Two hands, brought together to form a shape of a heart. Public domain.
At the end of one of the support groups I lead, we have a small tradition. Everyone brings their hands together and makes the shape of a heart. We do it on Zoom every week, right before we sign off. I don’t even remember how it started, but over time, it’s become part of the rhythm of the group.
Yesterday, we had a new person join us. Toward the end, someone explained it to her gently: “We want this to be a welcoming space, and we hope you’ll come back. We always close like this.” And then I watched seven women, each in her own little Zoom square, lift her hands and cup them together, offering this shared, visual expression of care to one another.
It touched me. Nothing about it is complicated. It’s not scripted or dramatic. It takes just a few seconds. And yet, it communicates so much—you matter, you belong, we’re glad you’re here.
These small, repeated rhythms shape the spaces we’re in. They quietly set a tone. They teach us how to show up for one another. And over time, they change what a group feels like, what it becomes.
Last week, a YouTube influencer went viral after visiting daycares run by Somali immigrant communities in Minnesota and claiming that they were committing fraud. In response, the current administration canceled all childcare payments, not only to the facilities under scrutiny (where fraud has not been legally established), but to childcare programs across five states governed by Democrats.
Many people in this country are one missed paycheck away from serious financial hardship, even homelessness. How do you go to work when your children need care and suddenly have nowhere to go?
And how many times in the past year have entire communities lost resources or been subjected to suspicion and blame because of the alleged actions of one individual, one organization, or one system?
This should be obvious, but it also must be said: Collective punishment is wrong.
Three drinks held by different hands over a table. Public domainimage.
We are living in unpredictable times. I know that’s an understatement.
I’m writing this on a day that feels relatively routine. In fact, after some time away, today is my first day back in my usual rhythm. But on Saturday morning, I woke to the news of the bombings in Caracas and the capture of Nicolás Maduro, and I’ll admit that I was shocked. That was certainly unpredictable.
And alongside that, every day we see immigrants torn from their families; farmers struggling under tariffs; small businesses wondering whether they can keep their doors open; trans youth fearing the loss of medical care; and people experiencing sticker shock from a simple grocery receipt. Even if we feel comfortable right now, we know these conditions are unstable. That doesn’t mean everything is doomed, or that we can’t continue to add our own advocacy to these very real needs. We can. But we are living with a deep sense of uncertainty, especially in our collective life.
In unpredictable times, perhaps one of the things we need most ispredictable care.
That means leaning into community relationships wherever we can. It means reaching out and staying connected with people we love. It involves introducing people to one another and helping networks of care take root.
Years ago, I remember reading a reflection by Hugh Hallowell, the founder of Love Wins Ministries in North Carolina. He shared that the opposite of homelessness isn’t simply being housed. The real opposite of homelessness, he said, is community, because when people are surrounded by vital, sustaining relationships, the chances are much higher that they won’t end up without a place to go.
In this era of unpredictability, it may be time to invest especially in our relationships and to expand them, for ourselves and for others. We need support, care, shared resources, and collective advocacy.
I have very dear friends in Caracas. In the early morning hours on Saturday, people had to hide with their children as U.S. bombs fell on their city, and of course, all of Venezuela woke up to the knowledge that their President had been captured and removed by the United States. Whatever anyone may think of Nicolas Maduro as a leader, bombings, a naval blockade, and political upheaval are sure to further destabilize a country with a fragile economy — all while people desire peace.
Even though much has been building to this moment — U.S. bombings of boats in the Caribbean; inconsistent and sometimes nonexistent briefings to Congress; and certainly, dehumanizing rhetoric about the Venezuelan people both within our country and theirs — I was shocked that this happened. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been.
Most of all, I’m concerned for my friends and all the people in Caracas. I hope they can remain steady and be supported in efforts for peace.
In the summer of 2024, I took a Danube River Cruise. It was a tremendous experience, and I was able to see parts of Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, and Germany. Each day held a new adventure. In the evenings, I loved returning to my cabin and receiving the next day’s itinerary. It usually included walking tours in different cities, the quiet beauty of drifting down the river, decadent meals, and a variety of evening activities.
When I came home from that trip, my days were far more mundane. I re-entered a rhythm of housecleaning, trips to the grocery store, and full workweeks. No longer did most dinners include wine and dessert.
And yet, I do think I kept something from that experience — a sense of dailyness, that is, an internal orientation that each day could still hold something unique. I stayed open to discovery.
Birthdays can be like that, too.
Yesterday, I had one of the best birthdays of my life. Over the last ten days, I’ve been visiting loved ones in San Antonio, and my birthday itself included a pedicure, lunch at a French restaurant, a river barge cruise along the San Antonio Riverwalk, and an unhinged e-bike ride (which is what we call our especially long rides). And throughout the day, I heard from people I love in phone calls, texts, and social media messages.
Like the Danube Cruise, not every day can be a birthday. But days like this remind me of the kinds of days I want to cultivate more often —
days when people are centered and cherished more than tasks, days when life feels purposeful simply because we feel connected, and days when we sense love and know we can share it beyond ourselves.
