Where Does It Hurt?
We’ve all heard the phrase: “Hurt people hurt people.” It’s often spoken with a sigh, an attempt to make sense of someone else’s sharp words, distant demeanor, or destructive behavior. It reminds us that pain doesn’t stay neatly packed inside—it leaks out, spills over, and sometimes lashes out. But too often, we stop there, diagnosing the symptom without asking the deeper question: Where does it hurt?
It’s a question that shifts everything.
When someone wounds us with their words or actions, our instinct is often to recoil or retaliate. But what if, instead of reacting, we paused long enough to ask: What pain might they be carrying? Where might their story have broken?
When Jesus encountered hurting people, he often led with this kind of question. To the blind man: “What do you want me to do for you?” To the man by the pool: “Do you want to be made well?” To the woman at the well, whose life was marked by rejection: “Will you give me a drink?” These questions weren’t rhetorical. They were relational. They opened space for dignity, for healing, for truth.
We all carry wounds—some visible, others buried deep. Some of us have learned to mask them with smiles, success, or sarcasm. Others carry their pain just beneath the surface, always a moment away from breaking through. Left unaddressed, these wounds become breeding grounds for bitterness, fear, and aggression. But when we tend to them with care, honesty, and the help of others, healing becomes possible.
So maybe the question for today isn’t just “Who hurt me?” or “Whom have I hurt?”—important as those reflections are. The more transformative question might be:
“Where does it hurt?”
Ask it of yourself. Be still long enough to notice what rises.
Ask it of others. Not as an accusation, but as an invitation.
Ask it in prayer. Trust that God’s mercy meets us in our wounds, not beyond them.
Healing is not quick work – It’s holy work. But every time we pause to ask where it hurts—every time we choose compassion over condemnation—we help break the cycle. We make space for grace. And slowly, painfully, beautifully, we learn to become people who no longer hurt others – including ourselves – but help one another heal.
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Settling for Resurrection and Forgetting to Ascend
Our image this week is my favorite piece of resurrection stained glass. This piece can be found at The Episcopal Cathedral Church of St. John in Albuquerque, NM off of the main sanctuary. What I find most striking is Jesus is not represented in the glass art – Jesus is gone!
We teach that we are a resurrection people. We proclaim this truth with confidence on Easter morning, with lilies in full bloom and hallelujahs ringing in the air. But somewhere in the celebration, we often forget that resurrection isn’t the final act of the story. There’s an Ascension.
The Gospels and Acts make it clear: Jesus rose, but he did not stay. Forty days after Easter, Jesus ascended—not as an afterthought, but as a vital moment in the sacred story. And yet, we often live our spiritual lives as if resurrection is the end of the journey. We long for new life, restoration, second chances. But, we resist the letting go that ascension requires.
The disciples stood on the mountain as Jesus was lifted from their sight. They had already grieved him once. Now, even with the joy of resurrection fresh in their hearts, they had to say goodbye again. Not to death this time—but to presence. To the nearness they had grown to cherish.
We are so often those disciples. We want to hold on to what we love and to what we know. We want resurrection to be the happy ending to the story that lets us stay in the garden or the upper room, breaking bread forever. But Jesus didn’t stay, and neither can we.
Ascension teaches us the sacredness of parting – It is a reminder that release is not failure, and that departure is not abandonment. There is holiness in the goodbye. Not because it is easy or painless—but because it is purposeful.
Jesus ascends so that the disciples can become the church.
Jesus parts so that our faith can stretch into the world, rather than remain rooted only in the simplicity of physical presence.
There’s something profoundly sacred about learning to let go—not in despair, but in trust. It is the same trust we extend when we launch a child into adolescence and then again into adulthood; a pastor into a new appointment; a friend into a new season of life even when we do not fully understand the decision to go. Sacred parting honors what has been and makes room for what will be.
So many of us live in the space between resurrection and ascension, don’t we? We rejoice in what has been restored, but we resist the call to release. We want to hold the resurrected moments tightly, to keep the miracle near. But Jesus calls us to move—upward, outward, forward. To ascend is not to escape. It is to make room.
This season, may we resist the temptation to settle for resurrection. May we recognize the sacredness in parting. And may we have the courage – not just to celebrate the miracle—but to ascend into the mystery.
