Between familiar and unknown

I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. My mind has been crowded with thoughts bouncing between what I believe, what I long for, and where I belong. I’ve felt detached from my local church for a while now, and that disconnection, combined with my growing curiosity about the Catholic Church, has stirred something deep inside me. I wouldn’t call it a crisis of faith, but perhaps a reckoning of it.

I’ve been a member of my home church for close to 19-years. But something shifted after Covid. The rhythms, the people, the sense of belonging. Sundays became unpredictable. Pastoral transitions, familiar faces gone, new ones I didn’t know. The church didn’t feel wrong, just different. And maybe that’s what unsettled me most: how quickly something familiar could become foreign.

I’ve wrestled with the question of whether the problem lies in my own restlessness or in something larger. I’ve thought about visiting other churches but the idea of starting over feels daunting. And if I’m honest, I wonder whether I’d simply find the same restlessness waiting for me under a different name.

Because the truth is, some of what I’m wrestling with runs deeper than a particular congregation. It’s about the shape of worship itself.

I’ve grown weary of services where the songs seem to orbit around us, our desires, our feelings, our experiences, rather than the holiness and majesty of God. I long for music that helps me lift my eyes, not just my emotions. I’ve struggled too with sermon-heavy worship that feels more like instruction than encounter. And I ache for communion that’s more than a hurried ritual, a wafer and cup detached from the sacred mystery they represent.

It was out of that longing that I first started exploring Catholicism, not as a convert-in-waiting, but as a curious Protestant father trying to understand what drew my son toward the Church. Yet the more I read, prayed, and asked questions, the more something inside me began to soften. Maybe even awaken.

I’ve spoken with a few friends who feel similarly adrift. I’ve read books, watched videos, and plan to start attending an OCIA class at the local parish to learn more. I don’t know where all this will lead, but I sense God’s invitation in the wrestling itself, to keep asking, to keep seeking, to let Him shepherd me into truth.

Part of me wants to play it safe, to just keep showing up, keep doing what’s familiar, keep fitting faith into the same shape it’s always had. But another part of me knows that safety can easily become stagnation. And when I attend a service and walk away thinking, This can’t be what God intended, I realize I can’t ignore that dissonance anymore.

I don’t want a faith that’s about comfort or convenience. I want a faith that draws me to my knees. I want to worship in spirit and in truth, to encounter the living God with reverence and awe.

Maybe that’s what this season is really about: not leaving something behind, but being led somewhere deeper.

A Father's Day Meditation

Father’s Day always feels like a knot I carry in my chest.
Not unbearable, just there—
tight with memory and mystery.
Because I didn’t grow up with a dad around.
Not really.
He was gone when I was still small enough to believe
that everyone had someone to build their pinewood derby car with.

So when I became a father,
I walked into it with empty hands.
No blueprint, no model—
just love, a little fear, and a prayer
that grace could build what history left undone.

With my three kids,
it’s been everything—
laughter echoing down hallways,
arguments over nothing and everything,
trips to the ER,
inside jokes that still make us laugh,
text messages that leave a lump in my throat.

I’ve watched them come alive—
in their passions, their questions, their becoming.
And I’ve watched them come undone.
Sometimes both in the same week.

There’s a kind of dying that comes with parenting—
the slow surrender of control,
of certainty,
of being able to fix what hurts.
You watch them become their own people,
and you ache—
not because you want them to stay small,
but because you love them so fiercely,
you feel it in your bones.

But there’s joy, too—
the quiet kind that sneaks up on you.
When you catch a glimpse of their courage.
Or watch them comfort a friend.
Or hear them speak truth with a voice
that’s somehow both familiar and entirely their own.

I’ve made mistakes.
Things I’d do differently if I had the chance.
But I also know this:
love covered more ground than I thought it would.
God filled in more cracks than I ever could.

These days I pray more.
Not just the “protect them” prayers,
but the “form them” ones—
shape them, Lord,
even if it’s hard.