So here’s to 44. And here’s to a whole lot of un-birthdays that keep prioritizing these things, too.
I’m a Hoosier. Typically, I don’t even watch football, but I was raised on Indiana University sports. It was a big family pastime — something I still feel in my bones even if a lot of time has passed between viewing games.
This Indiana football team has been exceptional all season, so the win itself wasn’t a total shock if you’ve been paying attention. And still, if someone had imagined Indiana in the Rose Bowl five, ten, or even twenty years ago — let alone winning it — it would’ve sounded like a pipe dream. Too many losses over decades.
I watched yesterday’s game, and I felt joy.
If we’re looking for an excellent symbol at the start of 2026, Indiana winning the Rose Bowl is a great one.
Here’s to all the underdogs who learned how great they can be.
Rocks in the shape of a heart in the sand on the beach. Public domain.
I always feel a little internal pressure to say something insightful at the beginning of the year, but truthfully, the first day of the year is a relatively arbitrary marker. Still, the “fresh start” effect is a helpful phenomenon, and it can propel us forward in ways we consciously choose.
Above all, though, I’m taking my cue from the Rev. Nadia Bolz-Weber, who shared a post this week reminding us that there are no resolutions we could keep that would make us more lovable or worthy. Likewise, there are no lapses that could make us less lovable or worthy. And in the year ahead, we can practice affirming the worth of those around us, staying attentive to the needs of others, and working for a better world.
And if January 1 is an arbitrary date to mark the first day of a year, then we can choose any date — or any moment — to start again.
Me, smiling while wearing multiple sunglasses. I was making a memory at the Wellness & Epilepsy Conference.
I suppose I’ll let this cat out of the bag: early in 2025, I came very close to moving. It wasn’t driven by dissatisfaction with where I am, but by a compelling work opportunity in a city I’ve long dreamed of living in. In the end, it fell through, and I found out on my birthday. Major womp womp.
At first, I was really sad. But with a bit of distance, I’ve come to feel deeply grateful. When I look at the entirety of 2025, I realize I lived a very particular kind of year — one I would not have had otherwise.
This summer in Ann Arbor, I — as Gen Z says — left no crumbs. I barely traveled. Instead, I created wonderful experiences at home, with adventures alongside friends, long bike rides, new restaurants, and time spent immersed in nature. I set a simple intention to make a memory every day, and I kept a list of those memories. It wasn’t that every day needed something monumental, but I wanted at least one moment I could return to later and say, “Remember when we…” or “Remember when I…?” Some days that meant trying a new coffee shop. Other days it meant special meals or small adventures with people I love.
Likewise, there was so much to celebrate in my work this year. In 2025, I was able to do a dream project with the Epilepsy Foundation of Michigan, reimagining how we offer support-group-style care and creating new pockets of community across Southeast Michigan. We received a grant from the Community Foundation for Southeast Michigan that allowed us to launch a pilot project called Synergy Support Circles.
This work involved training peer leaders to offer in-person support in restaurants and coffee shops throughout the Detroit region. These circles formed around shared geography, identity, affinity, or activities. We trained eight leaders, and rather than dictating what groups should exist, we baked creativity into the training itself. That’s how seven uniquely named groups emerged — each becoming a hub of friendship and connection for people with epilepsy. The grant also provided transportation support so people could actually get to one another and participate.
Now we’re poised to spread this care model to other parts of the state. We serve the entire geographic region of Michigan, and many people with epilepsy don’t drive. Historically, for these reasons, our support groups have been virtual. They’ve also been staff-led. With peer leaders, we can do so much more. With in-person options, we can connect in a new way.
Personally, I loved the year I had. I’ve grieved what has been unfolding in our national life. Project 2025 has caused real harm for many, and even when I’m not directly impacted, I feel that weight too. Yet alongside all of that, I’m deeply grateful for a year that simply would not have existed had I packed up and moved.
Sometimes the roads we don’t take still carry us somewhere important. They root us more deeply where we are. They surprise us with friendships, work, joy, and meaning we couldn’t have planned. I experienced that this year, and I’m grateful.
A pile of magnets with various words on them. Public domain image.
I’ve been thinking lately about benedictions. These are simple phrases we say at the end of a moment, a gathering, or a conversation. When we begin to expect them, they gather weight. They remind us that we belong somewhere. Over time, they become a form of care we carry with us.
Before he died, my chosen Dad and I had a benediction we offered one another at the end of phone calls. He would begin with a smile I could hear through the line:
“Now remember, you’re loved as strange as you are.”
And I would respond,
“And you’re loved as strange as you are.”
It was playful. Affectionate. Uncomplicated. I’m smiling as I write this now.
Sometimes, in recent years, as I’ve helped lead worship services, I’ve noticed myself ending with another benediction:
“There’s a love you cannot lose. And that means it’s yours to share.”
Typed out, it might sound matter-of-fact. Maybe even a little plain. But spoken aloud, it carries the tone of discovery — warm, steady, and freeing. I like saying it. I like offering it.
Benedictions aren’t conclusions. They’re reminders. They send us out knowing we are already claimed, already held.
Smuggling Grace 