Blessings on the journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC, CEAP
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The Butterfly Effect: Celebrating 5 Years of Chrysalis Counseling For Clergy!
This week, Chrysalis Counseling for Clergy 501(c)3 turns five. What began as a DMIN dissertation dream, has grown into a movement of hope and healing. This ministry was born out of transformation – And like the butterfly effect itself, small acts of care and compassion have rippled outward in powerful and unexpected ways.
The title of this reflection, The Butterfly Effect, is a deliberate play on words. Many have heard of the butterfly effect—a concept from chaos theory made famous by mathematician and meteorologist Edward Lorenz in the 1960s. He proposed that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could set off a tornado in Texas. The idea is that small, seemingly insignificant actions can trigger far-reaching and unpredictable consequences.
At Chrysalis, we’ve witnessed this principle in profoundly human terms – One clergy person chooses to rest; One conversation opens a locked-up heart; One retreat allows space for truth to rise. These small moments, often quiet and unremarkable on the surface, have created ripples of healing, change, and resilience.
That’s why we speak of the Butterfly Effect. It’s not just about cause and effect, it’s about transformation. The effect refers to the emotional and spiritual impact we’ve seen as lives are gently touched and slowly changed.
Five years ago, we hosted our first clergy mental health retreat. We didn’t know who would come. We only knew the need to offer sacred space. Since then, we’ve welcomed 196 clergy, chaplains, and spiritual leaders into spaces of deep rest and honest reflection. In that stillness, we trust that they have found what they needed—sometimes clarity, sometimes courage, sometimes just the reminder that they are not alone.
What we have learned is this: When a clergy person finds their breath, the ripple reaches farther than we can see; Congregations shift; Families begin to see each other again; Ministries find new life. That’s the butterfly effect!
So, this week, we celebrate five years of sacred pause, and we celebrate those who dared to step away long enough to be still and to listen. We are so grateful for every person who has trusted Chrysalis with their story, their pain, and their hope.
Here’s to the next five years of unfolding hearts and faithful transformation!
Thank you for being part of this unfolding story.
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The Fire That Connects
Every October, the skies over Albuquerque, New Mexico, come alive with color as hundreds of hot air balloons from across the country rise for the annual International Balloon Fiesta. Each evening, those same balloons line up for a luminous spectacle called the Glow. As darkness falls, massive orbs inflate, light up, and ignite—fire roaring into their bellies. The crowds cheer, laugh, and marvel at the spectacle. It’s not quiet. It’s not subtle. It’s brilliant, loud, and alive.
Pentecost is like this…
Each year, fifty days after Easter, the Church celebrates Pentecost — a moment when the Holy Spirit swept through a group of ordinary people and ignited an extraordinary movement. It’s a story of fire, wind, languages, and transformation – and it is not a quiet holiday.
Pentecost doesn’t creep in gently like Christmas Eve or whisper like Holy Saturday. Pentecost rushes in like a violent wind, sparks flames on foreheads, and sends people spilling into the streets speaking in strange tongues. It’s a day of holy chaos, of Spirit-born movement, of deep and surprising connection.
In Acts 2, we read that on the day of Pentecost, the followers of Jesus were all together in one place. Suddenly, the sound of a rushing wind filled the room, and what looked like tongues of fire appeared and rested on each of them. Then, empowered by the Spirit, they began to speak in other languages—not babble, but real languages—so that those gathered in Jerusalem from all over the world could hear the good news in their own tongue.
It’s a stunning moment: fire from heaven, uniting what the world had divided.
Too often, we think of fire as destructive. And it can be. But fire also purifies. Fire energizes. Fire connects. On Pentecost, fire didn’t burn things down—it lit people up.
This is the fire that connects.
At Pentecost, the Holy Spirit didn’t give everyone the same voice. It didn’t erase difference or uniformity. Instead, the Spirit empowered diverse voices to proclaim the same good news: that God is near, that love is alive, that Christ is risen. The miracle of Pentecost is not sameness—it’s unity in diversity.
That’s a message we desperately need today.