And somewhere in the quiet,
I hear the echo of the Father I never had
but always needed—
the one who never left,
never flinched,
never withheld.

So today,
I hold the ache and the hallelujah.
I carry both.
Because being a dad
has wounded me in the holiest of ways.
And it’s also lit up corners of my heart
I didn’t know existed.

What a gift.
What a wonder.
What a grace.

An interruption well lived

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ve been thinking about interruptions all wrong. I tend to get frustrated when life throws unexpected detours my way—plans get derailed, schedules shift, something or someone demands my attention when I’d rather be doing something else. I catch myself thinking, If I could just get past this distraction, I could really get on with life. But what if these aren’t just interruptions to life? What if they are life?

C.S. Lewis wrote, “The truth is, of course, that what one calls the interruptions are precisely one’s real life—the life God is sending one day by day.” That quote hit me hard when I came across it this week. Because if I’m honest, I spend a lot of time resisting the very moments that make up my actual, lived experience. I have a tendency to see real life as something just beyond my reach—waiting for me once I finish my to-do list, once I solve this problem, once I feel better, once I get past whatever today’s inconvenience happens to be. But what if this—the mess, the unpredictability, the unplanned conversations, the detours, this sickness and pain—is exactly the life I’m meant to be present for?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot in light of my recent hospital visits and medical issues. None of that was part of my plan. It was inconvenient, frustrating, even a little scary. I wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else. But looking back, I can see that those experiences weren’t just obstacles to get past—they were moments that shaped me. The forced stillness, the conversations with doctors and nurses, the unexpected grace of people showing up for me—those weren’t just disruptions; they were reminders of what really matters.

Jesus seemed to understand this better than anyone. So many of the moments that changed people’s lives happened in what looked like interruptions. He was on His way somewhere when a woman reached out to touch His garment. He was traveling when a blind beggar cried out to Him. He was teaching when children ran up, and instead of shooing them away, He welcomed them. From one perspective, His whole ministry was just a series of interruptions. But He didn’t treat them as distractions from His real work—He made them His real work.

Lately, I’ve been participating in a Bible study at church where we’ve been working through the book of James, where he urges believers to “Consider it a great joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you experience various trials,” (James 1:2). That’s a radical statement—joy, in trials? But James isn’t saying we should force a smile through hardship. He’s pointing to something deeper: the idea that trials refine us, shape our character, mature us in our faith, and deepen our dependence on God. Maybe these so-called interruptions—these unexpected moments of difficulty—are actually the very means by which God is forming something in me that wouldn’t exist otherwise.

So what does that mean for me? For you? I don’t have an easy answer. But I wonder how different life might feel if I stopped resenting and resisting the things that disrupt my plans and started receiving them as invitations. Invitations to grow, to listen, to be fully where I am instead of wishing I were somewhere else. Invitations to trust that even in the moments that feel inconvenient or frustrating, something meaningful is happening.

I don’t have this figured out. I still get impatient. I still wish things would go the way I expect and desire. But I’m trying—trying to hold my plans more loosely, to embrace the interruptions instead of resisting them. Because maybe, just maybe, they’re not interruptions at all. Maybe they’re the very moments through which God is teaching me joy.

Hope is enough for today

Hope is a powerful thing. As someone traveling the road of faith, I’ve long understood its importance, but today I was reminded just how tangible it can be.

At a doctor’s appointment, after a rough six days, we discussed a new plan—one that included different medication my doctor believed would better manage my pain. She explained why she thought it would be more effective, and I noticed something: even though I hadn’t started taking it yet, even though we don’t know for sure if it will work, just hearing that there was a next step—just the hope of relief—shifted something in me. My pain didn’t change in that moment, but my outlook did.

It struck me how often hope works this way. It doesn’t erase the struggle, but it changes how we carry it. Sometimes, just knowing there’s a path forward makes all the difference.

