as a category or a stereotype, but as a person.
In many ways, the world we inhabit today is not so different. Our culture increasingly thrives on division. Political rhetoric, media algorithms, and social media platforms often reward outrage more than understanding. People are quickly sorted into categories—liberal or conservative, insider or outsider, believer or skeptic, citizen or immigrant. Once labeled, it becomes easy to dismiss, mock, or ignore those who fall outside our perceived circle.
This is what scholars often call Othering. It is the habit of defining people primarily by the ways they are different from us. Othering reduces complex human beings into simplified identities, making it easier to maintain distance and justify exclusion.
But the encounter at the well shows us another way.
Jesus does not approach the Samaritan woman with suspicion or superiority. Instead, he begins with a simple act of vulnerability: “Give me a drink.” In doing so, Jesus acknowledges their shared humanity. The conversation that follows becomes a space of honesty, curiosity, and transformation. By the end of the story, the woman becomes a messenger to her own community, inviting others to come and see the one who met her without judgment.
In a culture shaped by othering, following Jesus means becoming intentionally counter-cultural. This following may look like choosing curiosity over assumption when we encounter someone with different beliefs or way of being. It may mean refusing to participate in conversations that dehumanize entire groups of people. It may mean listening more deeply to the stories behind people’s lives rather than relying on dehumanizing labels or rhetoric.
This does not require abandoning conviction or pretending differences do not exist. Instead, it calls us to hold those differences within a larger commitment to dignity, respect, and compassion.
The well in Samaria reminds us that transformation often begins with the smallest gestures: a cup of water, a curious question, a meaningful conversation, and an openness to see another person as fully human.
In a time when culture often encourages us to draw sharper lines between “us” and “them,” discipleship may look like something surprisingly simple—sitting down at the well, crossing the line, and recognizing that the living water of grace is meant for everyone.
Blessings on this journey
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Ash Wednesday: The Courage to Look Within
Today’s reflection arrives at a meaningful threshold. Today marks the 100th Chrysalis Constant Contact posting—a quiet milestone that mirrors the spirit of the upcoming Advent season itself. One hundred offerings of reflection, invitation, and presence. Not to impress. Not to accumulate. But to create space—again and again—for honesty, healing, and holy reflection. Like Lent, Chrysalis has never been about having all the answers, but about returning to the inner work that forms us over time.
Ash Wednesday arrives quietly, marked not by fanfare but by ashes—dust traced on foreheads, ancient words whispered: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” It is a day that invites honesty. Not performance. Not productivity. Honesty.
In Matthew 6, Jesus speaks directly to the temptation to perform our faith for others. He names the subtle ways we seek validation—through generosity that is noticed, prayers that impress, fasting that draws admiration. Again and again, Jesus says: go inward. Pray in secret. Give quietly. Fast without display. Not because these practices are unimportant, but because their power is lost when they become masks.
Ash Wednesday echoes that call. The ashes remind us that beneath every role we play—leader, caregiver, achiever, helper—we are human. Finite. Vulnerable. In mental health language, this is a day that gently disrupts our coping strategies of perfectionism, people-pleasing, and emotional over-functioning. It asks: Who are you when no one is watching? How are you really doing?
Jesus’ invitation to secret practices is not about isolation – it is about integrity. It is about creating space where our inner life can tell the truth. For many of us, especially those accustomed to caring for others, the inner world is often ignored until it demands attention through exhaustion, anxiety, or numbness. Lent begins not with self-improvement but with self-awareness.
When Jesus says, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also,” he is not issuing a moral threat but offering a diagnostic tool. Our treasure is what we cling to when we feel afraid or depleted. Ash Wednesday invites us to notice what we have been storing up as emotional insurance, and whether it is actually sustaining us.
The ashes do not shame us. They free us. They tell the truth without condemnation – you are limited, and you are loved. You do not have to prove your worth. You do not have to carry everything alone. Lent is not about adding more spiritual tasks; it is about releasing what no longer gives life.
This season begins with a pause, a deep breath, and a willingness to look inward with compassion. In that quiet place, Jesus meets us not with demands, but with grace enough for the journey.
Blessings,
Kelly
Life Is Not Always What We Planned…
Life is not always what we plan – this is a mantra and life wisdom which has proven to be true in my life again and again! In fact, more often than not, the carefully drawn maps we create for our lives are disrupted—by detours we didn’t anticipate, losses we didn’t choose, or invitations we never imagined accepting. From an early age, many of us are taught to equate success with control: set the goal, follow the steps, arrive on time. Yet lived experience tells a more honest and tender story. Life is rarely linear. And sometimes—often, even—it turns out better.