We live in a world marked by division—political, racial, religious, generational. The temptation is to retreat into echo chambers, to build walls instead of bridges. But the Spirit of Pentecost won’t let us do that. The Spirit calls us out of our locked rooms and into the streets. The Spirit ignites courage in our hearts and words in our mouths. The Spirit sets fire to fear and fuels the holy work of connection.
Pentecost reminds us that the church was born not in silence, but in sound. Not in isolation, but in community. Not in sameness, but in vibrant, multilingual diversity.
So let the wind blow! Let the fire fall!
May we be brave enough to carry that fire—to speak the words someone else needs to hear, to listen for the voice of God in unfamiliar accents and cultures and communities – to let the Spirit burn away apathy and spark in us a love that reaches across every boundary.
This is Pentecost.
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Tell Me about your North Star
We all have something—or someone—that helps us navigate the chaos. A voice we return to when the noise is too loud. A truth that grounds us. A presence that brings clarity when everything else feels like fog.
In the ancient world, sailors didn’t have GPS or satellite maps. They had stars—especially one – The North Star. It didn’t move like the others. It remained constant, a fixed point in the sky they could trust to guide them home.
We might not be sailing ships across open seas, but life often feels just as unpredictable. We’re tossed by grief, disappointment, uncertainty, or exhaustion. When that happens, we need something steady. A guiding truth. A voice that doesn’t shift with the wind.
So, out of curiosity, tell me about your North Star.
Maybe it’s your faith. A deep-rooted trust that God is good, even when life doesn’t feel that way. Maybe it’s a particular Scripture that you return to like a lighthouse in the storm.
Maybe your North Star is a person – A grandparent who loved you without condition; A teacher or mentor who believed in you; A friend who reminds you of who you are when you forget; A parent who simply held you tight when nothing seemed to be going your way.
Maybe it’s a value—a core conviction that anchors you. Kindness, no matter how the world treats you. Integrity, even when no one is watching. Hope, even when it’s hard.
For me, my North Star is the quiet, steady presence of God. Not flashy or loud, but simply there. Especially when I stop long enough to pay attention. When I listen instead of react. When I remember I’m held by something larger than myself.
The North Star doesn’t magically calm the storm. It doesn’t stop the waves. But, it gives direction. It helps me find center. It calls me by name to keep going.
What about you?
What keeps you grounded when everything else is spinning? What helps you remember who you are and why you’re here? What truth or presence or person helps you navigate toward home—whatever home looks like for you?
We all need a North Star.
So, take a breath. Look up. Listen.
You just might find it shining…
Mother’s Day: A Day of Remembrance
Later today – if all goes well – I will emerge from my weekly Sunday nap and remember to call my mother, and I will remember to call my brother to remind him to call our mother, and I will remember to tell my daughter to call both of her grandmothers because today is Mother’s Day!
Every second Sunday in May, florists rejoice, restaurants fill up, and social media timelines overflow with well-polished heartfelt tributes. Mother’s Day is, for many, a cherished occasion to honor the women who nurtured us. But not everyone greets this day with ease—or even approval.
So, is Mother’s Day a good thing? Or not? Like most things in life, the answer is… It’s complicated.
At its best, Mother’s Day is a reminder to slow down and say thank you. It’s a pause in the year to express gratitude to the women who ushered us into this life, raised us, and shaped our values. For some, it’s a chance to celebrate mentors, aunts, foster mothers, stepmothers, grandmothers—those who have mothered nonetheless.
Many families use this day to reconnect, reflect, and appreciate the work—so often invisible—that goes into raising children and holding families together. In a culture that often devalues care work, Mother’s Day can be a small but meaningful way to say: “We see you.”
But for others, this day is laced with grief, guilt, or even resentment.
Some grieve mothers who are gone. Others ache for relationships that were never healthy or loving to begin with. For those who long to be mothers and cannot—or who have lost children—the day can feel like a cruel spotlight on absence. And let’s not forget those for whom Mother’s Day brings stress, pressure, or painful memories instead of peace.
Even from a broader lens, some critique the commercialization of Mother’s Day. What began as a movement for peace and justice by Julia Ward Howe has become, in many ways, another opportunity for consumerism. The day can feel more like a sales pitch than a sacred moment.