Well, today was my first time at a Catholic mass since I was a kid (which I attended only once, and that was a result of spending the night at a Catholic friend’s house in the 5th grade). As an outsider, it was challenging given that everyone else seemed to know what and when to do and say things. I paid close attention and did my best to follow along. I was familiar with a hymn and I knew the scripture readings. I was able to hear and identify a few lines that I recognized as the Nicene Creed. But other than that, I just followed the crowd (when to stand and sit) except when it was time to receive communion. I knew enough to leave that for those who have been baptized in the Catholic Church.

There are a few things that stood out to me and that I appreciated about it. Perhaps I even appreciated some of these things more than what I’m used to experiencing on a typical Sunday at the local non-denominational church where I’ve worshipped for the past 17 years. I have some more ruminating to do on the experience overall before I can adequately express my thoughts but here are just a few things that jumped out at me and that I appreciated:

  • The multi-faceted diversity that was evident. Generationally, socio-economically, race, nationalities, languages, etc…
  • The structure of the mass. I’ve previously heard from others who perceive a mass as going through the motions of a rote ritual, but my experience today had me thinking about how it supported a certain unity in reverence, focus, and devotion of everyone in attendance.
  • Speaking of focus, Jesus was the main and only attraction. It wasn’t about the personality of the speaker or how clever, encouraging, or inspiring their sermon (in this case, homily) was. Everything about the mass was focused on the person, work, and word of Jesus.

More to come but overall I was able to get past the initial feeling of being intimidated about not knowing what to expect or what to do and ultimately I’m glad I went. Especially since it was important to my son that we were there.

I watched just a snippet of an interview Kate Bowler did with Fr. Greg Boyle and he said something that I’ve found myself chewing on a bit this morning.

“I believe God protects me from nothing but sustains me in everything.”

Our church is currently going through a sermon series on prayer. Coincidentally, my daily Readwise review included the following highlight today:

An excerpt on prayer from the book, “Run With the Horses” by Eugene Peterson.

Was sorting through some old papers in a desk drawer and found this. It’s been quite a while (as evidenced by the old branding) since Alaska Airlines set these down on the tray table with the in-flight snacks.

Alaska Airline prayer card - Psalm 9:2

While reading today’s entry in ‘Streams in the Desert,’ I came across the following quote:

“Believe God’s word and power more than you believe your own feelings and experiences. Your Rock is Christ, and it is not the Rock which ebbs and flows, but your sea.” - Samuel Rutherford

This was offered in the context of distinguishing between the fact of God’s presence, and the emotion of the fact.

Learning to dance with a limp

I spent some time reflecting on last week’s sentencing hearing. Throughout the three hours in the courtroom, the judge maintained a stoic demeanor, silently listening. However, towards the end, after delivering sentences to the two defendants who took my sister-in-law’s life, the judge shared some words of comfort with our family. She acknowledged a painful truth – that we don’t have a “justice” system capable of bringing Lori back to life. Instead, we operate within a “legal” system that simply guides her decision on the duration of the defendants’ imprisonment.

In a poignant moment, the judge directly addressed my young daughter, who earlier had bravely expressed the impact of her aunt’s murder. The judge wanted her to understand that, despite the tragedy, the court also plays a role in happier events like adoptions and marriages. (Ironically, as we left the court that evening and stepped off the first-floor elevator, a large wedding party in the foyer was capturing joyful moments.)

The judge then shared a quote attributed to Anne Lamott:

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken. The bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

In the context of the hearing (both through some of the victim impact statements as well as photos of Lori) the judge picked up on the fact that Lori enjoyed dancing. Lori was known for spontaneous dance parties, using them as a vehicle to express her joy. The judge encouraged us to honor Lori by learning to dance with a limp – acknowledging our wounds, feeling the pain, and adapting our moves. Even if it’s not the same, she urged us to keep dancing.

The truth is, living on this earth brings inevitable limps – physical, emotional, or spiritual. Most of us are already walking with a limp; I certainly am. Yet, I realize the need to dance more. To actively seek joy in every moment and, when it seems elusive, to strive to create it—for myself and others. And when I do, perhaps, just perhaps, I need to dance and think of Lori.