Every parish I have ever served — urban, rural, lakeside, or nestled between a Tim Hortons and a tractor dealership — has had one thing in common: the mysterious drawer of candles.

You know the one.
It’s usually in the sacristy, or occasionally hiding beneath the fair-linen cupboard like an oversized chipmunk wintering stash. It opens with a slight groan, as though warning you to proceed at your own risk, and inside lies a collection of candles so varied that one might assume Indiana Jones moonlighted as a parish sacristan.

There are half-burned Paschal candles from years no one remembers. There are stubs of Advent candles — usually three purple and one pink that’s suspiciously half the length of the others, suggesting that somewhere along the line someone really needed some extra joy. There are beeswax tapers, leftover altar candles, tea-lights that appear to date from the early Pleistocene era, and a chunky candle with a dove sticker that no one claims to have purchased.

And then there are the mystery bags:
    •    A zip-top containing two candles, a dried palm leaf, and a lone birthday candle.
    •    A grocery bag full of votives for a vigil that must have happened, though no one recalls why.
    •    A collection of red glass holders, clearly used at some point but now coated in wax in ways that defy the laws of physics and probably several canons.

Parish lore around these drawers is rich.
One Altar Guild Directress once told me, with great seriousness, “We keep these because you never know when the bishop might show up unexpectedly.” I didn’t have the heart to explain that unless the bishop arrived with a sudden need for 47 mismatched votives and a half-burned Epiphany star, we might not be as prepared as she hoped.

But beneath the gentle chaos lies something deeply Anglican and quietly beautiful. Candles are signs of feast days kept, prayers whispered, vigils held, Advents waited through, and Holy Weeks shouldered. They are symbols of community memory—some bright, some dim, but all still offering a little light.

Even the forgotten ones tell stories: the tealight from the night we stayed late with someone in grief; the taper saved from the Easter fire when hope blazed; the tiny stub used during a power outage when the choir gamely kept practising in the half-dark. (They sang flat, but with sincerity.)

And so, the drawer remains.
Not because we need more things to sort, or because members of the Altar Guild enjoy living dangerously, but because God’s people have always gathered around small lights — some intentional, others accidental, all pointing toward Christ’s great light that “shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

If ever there were an archaeological site worth preserving, it is the parish candle drawer: a little museum of faith, wax, and wicks — testifying that every moment we shared mattered enough to light something.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You are the Light that guides our steps and warms our hearts.
We thank you for every candle lit in hope, in sorrow, in celebration, and in quiet prayer.
Bless the simple signs of our life together—wax, wicks, drawers of holy clutter—
that remind us of your presence in every season.
As we carry your light into the world,
may we shine with gentleness, humour, and grace.
Through Christ our Lord, Amen

Somewhere in my study—likely under a pile of hymnals, three bulletins from last month, and a sermon idea scribbled on the back of a grocery receipt—there exists a To-Do List. I say “exists” in the same way one says the Loch Ness Monster “exists”—with conviction, affection, and absolutely no verifiable evidence.

The Rector’s To-Do List is a curious creature. It begins each week with hope and promise, a tidy column of achievable tasks written in my best liturgical handwriting. “Email parishioner.” “Plan Advent sermon series.” “Find missing thurible chain.” All straightforward. All noble. All soon to be overshadowed by the unexpected realities of parish life.

Because just when I am about to cross something off — say, “Review meeting minutes” — the doorbell rings. It is either a delivery driver who is certain this is definitely the other rectory across town, or someone needing a moment of pastoral care, or a raccoon inspecting our compost container with theological curiosity. And suddenly, the To-Do List grows another page, while nothing is crossed off the old one.

Every priest I know has the same list. Some hide theirs in a leather-bound planner. Some keep it digitally. Others write tasks on their hands like teenagers studying for exams. But the items that remain eternally uncrossed are always the same:
    •    Organize office bookshelves (a task that now requires a specialist in both archaeology and spiritual discernment).
    •    Sort out the “miscellaneous” drawer (a drawer which mysteriously multiplies its contents overnight, much like the loaves and fishes but less edible).
    •    Refill the church pens (where do they go? A monastery for runaway ballpoints?).
    •    Update the parish website (always tomorrow, never today).