Maybe the better question is: What if we held space for both?
What if we acknowledged the mothers who deserve to be celebrated, and the people for whom this day is heavy? What if our tributes could be tender without being trite? What if churches, workplaces, and communities could recognize the day without assuming it lands the same for everyone?
Mother’s Day doesn’t have to be all joy or all sorrow. Like so much of life, it’s a both/and. So, this year, whether you’re celebrating, grieving, avoiding brunch altogether, or somewhere in between—may you be gentle with yourself and others.
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Emotional Imprints: Celebrating Life and Saying Goodbye
The image you see is of myself and a magical man taken just a few years ago. This is Jim and he is my dearest friend’s father who passed away just a few short months ago. Something I know of Jim – He cared in the way he knew how for his friends and family. I know Jim had his faults – as we all do – but I knew him as a man of wit and wisdom who was always gracious to me and present in our conversations. Jim was a charming and debonair man who left an emotional imprint on my life and for that, I am forever grateful.
In the grand tapestry of life, moments of connection leave the deepest imprints on our hearts. Maya Angelou’s words resonate profoundly: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” As we journey through life, we encounter countless opportunities to uplift, support, and cherish those around us. These moments, whether brief or enduring, become part of the fabric of our relationships and our collective memory.
On Friday, I – alongside Jim’s daughter and my confidant, and many other friends and family – celebrated Jim’s life and said Farewell Good and Faithful Servant for now. Celebrating life and saying goodbye are two sides of the same coin, aren’t they? Whether we are rejoicing in a milestone or mourning a loss, the essence of our presence matters. In times of joy, our laughter, encouragement, and shared stories build bonds that transcend time. In moments of sorrow, our gentle words, warm embraces, and silent companionship offer solace that lingers long after words have faded.
When we celebrate life, we do more than mark a moment; we affirm the value of relationships and shared experiences. The warmth of a heartfelt conversation, the comfort of a reassuring touch, and the simple act of listening—all of these create a lasting legacy of love. Whether through acts of kindness or words of affirmation, we etch emotional imprints into the hearts of those we cherish.
Goodbyes, though often painful, hold profound significance. When we part ways—whether due to distance, change, or the finality of death—we carry forward the essence of those connections. Rituals, shared memories, and expressions of gratitude allow us to honor the past while embracing the future. Saying goodbye is not merely an end; it is an acknowledgment of the love and meaning that has been shared.
Maya Angelou’s wisdom reminds us that our greatest legacy is not in our accomplishments but is how we made others feel. The joy we impart, the compassion we extend, and the love we share become the echoes of our presence in the lives of others. Each moment of connection, however fleeting, leaves an imprint that transcends time.
As we navigate the complexities of life and loss, may we always remember the power of connection—the unseen threads that bind us together in love, memory, and meaning.
Today, I celebrate the imprint of Jim on my life and on so many…
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All Things Borrowed…
It was recently pointed out to me, that all things having to do with Jesus and his entry into the city on that blessed day that we now celebrate as Palm Sunday, were borrowed – nothing personally owned or ceremoniously presented to Jesus, simply borrowed. I have given this simple fact pause over the past few days as we enter communally into this sacred time.
As we all know, Palm Sunday isn’t just the beginning of Holy Week—it’s the beginning of the end and the beginning of the beginning. A strange hinge in time – so much of this moment is borrowed.
When Jesus approaches Jerusalem in Luke 19:28–40, he doesn’t ride in with the grandeur of a king. Instead, he borrows a colt – not a full-grown donkey, but a colt. Not a war horse; not a chariot; but a colt – A young donkey. Humble, unridden, and unremarkable—except for the One riding it. It’s as if Jesus is saying: Even the smallest, the least-used, the borrowed, can carry weight – metaphorically and literally.
And then the cloaks – No saddle; No regalia; Just cloaks—borrowed layers from the backs of people who probably didn’t have many to spare. They lined the colt, then the road. Their personal covering became the path for their Savior. It’s a quiet surrender. The people give what they have, not knowing how quickly crowds can change their cries from
“Hosanna” to “Crucify.”
