The Bags We Carry and the Seasons of Our Lives: What Luggage Fits Us Now?
Not long ago, while waiting in an airport, I found myself observing the parade of travelers moving through the terminal. Some carried only a small backpack slung over one shoulder. Others pushed oversized suitcases that seemed to require as much effort as the journey itself. There were business travelers with sleek roller bags, families juggling strollers and duffel bags, and weary passengers dragging luggage that looked as though it had traveled around the world more than once.
As I watched, I began to wonder: if our lives were measured by the luggage we carry, what would ours look like?
Life unfolds in seasons, and each season seems to require different luggage – shapes, sizes, colors, and styles. There are times when we travel light. In youth, we often carry little more than dreams, possibilities, and a willingness to venture into the unknown. These bags may be small, but they are filled with hope and anticipation.
Then come seasons of responsibility. Careers, families, ministries, caregiving, and commitments begin to fill our suitcases. We add calendars, obligations, expectations, and the weight of caring for others. The luggage becomes larger, heavier, and sometimes difficult to manage. We convince ourselves that every item is necessary and that we cannot leave anything behind.
There are also seasons marked by grief, disappointment, and loss. These experiences often place unexpected items into our bags—heartbreak, unanswered questions, regrets, and memories. Some of these things we need to carry for a time. They help shape us, teach us, and remind us of what matters most. Yet if we are not careful, we can continue hauling baggage that no longer serves us long after the season has passed.
One of the gifts of growing older is learning to discern what belongs in our luggage and what does not. We begin to ask important questions. Does this resentment still need a place in my suitcase? Must I continue carrying guilt from years ago? Is this expectation, this obligation, this fear still mine to bear?
The truth is that luggage should suit the journey.
A weekend trip does not require everything we own. Neither does the next season of life. Sometimes wisdom is found not in adding more but in letting go. We discover that traveling lighter creates room for gratitude, joy, rest, and new experiences. It allows us to move more freely with joy, hope, excitement, and anticipation toward what lies ahead.
As we enter a new season in our own space and pace, perhaps the question is not how much we can carry, but what truly belongs in our bag – Faith, hope, love, wisdom, and compassion rarely take up much space, yet they prove invaluable wherever the road leads.
So, take inventory. Open the suitcase. Examine what you have been carrying. The season ahead may not require more luggage. It may simply require the courage to travel lighter.
Blessings on the journey!
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A Season of Celebration: A Season of Reflection
There are seasons in life when celebrations seem to arrive all at once. Graduation announcements fill the mailbox, wedding invitations appear tucked between bills and advertisements, and spring cook-out invitations fill the inbox. Churches prepare for baccalaureate services and ordinations and families gather around tables to honor milestones both large and small. Spring and early summer often become a sacred intersection of endings and beginnings—a season of celebration indeed!
At the same time, celebration has a curious way of inviting reflection. Perhaps this is because milestones remind us that time does not stand still. The child once carried into kindergarten now walks across a stage with a diploma in hand. The colleague preparing for retirement once nervously stepped into their first day of work. The church member celebrating decades of service recalls seasons of uncertainty, grief, and perseverance that quietly shaped their journey. Celebration is rarely about a single moment – it is about the countless unseen moments that carried us there.
I often think back to May 19th of 2020, when I graduated with my Doctorate in Ministry. Like so many milestones during that season, the moment carried both joy and grief. Due to the uncertainties and unknowns surrounding the COVID-19 virus, we were unable to gather for the traditional pomp and circumstance that typically marks such an occasion. There were no crowded auditoriums, no embraces from classmates, no walking across a stage while loved ones applauded from the audience. Instead, each graduate put on their academic garb at home and logged in through a computer screen. What a bittersweet time that was – and we celebrated, nonetheless.
It is in times like these that I am reminded that in our culture, celebrations can easily become performances. Social media highlights curate joy, perfect photographs, and polished accomplishments. We are encouraged to move quickly from one achievement to the next, rarely pausing long enough to consider what these moments mean. We celebrate, post, smile, and continue on. But something different happens when we are invited to reflect and to linger.