And then there is the item at the very bottom, written in smaller letters than the rest because it feels so lofty: Rest.
That one seldom gets crossed off either.

But here’s what I’ve learned: unfinished does not mean unfaithful.

Jesus Himself lived with an un-crossed-off list. The Gospels never describe Him saying, “Apostles, gather round — I’ve completed everything I planned for today.” What they do show is a life attentive to interruptions as moments of grace, encounters as opportunities for love, and delays as invitations to trust God more than our tidy systems.

The work of ministry — and truly, the work of Christian living — is not measured in completed checkboxes but in the ways we show up with compassion when life rearranges our schedule. If anything, the items we don’t cross off remind us we are not the Saviour; we simply serve Him, one slightly chaotic day at a time.

So if your list looks like mine — well-thumbed, aspirational, and often rearranged by the Holy Spirit — be at peace. God is far more interested in the posture of the heart than the perfection of the planner.

And now, I should probably go find that thurible chain. It’s been on the list since 2018.

⸻

Companion Prayer

Gracious and patient God,
You know the lists we make and the ones that make us.
You see the tasks we finish with joy,
and the ones we carry from week to week,
hoping for more time, more energy, more clarity.

Teach us to welcome holy interruptions,
to see Your presence in the unexpected knock,
the unplanned conversation,
the neighbour in need,
and even the chaos of our calendars.

Grant us grace to work faithfully,
rest honestly,
and trust that You hold all things—
including our unfinished tasks —
in Your gentle and capable hands.

Bless our striving, bless our stopping,
and bless the people we serve along the way.
Through Jesus Christ,
the Lord of our days and keeper of our lists.
Amen

There is a particular sound a ladle makes when it dips into a pot of soup. It’s not quite a swoosh, not quite a plop — more like the gentle exhale of a pot that has been simmering long enough to develop opinions. That sound has become, for me, a kind of sacramental moment. A ladle lowered into a pot is not unlike a priest lifting a chalice: both actions speak of nourishment, sharing, and a mercy that is meant to be distributed, not hoarded.

Over the years — through community meals, food bank ministry, having a large soup kitchen in the cathedral hall, and a seemingly endless number of parish suppers — I have become convinced that God is often found lurking suspiciously close to soup. There is something profoundly incarnational about hot broth passed to cold hands. Jesus may have fed multitudes with bread and fish, but I am certain He would have approved of a good lentil stew. Indeed, in my more whimsical moments, I imagine the Feeding of the Five Thousand resembling a well-run parish kitchen: someone’s missing the ladle, someone else is explaining that they brought gluten-free barley, and the disciples are whispering, “Why didn’t we plan this better?” while Jesus quietly multiplies the menu behind them.

In real parish life, soup is its own liturgy. You begin with the ritual of peeling vegetables — an activity I firmly believe should be added to the Book of Occasional Services under The Blessing of Stubborn Carrots. Then comes the sauté, the stirring, the inevitable question from a well-meaning volunteer: “Do you think it needs more salt?” (The correct pastoral answer, by the way, is always, “Let’s taste and see.”)

But the true theology of the ladle comes alive at serving time. There is something holy about looking into a person’s eyes as you offer them something warm, simple, and sustaining. In the food bank line, or at a weekly lunch where no one is asked to prove their worthiness, soup becomes a sacrament of enough. Not extravagance. Not scarcity. Enough. A ladle full of dignity. A bowl full of welcome. A serving of the Kingdom of God, steaming gently on a cold day.

And what a curious shape the ladle is — half spoon, half scoop, half minor architectural miracle. It is shaped, I think, like the human heart: meant to receive, meant to give, and always holding just a little more than you first thought possible. It teaches us the rhythm of Christian hospitality: dip, fill, serve. Dip, fill, serve. The repetitive, almost contemplative cycle of a grace that keeps moving outward.

