My Soul Needs a Rest
There are seasons when our calendars, commitments, news cycles, and head space run ahead of us, leaving our bodies weary and our spirits stretched thin. We keep moving, often on autopilot, convincing ourselves that if we just push a little harder, everything will fall into place. But then there comes a whisper from within—a gentle but insistent voice: my soul needs a rest.
Rest is different from sleep. We can sleep for hours and still wake up tired. Rest is deeper. It touches not only the body but also the mind, heart, and spirit. It is the pause from the noise of the world that saturates us that allows us to breathe, to recalibrate, to remember who we are when we’re not defined by our productivity. When our souls cry out for rest, it’s usually because we’ve been giving so much of ourselves—showing up for family, work, community—that we forget to show up for our own well-being.
I think of Jesus’ invitation: “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” These words are not simply about taking a nap or a vacation. They are about finding a center, a still point where we can lay down the heaviness we carry and the saturation that we hold. Soul-rest is found in being held, not in holding everything together ourselves.
For me, rest sometimes looks like stepping outside, noticing the sky, feeling the ground beneath my feet, or letting music wash over me. Other times it is allowing silence to do its work, sitting without a to-do list or agenda. Rest can be found in meditation, in journaling, or in the laughter of people who remind me that life is more than my worries. Rest is not always inactivity—it can be creative, playful, or deeply connective—but it always restores rather than drains.
When we deny our need for rest, we risk burnout. Our souls become brittle, unable to respond with compassion, joy, or patience. But when we honor rest as sacred, we begin to move differently through the world. We remember that we are finite, yet deeply loved. We remember that rest is not laziness; it is resistance against a culture that measures worth by busyness.
So today, I hear the whisper again: my soul needs a rest. Maybe yours does too. What would it look like for you to pause, even briefly, and tend to your spirit? Rest is not indulgence—it is the soil where healing, wisdom, and renewal take root. May we all find the courage to claim it.
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Finding Center in a New Season
The change of seasons rarely arrives quietly. It sweeps in with a flurry of uncertainty and excitement—new roles, shifting relationships, unexpected transitions—and can leave us feeling untethered. Whether it’s a seasonal change or a change that we have chosen, or a change that has chosen us, the experience can feel both like the opening of a gift or like standing in the middle of a storm. Yet, within every season of change lies an invitation: to find the steady center that holds us when everything else is shifting.
Finding that center begins with presence. Before we make a plan or rush to the next step, we pause. A few slow, intentional breaths can become an act of trust. Breathing in, we acknowledge the swirl of thoughts and emotions – Breathing out, we release the need to control every detail. In this simple rhythm, the present moment reveals itself as solid ground.
From this place of presence, we can listen—really listen—to what is happening within us. Change can stir grief for what is passing and excitement for what is emerging. Both can coexist. Journaling, prayer, or a quiet walk invites those layered feelings into the light where they can be honored instead of avoided. Naming our inner landscape is not a sign of weakness; it is the first step toward clarity.
Community also anchors us. Seasons of change can tempt us to withdraw, yet sharing our story with trusted companions reminds us we are not alone. A conversation over coffee (pumpkin spice perhaps!), a supportive faith community, or a circle of close friends becomes a reminder that others have weathered their own transitions and emerged whole. Their presence steadies us when our own confidence wavers.
Spiritual practices offer another path to center. Whether it’s contemplative prayer, meditation, or simply sitting in silence, these rituals draw us back to center. For some, scripture or sacred music provides reassurance; for others, time in nature offers perspective. The form matters less than the intention: to reconnect with the deep, abiding love that holds us through every shift.
Finally, finding center in a season of change calls for gentle self-compassion. We may not move through transition neatly or quickly. We may falter or feel lost, but growth is rarely linear. Offering ourselves kindness, as we would to a dear friend, creates the spaciousness needed for transformation.
Change, regardless if it’s a seasonal one of the life-transition type, will keep coming and that is the nature of life. But the center we cultivate through presence, listening, community, spiritual practice, and compassion remains steady. In that quiet heart-space, we discover that we are not merely surviving the storm; we are being reshaped by it. And from that place of stillness, we can step forward with courage, trusting that even in uncertainty, we are held.