Reflection poses a different set of questions:
What sustained us along the way?
Who walked beside us when the road felt uncertain?
What sacrifices were made that no one else could see?
How have we changed in the process of becoming?
There is something deeply spiritual about allowing celebration and reflection to coexist. One keeps us grateful while the other keeps us grounded.
Not every season of celebration or moment has come to us in an easy way. Not every prayer was answered the way we hoped. Not every path unfolded smoothly. Yet here we are—still growing, still learning, still becoming.
So today, I invite you to celebrate and reflect. Pay attention to where you have been, to who you are now, and to the quiet ways God continues to move within your life.
Blessings to you on this journey –
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Lessons from an aspiring Minimalist
I have a bi-annual tradition that focuses on a clearing of the clutter. This is a time where I literally go through every drawer and shelf in my home and office spaces with the goal to move out what is no longer serving me. In the churches I have served, I often utilized the time before Christmas to clear my office and at least one closet or underutilized classroom space. I had a habit of storing an accumulation of Sunday bulletins throughout the year in corners of my office, and discovered Sunday School teachers and small group leaders had a similar habit of keeping curriculum utilizing the same method. I will admit, my propensity of clearing the clutter did at times invite criticism for not seeking the appropriate forms of approval – both in my own home and in my workspaces – but I always felt a weight lifted after the fact!
The reality is, there is something both freeing and confronting about walking into a minimalist mindset and space. The surfaces are clear. The shelves are intentional. The room seems to breathe. Unfortunately, there seems to be a misunderstanding of what minimalism is – minimalism it is not about owning nothing rather, it is about asking honest questions: What do I actually need? What is serving my life? What am I carrying that no longer carries meaning?
Over the past several years, conversations around minimalism have grown in popularity through books, documentaries, and the influence of figures like Marie Kondo. Her now well-known Kondo Method invites people to hold each item they own and ask whether it sparks joy. While the phrase became easy to parody in popular culture, there was something deeply spiritual underneath the practice. It required attentiveness, reflection, and permission to release what no longer aligns with one’s values or purpose.
Yet we live in a culture built on the opposite message.
Advertising often operates from a deficit mindset. We are told we are incomplete without the next purchase, the upgraded device, the better wardrobe (or more functioning robe!), the trendier office décor, or the newest ministry program. Entire industries thrive on convincing us that what we already have — or who we already are — is not enough. Deficit advertising quietly trains us to believe that fulfillment is always one purchase away.
And eventually, the accumulation becomes visible, overwhelming, and unsustainable.
Stuff gathers in our homes, offices, and church closets. Boxes of unused curriculum. Cabinets filled with forgotten supplies. Storage rooms and garages overflowing with items we are “saving just in case.” Closets packed with things that once served a purpose but now simply occupy space. Sometimes our clutter is not merely physical – it reflects emotional attachment, anxiety about scarcity, or difficulty letting go of seasons that have ended.
Minimalism invites a different posture. It asks us to become intentional stewards rather than anxious accumulators. It reminds us that simplicity is not deprivation. In fact, simplicity can create room for deeper abundance — abundance of peace, clarity, generosity, and presence.
Faith communities especially can struggle with this tension. Churches often inherit decades of materials, traditions, and objects that carry memory and meaning (I know many of you are nodding feverously at this point!). There is beauty in honoring history. But there is also wisdom in discerning whether we are preserving ministry or merely preserving stuff. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is clear space for what is next.
The lesson from a minimalist is not that every room should look empty or perfectly curated. The lesson is that our lives become lighter when our possessions align with our values rather than our anxieties.
Perhaps the deeper question is not simply, Does this spark joy? but rather, Does this create space for life, connection, and purpose? Sometimes renewal begins not with acquiring more, but with the sacred courage to let go.
As we find ourselves entering into the days of summer, I want to personally encourage you to ask yourselves these same questions. I challenge you to clear out a closet, repurpose a few items, donate, and recycle. You just might find yourselves a little lighter in the process.
Blessings to you on this journey
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MayCember: Please Take a Rest!