Some of the most profound pastoral conversations I’ve ever had have been in fellowship halls beside large pots that could, in moments of stress, double as baptismal fonts. People talk differently over soup. They soften. They open. Like onions in a simmering broth, they become part of a communal flavour that is richer together than alone. Soup, I have learned, is ecumenical — Presbyterians, Anglicans, Baptists, and the spiritually undecided all agree that a bowl of something warm is better than a stomach of nothing.

And then there is the ladle itself — the humble servant of the pot. Not glamorous. Not elegant. Not even particularly photogenic. But essential. It reminds us that ministry is rarely flashy. Most days it looks like simple acts of kindness repeated faithfully: a pot stirred, a bowl filled, a stranger welcomed, a table made ready for whoever comes.

The spirituality of soup is simply this:

When we make room for others at our table, we make room for God at our hearts.

And God, it turns out, has always been found in kitchens — multiplying loaves, warming hearts, and perhaps seasoning the broth when we’re not looking.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

You who fed crowds on hillsides and warmed weary travellers in Emmaus, teach us the holiness of simple meals shared in love.

Bless the pots that simmer, the hands that serve, and the hearts that gather. May every bowl offered be a sign of Your abundance, every ladle a reminder of Your compassion, and every shared meal a taste of Your Kingdom — where no one is hungry and all are welcomed home.

Amen

If you had told the newly ordained version of me — thirty-one years ago this St. Andrew’s Day — that ministry would include everything from baptizing babies who later became vestry members, to navigating church basements that defy the laws of physics, to discovering that “the copier is possessed” is not a theological statement but a weekly reality… I might have smiled nervously and asked for a transfer to quieter pastures. Somewhere like Iceland. Or a Trappist monastery with a vow of silence.

But here we are. Three decades and a year later, and I find myself overflowing with a very Anglican form of gratitude — measured, reflective, seasoned with tea, and occasionally interrupted by a rogue thurible swing.

This is a thanksgiving for the people.

The ones whose hands I’ve held at hospital bedsides, and the ones who have dragged me (cheerfully or otherwise) into new forms of ministry. The confirmands who asked impossible questions. The elders who told stories better than any textbook. The children who offered theology involving dinosaurs, rainbows, and cookies — sometimes all at once.

In every parish I’ve served — from small family-style churches held together by hope and duct tape, to suburban congregations with bulletins thick enough to stun a moose, to A Cathedral with one of the longest histories of any in Canada — I have found the same mysterious grace: people who genuinely want to follow Jesus, even if we don’t always walk in straight lines.

This is a thanksgiving for the parishes.

Each one has left fingerprints on my soul:

• Churches where the kettle was always on, and so were the lights, because someone forgot to turn them off.
• Communities where laughter in the parish hall carried the weight of resurrection joy.
• Places where the Gospel didn’t stay safely in the pulpit but wandered out the front door into neighbourhoods, food banks, shelters, and hospital corridors.

I’ve discovered that parish life is much like the loaves and fishes — God repeatedly takes what feels small, blesses it, breaks it open, and feeds far more people than seems remotely possible (especially when it comes to coffee hour).

And this is a thanksgiving for the calling itself.

To live a life serving God is to wake each day to the astonishing truth that the Creator of the universe is still in the business of using ordinary, flawed, sometimes-forgetful people to proclaim extraordinary love. That God keeps entrusting us with stories, sacraments, and holy mischief. That grace keeps appearing in unexpected places — like parking lots, council meetings, funerals where laughter sneaks in, and baptisms where the child enthusiastically splashes back.

Being a priest has never been dull. Holy, yes. Humbling, absolutely. Occasionally hilarious — without question.

But through every season, God has been faithful: nudging, steadying, forgiving, renewing. Calling again and again: “Follow me.” And somehow, miraculously, we do.

So this St. Andrew’s Day, I give thanks. For you. For every one of you who has shared the journey, the pew, the potluck casserole, the prayer, the grief, the joy, the hope. Ministry is never a solo act — it is a long pilgrimage of companions, saints, question-askers, grace-bearers, and tea-drinkers. And I am grateful beyond words to have walked with you.

Here’s to whatever God dreams next.