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The Quiet Art of Witnessing When the World Seems So Loud
There are days when the noise of the world feels relentless—news cycles that churn, notifications that buzz, a culture that rewards the loudest voices and the quickest takes. When everything clamors for our reaction, the quiet art of witnessing can feel almost radical. To witness is to stay present without rushing to fix, to listen without interrupting, to see without turning away. It is an ancient practice, and perhaps one of the most necessary in our age of endless clamor.
Witnessing begins with attention. Attention is different from reaction; it is a steady presence that says, I see you. I hear you. I will not look away. Whether we sit with a grieving friend, watch the slow changing of the seasons, or stand in silent protest, we offer a kind of sacred acknowledgment. We do not have to solve the suffering or silence the chaos. We simply remain.
This quiet presence is anything but passive. It asks courage to stay with discomfort—our own and that of others. When the world shouts for instant opinions and quick fixes, witnessing invites patience. It allows space for truth to unfold, for the deeper story to emerge. Sometimes that story is painful. Sometimes it is unexpectedly beautiful, a reminder that life carries on even in the shadow of loss.
In many faith traditions, witnessing is woven through ritual and scripture. The prophets of old stood in the breach, naming injustice and holding space for God’s movement. In the Christian story, Mary and the beloved disciple stood at the cross, powerless to stop the violence yet steadfast in her presence. Their witness became a form of resistance to despair. They remind us that presence itself can be a profound act of love.
We practice this art when we listen to a child’s worry without brushing it aside, when we walk alongside someone whose grief has no timetable, when we hold silence during a vigil or sit beneath a wide sky and let the world speak for itself, or as we pay witness to a movement that we may or may not agree with. In these moments we remind ourselves that life is not measured by the volume of our response but by the depth of our attention.
The world will likely remain noisy – and some of that noise we are a part of. And each time we choose to witness—to breathe, to notice, to stay—we create a pocket of stillness where compassion can take root. And in that quiet space, we might discover that we, too, are being witnessed: held by a Presence larger than the clamor, steady as a heartbeat, inviting us to listen more deeply and to love more fully.
May your witness vibrate throughout without you saying a word.
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Beloved
“And did you get what you wanted from this life?”
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself Beloved on the Earth.”
– Raymond Carver
There are certain words that stop us in our tracks, catching in the chest and lingering like an echo. For me, Carver’s lines have always been among them. They are simple words, almost understated. Yet within them lies the deepest human longing: To know that we are loved, seen, and cherished during our brief time on this earth.
We spend so much of life chasing after other things—success, stability, approval, security. These are not wrong in themselves, but they can sometimes crowd out the quiet truth that what we most long for is to feel beloved – Not perfect, not accomplished, not important, Simply beloved.
The word beloved carries more weight than love. It is not just affection but an acknowledgment of being deeply valued, of being held in tenderness. It is love that has been named and claimed. To be beloved is to be held in a gaze that says, You matter. Your presence here is a gift.
In a world that often pushes us toward comparison and scarcity, hearing and believing that we are beloved can be radical. It calls us back to the truth that our worth is not earned but inherent.
Spiritual traditions remind us of this again and again—whether in the psalmist’s declaration that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, or in Jesus’ baptism where the voice from heaven affirms, You are my beloved.
But here is the more complicated part: To not only be called beloved but to feel beloved. Feeling beloved is embodied. It’s a quiet sense of belonging that shows up when a friend listens without judgment, when a child’s hand slips into yours, when laughter fills a room and you realize you are not alone. It can come in still moments too—watching light scatter across the mountains, sitting with a cup of coffee in silence, noticing the rhythm of your own breathing.
To feel beloved is not about everything in life going right. It is about awakening to love that is already present, woven through our relationships, our communities, and even within ourselves. It requires practice – slowing down, noticing, receiving.
So perhaps the question for us today is simple: Have we given ourselves permission to feel beloved? Not someday, when life is smoother, but here and now, with all its mess and beauty.