Somewhere along the way, May stopped being a gentle bridge into summer. Now it seems that calendars overflow, deadlines multiply, and celebrations stack—graduations, end of school banquets, recitals, and a multitude of transitions! The pace accelerates just as our bodies begin to crave exhale. In case you were not aware, the cultural term for this season is referred to as MayCember – and the name fits all too well!
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that can arise from this time of year – in business of good, important, and meaningful things – and yet, when everything is a priority and important, nothing is a priority and important. The nervous system doesn’t differentiate between joyful stress and just plain stress—it simply registers demand. And in May, the demand can feel relentless. We find ourselves pushing through because we care, we want to celebrate and be present, and we know that people are counting on us. But somewhere in the middle of all that caring, we quietly disappear from our own lives and cease being present at all. We become managers of moments instead of participants in time.
And then comes the quiet question, often whispered at the end of the day: Why am I so tired? Simple: Because you have been carrying too much for too long without pause.
Rest, in a season like this, can feel almost irresponsible. There are emails to send, events to attend, details to finalize. Who has time to rest when everything is urgent? But what if rest is not the reward at the end of the season, but the very thing that allows you to move through this season with any sense of presence or integrity?
Rest is not avoidance, rest is resistance—a quiet refusal to believe that your worth is measured by your output. Even small acts of rest matter. A few minutes of stillness in your car before walking into the next obligation; A slower breath between meetings; Saying no—not to everything, but to something; Letting one thing be enough for today.
Year after year, May will continue to be full. The calendar will not magically clear. But you can choose how you move within it. You can choose to pause. You can choose to breathe. You can choose to rest—not as an afterthought, but as a necessity.
So, in the midst of MayCember, please remember to take a rest.
Blessings to you on this journey
Called to Care: Reflections on Mother’s Day
At its core, Mother’s Day invites us to pause and reflect on the sacred nature of care. For many, it is a day filled with gratitude, celebration, and cherished memories. For others, this day may carry grief, longing, or complicated emotions. Yet at the heart of this day is something deeper than cards or flowers – it is the quiet, faithful calling to love one another well.
One of the most moving examples of this calling appears in John 19:25b–27. As Jesus was on the cross in the midst of suffering, he looked down and saw his mother standing nearby alongside one of his disciples. Scripture tells us, “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, ‘Woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, the disciple took Mary into his home to care for her.”
Even in his final moments, Jesus demonstrated profound compassion, care, and responsibility. He ensured that his mother would not be left alone. In his suffering, Jesus remained attentive to the needs of another. This tender exchange reminds us that care is not merely a feeling or compelled by a societal title —it is an act of faithful presence.
This passage also broadens our understanding of family. Jesus formed a new bond between his mother and his disciple, showing that community is meant to care for one another. We are not called only to honor our biological families, but also to expand our understanding of family to create spaces of belonging and care for all.
On Mother’s Day, we celebrate those who have nurtured us, but we are also invited to ask ourselves an important question: Who are we called to care for? Perhaps it is an aging parent, a grieving friend, a struggling neighbor, a child who needs encouragement, or even ourselves.
In a world that often values productivity over presence, the example of Jesus at the cross reminds us that love makes room for all people. Care is holy work. It is found in phone calls, meals shared, prayers whispered, tears comforted, hand holding, and life’s moments carried together.
This Mother’s Day, may we give thanks for every expression of nurturing love we have received, and may we remain attentive to those entrusted to our care—offering compassion, dignity, and presence in ways both large and small.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Kelly
Cognitive Dissonance and Personal Disconnection
There are moments when something feels off within us, even if we can’t immediately name it. We move through our days, fulfilling responsibilities, showing up for others, checking the necessary boxes – yet internally, there is a quiet unrest. This experience is often rooted in cognitive dissonance which is the tension that arises when our beliefs, values, and behaviors are misaligned.
In a world and time marked by such disconnect and tension—socially, politically, relationally, spiritually – it is no surprise that this inner dissonance feels even more pronounced. What we carry internally often mirrors what we experience externally.