Companion Prayer

Gracious and loving God,

For all the years of ministry, for the people who have shaped my heart, for the parishes that have been home, and for the privilege of serving you — I give thanks.

Bless those I have walked with along the way: those who taught me, challenged me, laughed with me, and trusted me with their stories.

Continue to guide my steps that I may serve with joy, humility, and hope. Make my life a witness to your grace, and keep surprising me with your love. Through Jesus Christ, our Companion and our Lord.

Amen

By a Weary but Still Hopeful Parish Priest

There is a special kind of holiness involved in waiting, and Advent — bless its blue-and-rose-tinged heart — invites us into that holiness with all the subtlety of a parishioner asking, “Father, is the sermon almost over?”

Advent, in its wisdom, gives us candles. Four of them. Five, if you’re in one of those parishes that bravely lights the Christ Candle without accidentally setting the wreath alight. Candles are the Church’s gentle reminder that time unfolds slowly, one flame at a time. They also serve as a visual aid for the impatient: “Look,” we seem to say, “we’re only at candle two. Christmas is not here yet. Please stop asking me when the pageant scripts will be ready.”

Waiting, of course, is deeply theological work. The prophets knew it, the apostles knew it, and even the shepherds probably had a few moments of, “Is anything happening out there, or should we get more coffee?” Advent reminds us that God does some of God’s best work in the slow unfolding — not in the instant download, not in the express lane, and certainly not in the Amazon Prime universe that has taught us that one-day delivery is practically a sacrament.

We wait because hope is not something microwaved. We wait because love takes time. And we wait because — let’s be honest — half the joy of Christmas morning is watching people finally open what you’ve had hidden away in your closet since August.

Every week we light another candle, each flame marking a step closer to Bethlehem. It’s the Church’s way of saying, “Steady now. Not too fast. We’ll get there.” Advent is the holy brake pedal on the liturgical calendar. Without it, we’d catapult ourselves straight from our American neighbours eating the last slice of pumpkin pie to singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing with no room for breath or wonder.

And isn’t that the point? Waiting creates room. Room for reflection. Room for longing. Room for the quiet hope that life might yet surprise us with joy. The candles glow because God is not finished with us. The light grows because something beautiful is on the horizon.

So, dear friends, take heart. And if your Advent wreath leans slightly to the left, or the candles burn wonkily, or someone (I’m not naming names) lights the wrong candle on the wrong week — take that too as a sign of grace. After all, God works through the slightly crooked, the mismatched, and the ones who try their best. Advent isn’t about perfection. It’s about promise.

Just keep waiting — without losing your mind. Or at least, lose it only in small, acceptable, seasonally appropriate ways.

Companion Prayer

O God of quiet hope and growing light,

In this season of waiting, kindle in us the courage to slow down, the patience to breathe deeply, and the trust to believe that You are already at work in the shadows.

As each candle is lit, may our hearts burn with expectation, our minds rest in Your timing, and our lives reflect the gentle glow of your coming love.

Keep us steady, keep us hopeful, and keep us from setting the Advent wreath on fire.

Amen

There comes a moment every Advent — usually somewhere between the third page of the to-do list and the fifteenth parish email about who exactly moved the nativity sheep again — when a well-meaning somebody cheerfully tells you,
“Don’t forget to take time for prayer!”

And you smile politely, because that is what good Anglicans do, even as your inner voice responds, “I’ll take time for prayer just as soon as I’m finished saving humanity from the Annual Pageant Costume Crisis.”

This, friends, is the season when clergy and laity alike can wear ourselves thinner than the last cookie on the parish cookie plate — inevitably broken, yet still dutifully eaten. The lead-up to Christmas brings beauty, yes, but also a flurry of bulletins, grocery lists, family tensions, memorial services, school concerts, neighbourhood festivities, wrapping paper incidents, and the universal December panic of discovering everyone else finished their shopping in October.

And so we find ourselves weary.
Bone-tired.
Spiritually overcooked.

And it’s in these moments — when your brain feels like cold porridge and your soul a little frayed at the edges — that prayer becomes… complicated. You know you should pray. You want to pray. But all that comes out is a theological mutter resembling, “O God… um… yes… okay… amen.”