May we learn to answer Carver’s question with courage: Yes, I did. I know myself as beloved. I feel myself beloved.
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988 Day: “You Are Not Alone”
As a mental health professional and one who believes deeply in services for all, ‘988 Day’ is not just a day but a day I feel is important to be noted. So, for this week’s Chrysalis message, I am focusing on the importance and significance of 988.
On July 16, 2022, the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline launched as an easily remembered, nationwide number for anyone experiencing a mental health crisis. Like 911 for emergencies, 988 connects callers with trained counselors who can provide immediate support and connect them to local resources. Each year, on September 8—988 Day—we pause to highlight the importance of this life-saving service and to remember a simple, powerful message: You are not alone.
Mental health struggles are far more common than we often acknowledge. Anxiety, depression, grief, and thoughts of self-harm do not discriminate. They cross every age, gender, profession, and community. Yet stigma still silences too many, keeping people from reaching out until the weight becomes unbearable. 988 Day reminds us that help is both accessible and compassionate, waiting on the other end of the line.
But 988 is more than just a number—it’s a bridge to community. When someone calls, texts, or chats 988, they are immediately connected to a trained professional who listens, de-escalates, and helps link them to ongoing care in their own community. This ensures that people in crisis do not have to navigate their pain alone or feel lost in a system that is often confusing and overwhelming.
The phrase “You are not alone” is not just a slogan. It is a truth we must embody for one another. Community mental health is built on connection—on friends who check in, neighbors who notice, congregations who care, and workplaces that offer support. When we show up for each other with kindness and empathy, we help dismantle the walls of isolation that mental health struggles can create.
This 988 Day, may we remember that behind every call is a life, a story, and a hope for tomorrow. Together, we can continue to build communities where reaching out for help is a sign of strength, and where no one has to suffer in silence.
You are not alone—and with 988, help is always within reach.
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Letting Go: The Spirit and Ritual of Zozobra
Every September, approximately 65,000 people gather in Santa Fe to watch Old Man Gloom go up in flames. Zozobra—a 50-foot marionette, built from wood, wire, and cloth—is stuffed with shredded paper bearing the written worries, sorrows, and disappointments of the past year. When the torch is set and the fire takes hold, Old Man Gloom roars and groans, and collapses into ash, symbolizing the collective release of sorrow, grief, and gloom.
For over 100 years, this ritual has been a part of New Mexico’s culture, yet its meaning reaches far beyond geography. Zozobra is not just a puppet; it is an embodiment of what weighs us down. By writing our burdens and handing them over to the fire, we participate in a sacred act of release.
The burning of Zozobra is more than a spectacle – it is collective ritual. It reflects a deep human truth: we need ways to name what weighs us down and to let it go. Left unspoken, our burdens often grow heavier. Shared in community, they can be acknowledged, transformed, and released. The fire becomes a vessel, and by handing over our written burdens to the fire, we participate in a sacred act of release, making space for hope and welcoming what’s next.
What strikes me most is the intentionality of it all. People take time to name what they no longer want to carry: a heartbreak, a grudge, a grudge, a grief, a regret. That simple act of writing is a form of prayer. It says, this no longer defines me; this no longer serves me. Then, in community, those private offerings are joined with thousands of others, transforming personal gloom into a shared release. The fire becomes a form of purification—burning away despair and making space for renewal. In a world that clings so tightly to productivity, accumulation, and control, Zozobra invites us to practice surrender.
Letting go is rarely easy. It often feels like loss. Yet in spiritual practice, release is at the heart of transformation. Jesus invited the weary and burdened to lay down that which they have held so tightly to. The Buddha taught the wisdom of non-attachment. Indigenous traditions revere fire as a purifier and healer. Across cultures and faiths, the practice of letting go is not an ending, but the opening of a new path.
Zozobra reminds us that our pain is real, but it does not have to define us. With every flame that rises into the night sky, there is possibility: what has been burned no longer binds us. And when we let go, we make room—for joy, for peace, for new beginnings.
Perhaps this year we can create our own ritual of release.