Better doesn’t mean easier. It doesn’t mean pain-free or without disappointment. Better means deeper. It means more expansive, more honest, and more aligned with who we are becoming rather than who we thought we had to be. The plans we make are usually shaped by limited information: what we know at the time, what we’ve been told to value, what feels safe or expected. But growth requires us to outgrow those early frameworks. When plans unravel, something else is given space to emerge—wisdom, resilience, compassion, and a clearer sense of purpose.
Many of the most meaningful moments in life arrive unannounced. A career path changes after an incident or situation forces us to listen to our bodies (I know this one well!). A relationship ends, opening room for healing and ultimately healthier love. A diagnosis reframes what truly matters. A loss cracks us open, and in the breaking, our capacity for empathy expands. These moments are rarely welcomed at first. They can feel like failure, disruption, or even betrayal of the life we were supposed to have. Yet, over time, they often reveal themselves as turning points—thresholds into a more authentic way of living.
There is a spiritual wisdom spoken here. Faith traditions remind us that we are not the sole authors of our stories. There is mystery at work—what some call grace, others call providence, or simply the unfolding of life itself. Letting go of rigid plans is not a sign of weakness – it is an act of trust. Trust that we are being shaped, not just tested. Trust that meaning can be made even from what we did not choose.
Psychologically, this reframing matters. When we cling too tightly to a single version of how life should look, we risk missing the life that is actually happening. Flexibility, curiosity, and self-compassion allow us to adapt and to find goodness even in uncertainty. Research on post-traumatic growth reminds us that while adversity can wound us, it can also strengthen our sense of self, deepen relationships, and clarify values. Not because suffering is good—but because humans are remarkably capable of growth.
Life is not always what we plan – And thank God for that! Some of the best gifts come disguised as interruptions. Some of the most faithful steps forward are taken only after the old path disappears. When we look back, we may realize that the life we’re living now—shaped by detours and surprises—is richer, more honest, and more meaningful than the one we originally imagined. Sometimes, better doesn’t look like the plan – It looks like grace.
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When Plans Change
Most of us are planners—whether we admit it or not. We sketch out timelines, set intentions, imagine how the story will unfold. Even when we hold those plans lightly, they give us a sense of direction, control, and hope. Plans tell us who we think we are and where we believe we are headed.
And then… plans change.
Sometimes the shift is dramatic and sudden—a diagnosis, a loss, a call we never expected, a door that closes without warning. Other times, the change is quieter: a slow realization that what once fit no longer does, that the path we’re on is misaligned, or that the dream we were chasing has gently but firmly evolved.
The week of January 25th, I had a plan. I was scheduled to leave Albuquerque early Wednesday morning to attend a conference where I would be speaking about clergy mental health and the work of Chrysalis. I was excited, prepared, and packed. And then plans changed. The day before my departure, I had a diagnostic mammogram that indicated an issue. Instead of getting on a plane Wednesday morning, I had a biopsy. By Friday, I received the results: an intraductal papilloma—a noncancerous tumor. While surgery is still ahead to have it removed, the news itself brought relief. Enough relief, in fact, that I took myself out for a celebratory coffee and a cookie!
When plans change, it can feel deeply disorienting. In these moments, our instinct is often to rush toward resolution: What’s next? How do I fix this? How do I get back on track? But perhaps the invitation is not to rush, but to pause. To sit with the discomfort. To acknowledge the disappointment, the fear, the anger—or even the unexpected relief—that can surface when plans fall apart.
Scripture is full of people whose lives did not unfold according to plan. Moses did not plan to lead a people through the wilderness. Ruth did not plan to leave her homeland. Peter did not plan to deny Jesus—or to become the rock on which the church would be built. Again and again, God seems to work not through perfectly executed plans, but through open hearts willing to respond when plans change.
There is a difference between having no direction and being open to redirection. When plans change, we are often invited to loosen our grip—on certainty, on control, on the belief that we know exactly how the story should go. With time and perspective, many of us can look back and see that the unplanned detours shaped us in ways our original plans never could. They expanded our compassion, clarified our values, and deepened our trust—not because the disruption was easy, but because we stayed present to it.
When plans change, it doesn’t mean we have failed. It may mean we are being formed. The question is not whether our plans will change—they will—but whether we can remain open, curious, and grounded when they do. Sometimes the truest path forward only becomes visible after the map we were following no longer applies. And sometimes, grace meets us not at our intended destination, but in the quiet pause—coffee and cookie in hand—where we realize we are still held, still guided, and still very much on the journey.
Blessings to you in the unplanned…
Kelly
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