Here is the good news:
God hears that.
In fact, God might even prefer it.

Because prayer — real prayer — isn’t about eloquence or endurance. It’s not an Advent spiritual triathlon where only the strong survive. Prayer is showing up. And sometimes “showing up” looks like collapsing into God’s arms and saying nothing at all. Sometimes it looks like lighting the Advent wreath and staring at it blankly for five full minutes, wondering if you remembered to turn off the oven. Sometimes it’s a sigh, or a groan, or the exhausted raising of one eyebrow heavenward as you whisper, “You know.”

And God does know.
Our tiredness is not a barrier to God. It’s an invitation.

The Incarnation itself is God stepping directly into our human weariness — into the lists, the chaos, the midnight tears, the shepherds who probably arrived without washing their hands, and the general sense that life is happening faster than we can organize it. Jesus meets us not at our polished best, but in our stumbling, sleepy, shepherd-hearted devotion.

So if this Advent you find yourself too tired to pray, then pray like this: trusted, honest, simple. Offer God your tiredness. Offer God your silence. Offer God the five minutes you have between the last meeting and the choir rehearsal. God receives it with love that never grows weary.

And perhaps — just perhaps — that is the most faithful prayer of all.

Companion Prayer

O God of Candlelight and Chaos,
In this busy Advent season, when our energy runs low
and our lists run long,
teach us again that you welcome us just as we are—
weary, frayed, distracted, and longing for rest.

When our prayers are little more than sighs,
receive them as hymns of the heart.
When our thoughts wander like shepherds in the night,
gently lead us back to your peace.
When we feel too tired to pray,
remind us that simply turning toward you
is prayer enough.

Wrap us in your quiet strength.
Renew our hope.
And help us find, even in our exhaustion,
the deep comfort of knowing
that you never grow weary of loving us.

Come, Lord Jesus,
into our tired December hearts.
Amen

There’s a curious thing that happens after walking the Camino: you come home expecting trumpets, banners, and perhaps a small parade of parishioners holding “Welcome Back, O Pilgrim!” signs. Instead, you find your laundry still unfolded, the dog unimpressed, and Sunday’s bulletin stubbornly refusing to proofread itself.

It turns out that life — much like the Camino — doesn’t care overly much about your spiritual epiphanies. It simply hands you a new day and asks, politely but firmly, “Right then. What’s your next step?”

And perhaps that’s exactly the point.

On the Camino Portugués, I learned the deeply humbling truth that the great mysteries of life tend to reveal themselves not in triumphant leaps, but in the slow, steady rhythm of one foot in front of the other. You walk through sun and rain, villages and vineyards, cobblestones and questionable café bathrooms, and somewhere along the way God whispers: “Just this step, beloved. Take just this step.”

It is the same in parish life.

People often imagine the church runs on grand moments: Christmas Eve choirs soaring toward heaven, baptisms with three generations beaming, or vestry meetings that — by miracle alone — end under two hours. But in truth, the life of a parish is shaped by tiny, faithful actions: the coffee maker who shows up ten minutes early; the choir member who remembers both their folder and their reading glasses; the warden who tightens a mysterious bolt on a wobbly pew no one else can locate; the child who shyly lights a candle for “everyone who is sad today.”

Small steps. Quiet holiness.

We don’t need the Pyrenees or the path to Santiago to learn this. The Gospel is quite content to teach us on Highway 50, in the church kitchen, or halfway down the aisle when we suddenly remember we left our sermon in the printer. God works just as gracefully through the ordinary ankle-level moments as through the mountaintop ones. And as I think of hoibness in small steps, it is a huge comfort for me. I’ve spent 3 months in healing, and I’m not there yet. Small steps are about all I can manage these days.

One of the most liberating lessons of pilgrimage is realizing that holiness is not a destination — it’s a practice. And practice, as every pilgrim limping into a Galician albergue knows, is simply a thousand tiny decisions to keep going. To start again. To trust that God will be found not only in the cathedral, but in the dusty road that leads there.