Though Luke 19 ends in triumph, we know what lies ahead – we know where this story goes. And let us not forget that the most borrowed thing of all is the cross. Jesus carries it and he dies on it.
A borrowed colt and borrowed cloaks and a borrowed cross. And somewhere in that tangled web of humility, surrender, and sacrifice—we are each invited in. To lay down what we carry. To offer all we have. To remember that the most eternal moments often begin with something borrowed.
This Palm Sunday, may we not only wave our branches but also surrender our cloaks. May we remember the borrowed cross and celebrate this humble beginning.
Blessings to you on this journey,
Rev. Dr. Kelly Jackson Brooks, LPCC
Executive Director
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Friendships and the Sunrise: Light for Today’s World
On Easter morning, I had the great pleasure of standing and serving communion with a dear friend and colleague. You see, my friend invited me to assist her during the Easter Sunrise Service at the church she serves and I attend with my daughter. Any yes, there were tears of joy to be invited and to share in this Holy Sighting – What a perfect way to start the Easter celebration!
There’s something timeless about gathering in the early morning darkness, waiting together for the first light to break across the horizon. It’s quiet, expectant. The world is still, and in that stillness, we’re reminded that some things—like the sunrise—never stop showing up, no matter how heavy the night has been.
Sunrise services have long been a tradition in the Christian faith, often held on Easter morning as a way to celebrate resurrection, renewal, and hope. But in today’s world, these early gatherings speak to more than just ancient tradition—they speak to our need for connection, presence, and light in every form it comes.
One of the most powerful things about a sunrise service isn’t just the rising sun itself. It’s who you’re standing with while you wait for it.
In a time when life can feel fragmented—our days split between emails and errands, social media and strained schedules—the chance to come together in the quiet with others is a gift. It’s a reminder that we are not alone. That even as the world spins with uncertainty, there are constants we can count on: the turning of the earth, the slow, sure spread of light, and the steady presence of friends.
Friendships, like the sunrise, are often made up of small, quiet, and Holy moments. A text that says, “thinking of you.” A cup of coffee shared before the day begins. A hand held in silence when words fall short. These moments may not make headlines, but they are the moments that hold us together.
In today’s world, friendship might be one of the most radical things we can practice. True friendship—the kind that listens without fixing, stays without needing answers, and walks with you in the dark—is both rare and revolutionary. It’s a form of resistance against loneliness, fear, and the rush to produce and perform.
And so, the sunrise service becomes more than a tradition. It becomes a metaphor, a lived experience, and a gentle protest against despair. It says, “We are still here. We are still rising. And we are not doing it alone.”
As the sky shifts from shadow to light, we’re reminded that hope isn’t always loud or flashy. Sometimes it just looks like a few people standing side by side, watching the sun come up, and believing—together—that the light is worth waiting for.
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Asking the Right Question: What is The Why?
In a world that moves faster every day, we are constantly bombarded with decisions, distractions, and demands. It’s easy to fall into the trap of reacting rather than reflecting. We ask, What should I do next? How do I get this done faster? Who needs to be involved?—all valid questions. But sometimes, they aren’t the right questions.
The most transformative question we can ask in any conversation is this: What is the why?
Why takes us beneath the surface. It uncovers purpose. It challenges assumptions. It brings clarity when the path ahead feels foggy or overwhelming. Without a clear why, even our best efforts can feel hollow or misdirected. With it, our actions align with a deeper mission—and that changes everything!
When we pause and ask What is the why?, a few powerful things happen:
- We find focus. Instead of chasing every opportunity or making hap-hazard assumptions, we begin to discern what truly matters.
- We inspire others. A clear purpose is contagious. When people understand the why, they are far more likely to rally around it.
- We endure challenges. When storms come – and they will – purpose and knowing the why is what keeps us anchored.
- We measure success differently. Achievement isn’t just about reaching a goal; it’s about staying true to the reason we set out in the first place.
In your personal life, your work, your faith, your relationships—whatever the arena—the why shapes the how and the what.
Maybe today you’re at a crossroads. Or maybe you’re just feeling the low-grade exhaustion that comes from doing a lot without a clear sense of meaning. Either way, it’s a good time to stop and ask: What is the why?
You might be surprised by how much shifts when you start from there!
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