Write down the heaviness you carry. Offer it to fire, to water, to the wind, or simply place it in a drawer and close it. The power is not in the ashes themselves, but in the surrender. Trust that letting go is not the end, but the beginning.
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Presence Over Perfection
For years, I worked diligently to be perfect – the perfect employee; the perfect pastor; the perfect therapist; the perfect partner; the perfect parent; the perfect friend. What I discovered is perfection has a way of creeping into our lives disguised as ambition, responsibility, or care. I so deeply wanted to be the best parent; the strongest and most steadfast leader; the most faithful and obedient friend; and the hardest worker, even if that meant being on call 24/7 for anyone and everyone. After years of chasing perfection, I realized that my drive for perfection robed me of what matters most—being present.
When we choose presence over perfection, we choose to actually live in the moment we are in. We stop rehearsing conversations in our head, replaying yesterday’s mistakes, or overplanning tomorrow’s details. Instead, we notice the warmth of the coffee mug in our hands, the sound of laughter in the next room, the quiet comfort of simply being here, now.
Perfection promises the allusion of control. It whispers that if we try hard enough, plan well enough, or polish long enough, life will be smooth and secure. But presence offers freedom. It teaches us to show up as we are, to bring our full attention and imperfect selves to the table. Presence does not demand flawlessness – it simply asks us to be awake.
Some of the most meaningful moments in life are not perfect ones. Think about a family dinner where the rolls were burned but the conversation was rich; Or a meeting where the agenda went off track, but an honest breakthrough finally happened; Or a prayer that stumbled over words yet carried more sincerity than any carefully memorized script. Perfection would have counted those moments as failures. Presence names them as sacred.
Choosing presence over perfect is an act of kindness toward ourselves. It allows us to breathe, to release the impossible standard of having it all together. Presence says, You are enough for this moment. It reminds us that the people who matter most don’t want our flawless performance – they want us. They want our attention, our listening ear, our real presence.
This shift takes practice. We live in a culture that rewards achievement and appearance, not presence. But small daily choices can help us resist – putting down the phone during dinner, allowing silence in conversation instead of filling it with nervous words, pausing to notice what is beautiful in the ordinary. Each choice is a quiet rebellion against perfection’s grip.
So today, may we trade perfection for presence. May we worry less about getting it all right, and lean more fully into being here—wholehearted, attentive, and awake to the life unfolding around us.
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Waymarking and the Art of Waymaking
Long before GPS and step-counting apps, travelers relied on waymarks to guide them along unknown roads —simple stones, painted arrows, or carved symbols marked their path. On Spain’s Camino de Santiago, the scallop shell and yellow arrow appear again and again, marking the path for pilgrims from all over the world. They do more than direct—they reassure: Yes, you are still on the way.
In life, as on the Camino, waymarking matters. Clear signs—whether in the form of trusted mentors, sacred texts, or community rituals—can steady us when we’re tired, lost, or questioning our direction. A waymark doesn’t force the journey, it simply reminds us that others have gone before, and the road is still there.
But there is also the art of waymaking. Waymaking is more than following arrows or shells, it’s the creative, sometimes risky act of shaping the path itself. It means choosing to respond with kindness when bitterness would be easier, forging new traditions when the old ones no longer serve, or carving out spaces for rest and connection in a world that rushes past. Waymaking is both practical and poetic—it’s the choice to walk with intention, to set a course even when the map is incomplete.
Spain’s Camino de Santiago has been a dream of mine for years. I imagine the sound of boots crunching on gravel at dawn, the mingled languages of fellow pilgrims, the relief of spotting a yellow arrow at a crossroads or a shell on a post. I imagine the rhythm of walking—step after step—loosening the knots of my own worries, revealing truths that only the quiet and a gentle pace can tell. On that imagined journey, I see myself paying attention not just to the signs others have placed for me, but also to the people walking beside me, noticing where my presence could be a waymark for them.
Waymarking and waymaking are companions. We need the stability of clear guidance and the courage of creative navigation. Some days we follow and some days we lead. And sometimes—most beautifully—we do both at once, shaping the road even as we let it shape us.