Cognitive dissonance is not inherently negative. In fact, it is a deeply human signal that something within us is asking for attention. It emerges when we proclaim rest as sacred yet glorify burnout as commitment; When we claim authenticity yet avoid hard conversations; or We speak of grace yet operate in environments driven by scarcity and competition. Over time, this disconnect becomes embodied. It shapes how we lead, how we relate, and how we understand ourselves and others.
This disconnection rarely happens all at once. It builds gradually through small compromises, unmet needs, and unexamined expectations. We adapt to environments, relationships, and roles in ways that make sense in the moment, but may slowly distance us from who we understand ourselves to be. The result is often a kind of internal fragmentation. We feel divided—one part of us moving through the motions, another quietly questioning.
What makes this particularly challenging is how easy it is to normalize. High-functioning disconnection can look like success. It can be masked by productivity, achievement, or even service to others. From the outside, everything appears intact. Internally, however, there may be fatigue, irritability, or a persistent sense that something is misaligned.
Rather than viewing cognitive dissonance as failure, it can be reframed as an invitation. It is an internal cue that asks us to pause and reflect: Where am I living in alignment with my values? Where am I not? What am I tolerating that no longer feels sustainable or true? Responding to these questions does not require immediate or dramatic change. Often it begins with awareness. Naming the tension allows us to approach ourselves with greater clarity and compassion. From there, small and intentional shifts can begin to close the gap—setting a boundary, speaking an honest truth, or realigning daily practices with what we say matters most.
The truth is, dissonance is inevitable. We live in complex systems and relationships that require flexibility and adaptation. The goal is not to eliminate all tension, but to remain attuned to it. When we ignore it, disconnection deepens. When we engage it, integration becomes possible.
Cognitive dissonance will arise. The question is not whether we experience it, but how we respond to it when we do.
Blessings on this journey!
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Lessons in Cinema: The Gift of Rest, the Rise of AI, and the Foundation of Belief
I love going to the movies—and I’ll admit, I don’t indulge in this simple joy nearly enough. There is something sacred about sitting in a movie theater, popcorn in hand, perhaps a soda within reach, and allowing myself to simply rest. Not scroll. Not multitask. Not produce. Just be. For a couple of hours, I am invited into a different world, one that asks nothing of me except presence.
In a culture that rewards constant output, the act of sitting still and receiving a story feels almost countercultural. Cinema, at its best, becomes a kind of liturgy of rest—a reminder that we are not machines, even as we increasingly live alongside them.
And that’s where my thoughts have been drifting lately – toward the rise of artificial intelligence and what it means for creativity, imagination, belief, and rest. Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-AI and in many ways, I am fascinated by it. But I am also attentive to what it reveals – AI, for all its sophistication, is built on a foundation of human knowledge, human creativity, and human curiosity. It does not originate thought or creativity – it synthesizes information. AI does not believe, rather it reflects patterns of belief.
That distinction matters.
Because what we create —our stories, our art, our questions—becomes the very material AI depends on to function. Which means that the cultivation of imagination and independent thought is not optional, it is essential. If anything, these qualities may become even more valuable in an AI-shaped world.
This is where cinema, and storytelling more broadly, holds profound significance. Stories stretch us. They invite us to wrestle with possibility, to confront the unknown, to feel what we may not be fully prepared for, and to imagine what could be. Take, for example, Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir. I was able to take time this past week to watch this amazing and multi-faceted movie. Project Hail Mary is a story grounded in creativity, problem-solving, and the deeply human capacity to adapt and connect. I don’t want to give anything away, but know that the narrative builds upon connection, depends on intuition, courage, and relationship.
That is something AI cannot replicate in its fullness.
What I’m learning—both in the theater and in life—is that rest and creativity are not separate practices. They are deeply intertwined. When we rest, we make space for imagination. When we step away from constant consumption, we create room for original thought. And when we engage stories, we participate in something larger than ourselves—a shared human endeavor of meaning-making.
Perhaps that is the deeper invitation – remain rooted in what makes us human and continue asking questions, nurture creativity, and tell stories that inspire and matter.
Blessings on this journey!
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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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