So perhaps the Camino’s greatest gift isn’t a Compostela certificate or a fridge magnet, but the courage to believe that small steps matter. A prayer whispered before getting out of bed. A gentle word to someone who needed more kindness than we realized. A moment’s pause before replying to that email best left marinating in grace.

As we walk the winding path of parish life — its joys, surprises, potholes, potlucks, and all — may we remember that the God who walked with us through Portugal and Spain also walks through the grocery store, the vestry agenda, the pastoral visit, and the parking lot that mysteriously fills at 9:58 every Sunday.

Take the next small step.
God is already in it.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You meet us in the great journeys and the ordinary ones —
in the thunder of pilgrimage and the hush of daily tasks.
Teach us the wisdom of small steps:
to pause, to notice, to trust,
and to walk gently in your love one moment at a time.
Guide our feet along simple paths,
and make our ordinary days holy ground.
Amen.

There comes a moment in every preacher’s life — usually somewhere between the second cup of coffee and the opening hymn — when you look down at your sermon manuscript and think, “Ah. I see the sermon has decided to preach something entirely different today.”

This is a well-known spiritual phenomenon, shared among clergy with the same solemn nod we reserve for funerals, synod budgets, and parishioners who whisper, “This won’t take long, Father.”

You’ve crafted the sermon carefully. You’ve consulted scripture, prayed deeply, consulted Working Preacher, rearranged the books on your desk for inspiration, prayed again, rewritten your introduction, and confidently printed out your final draft.

Then Sunday arrives.

You step into the pulpit, take a deep breath, open your notes — and the lofty theological masterpiece you prepared decides it no longer wishes to be preached. Instead, it curls up like a startled hedgehog, leaving you to fend for yourself.

I am convinced sermons are sentient. Left alone too long on one’s desk, they develop strong opinions. Yesterday’s well-behaved exegesis becomes today’s renegade homiletical toddler, knocking over your tidy structure and replacing it with a chaotic but strangely Spirit-filled improvisation.

Even great comedians, patron saints of gentle chaos, would agree: the best-laid homilies of clergy and commentators often go awry.

But here is the thing — sometimes that’s where the Spirit is hiding.

There are Sundays when the manuscript feels like a safety net woven of linen and best intentions, but the Spirit whispers, Let go, dear preacher. The people don’t need footnotes today. They need honesty.

There are moments when you glance down at your text and it seems to have entirely different ideas about what the congregation should hear. Bits of it disappear. Other lines leap forward with new meaning. A sentence you don’t remember writing suddenly becomes the heart of the whole thing.

And occasionally your sermon will look up at you like a mischievous altar guild cat and say, “I’m done now.”

That’s when you step back — sometimes literally — and let God do the heavy lifting.

Improv, in the pulpit, has less to do with cleverness and far more to do with surrender. It’s not about abandoning preparation (heavens no!). It’s about trusting that somewhere between the biblical story, your own human fumbling, and the gathered hopes of the congregation, the Holy Spirit is weaving a message more graceful than your outline ever anticipated.

And sometimes the sermon that doesn’t behave is the one the community needs most.

So when your notes betray you — when they slide off the lectern, flutter like rebellious pigeons, or simply refuse to match the moment — take heart. You’re in good company.

After all, the first disciples were never given a manuscript either.

And somehow, the Word still got preached.

Amen.

Companion Prayer

Holy Spirit of wisdom and surprise,
When our plans unravel and our words wander,
steady our hearts to trust that You are still speaking.
Guide our thoughts, shape our stories,
and let grace rise even from our fumbles.
Bless all who preach and all who listen,
that together we may discover the living Word
moving among us, unexpected and full of hope.
Amen.

There are places in parish life where heaven and earth seem to meet — around the altar, of course; in the parish hall when the coffee is fresh; and, surprisingly often, in that most misunderstood of ecclesial ecosystems: the church parking lot.

If sanctuaries are for prayer and proclamation, then the parking lot is where the liturgy of lived community begins. It’s the narthex before the narthex, the first impression for newcomers, and the last frontier for seasoned parishioners who have mastered the arts of potluck navigation, vestry debate survival, and knowing which pew has optimal lumbar support. But nothing — nothing — prepares the soul for the mysterious choreography of Sunday traffic flow.