Until my feet touch the Camino stones, I practice here: looking for the arrows in my daily life, leaving my own marks for those who come after, and remembering that every step—whether on ancient pilgrimage trails or in the streets of my own city—can be a sacred act of waymaking.
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My Summer Tech Detox: Lessons Learned
This summer, I did a thing.
I unplugged.
Not entirely, and not forever—but enough to feel it. Enough to notice how entangled I had become in constant notifications, scrolling habits, and the ever-present hum of a device in hand. I needed a break, and my soul knew it before I did. So, I declared a summer tech detox—Removal of social media apps from my phone; Minimal email; and Intentional time off screens.
Here’s what I learned:
1. The Noise Was Louder Than I Realized
The quiet was almost uncomfortable at first. I didn’t realize how much digital noise had woven itself into the fabric of my days—from idle scrolling to the reflex of checking my phone during any moment of stillness. The detox revealed how often I was reaching for distraction instead of presence.
2. My Focus and Patience Improved
Without the constant buzz, I read more books, finished long-delayed projects, and lingered longer in conversations. I even rediscovered the joy of doing one thing at a time—imagine that. My brain slowed down. My spirit caught up.
3. I Had to Confront Some Feelings
Stillness makes space for what we’ve been avoiding. I sat with restlessness, boredom, and even loneliness—and none of it broke me. In fact, it reminded me that discomfort often has something to teach us.
4. I Reclaimed Time
The hours I used to lose to screens became pockets of freedom: walks outside, handwritten notes, quiet cups of coffee, deeper connections with the people around me. Time didn’t change—I did.
5. The World Didn’t Fall Apart
Nothing exploded while I was offline! I wasn’t forgotten. The world moved on—and so did I—but with more clarity, intention, and a renewed appreciation for the moments right in front of me.
To be clear, I am not swearing off tech —it’s a tool, and a powerful one at that. But, I have learned I want to use it differently. More purposefully. Less reactively. My summer tech detox wasn’t about deprivation – it was about resetting my relationship with technology so that it serves my life, not controls it.
So, here’s my invitation to each of you: Carve out a day, a weekend, or a whole season. Turn down the digital volume. Listen to what rises in its absence. You might be surprised by what you hear.
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Forgiveness and Reconciliation: Space for Both, but Not Always
I have recently been giving a great deal of thought and consideration to the application and understanding of Forgiveness and Reconciliation. I believe that we, as a society, often speak of these two distinct ideals in the same breath, as if they are two sides of the same coin. While they are certainly related, they are not identical. Forgiveness can be an internal act of release—a decision to let go of bitterness, resentment, or the need for revenge. Reconciliation, however, is about relationship. It is the rebuilding of trust, the repairing of brokenness, and the possibility of coming together again.
The truth is, forgiveness is always possible, but reconciliation is not always wise—or even emotionally or physically safe. Forgiveness can happen in the quiet of one’s own heart, without the other person ever knowing. It is a gift we give ourselves as much as it is a release we offer to another. It frees us from being bound to harm that has already been done.
Reconciliation, on the other hand, requires something more. It calls for accountability, honesty, repair, and a mutual willingness to rebuild. Sometimes this is possible, and the healing that follows is profound. Other times, reconciliation cannot happen because what was has been shattered too deeply, or because the other party is unwilling or unable to do the work of repair.
Holding this distinction can be liberating. Too often, we are pressured to forgive and forget or to rush back into relationship without allowing space and time for healing and accountability. But real reconciliation cannot be rushed. It is slow, sacred work that grows only when forgiveness, responsibility, and accountability are present.
As human beings longing for wholeness, we hold space for both realities: forgiveness as release, and reconciliation as restoration. We recognize that forgiveness does not obligate us to step back into harmful patterns or unsafe relationships. We can forgive without reconciling, and we can reconcile only when forgiveness and accountability work hand in hand.
In a world that often pressures us to just move on or make peace, we are invited into a deeper, truer wisdom. There is space for both forgiveness and reconciliation—but not always at the same time, and not always with the same people. And that is okay.
Blessings to you on this journey –
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