To the uninitiated, it looks like chaos. To the seasoned parish priest, it is a living parable.

There are, for instance, the early arrivals — those beloved saints who pull into the lot with the same steady purpose as monastics heading for morning prayer. They park with grace and dignity, leaving generous space between vehicles as though writing a sermon about hospitality with their bumpers.

Then the mid-morning rush begins. This is when a curious spiritual law emerges: no matter how many empty spots remain, everyone will still try to park as close to the front door as possible. I’ve seen drivers circle the lot three times, apparently discerning the will of God regarding proximity, only to accept the Holy Spirit’s gentle nudge: “Park in the name of Jesus, and walk.”

Meanwhile, children tumble out of minivans with bulletins already flying like liturgical confetti, and someone — usually the choir alto — realizes they’ve left their music folder in the car, thus beginning a small but meaningful pilgrimage.

But the true moment of sanctification arrives after the dismissal.

Nowhere in the New Testament are we commanded, “Thou shalt not honk,” yet every Sunday, we choose the narrow path of patience. Cars attempt to leave from five different directions at once, in a pattern reminiscent of the Israelites wandering the desert — though with slightly more grumbling. There’s always a kind soul who waves ten cars ahead, and another who inadvertently blocks the entire westbound flow by attempting to back out of a space at an angle known only to theoretical physicists.

And in this sacred gridlock, we practice the spiritual discipline of grace.

We wave. We smile. We inch forward as though moving through molasses, gently reminding ourselves that we have just proclaimed Christ’s peace and perhaps ought to live it at least until we reach the road.

The parking lot, for all its quirks, teaches us something essential. Hospitality begins long before anyone reaches the front steps. Patience is forged on pavement as much as in prayer. Community is experienced in the gentle negotiation of whose turn it is to go next.

And perhaps best of all: every week, without fail, the church parking lot gathers us — messy, late, joyful, weary, eager, distracted — into a single space and sends us out again with the quiet hope that we will recognize the holy in the everyday places where rubber meets road.

May our parking lots be safe, our traffic patterns merciful,
and our honking held firmly in check.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
In the simple coming and going of our church parking lot,
teach us the ways of patience, hospitality, and gentle grace.
Help us to see one another not as obstacles to navigate,
but as neighbours to love.
Bless our arrivals with gratitude,
our departures with peace,
and our moments of waiting with the quiet reminder
that we travel this road together.
In Christ, who guides every step and every stoplight,
Amen.

There is a particular sound that every parish priest knows deep in their bones. It is not the rustle of hymnbooks, nor the gentle wheeze of the organ blower finally giving up the ghost. No, it is the rectory doorbell — that tiny electronic herald of mystery, mischief, and occasional mayhem.

Some doorbells are polite, Anglican even. Ding-dong, as though clearing their throat. Others, installed during what must have been a particularly optimistic stewardship campaign, produce chimes so melodic they could double as a Handel aria. Mine simply declares, with the social subtlety of a brass band on parade: BING-BONG! Which is to say, “Brace yourself, Rector. Something interesting this way comes.”

Over the years, I’ve developed a split-second triage system whenever the bell rings. First, a pastoral examination of conscience: Did I forget a meeting? A wedding rehearsal? Someone’s casserole dish? Then a glance in the mirror to assess whether I am clad in something approximating pastoral respectability or if I’m still wearing my “sermon-writing sweatshirt” featuring a coffee stain shaped vaguely like the Holy Spirit.

The adventures begin the moment I open the door.

Sometimes it’s the wandering neighbour who has decided, without warning, that today is the day to discuss the theological implications of squirrels. (“They bury things and forget where they put them. There’s a sermon in that, Father.” Reader, they were correct.)

Other times, the bell rings to reveal an over-enthusiastic delivery driver who has decided that the package labelled fragile should be launched toward the porch with the determination of an Olympic shot-putter. “Pastor! You’re home!” they cheer, handing me a parcel I did not order, addressed to a name I do not recognize, living at a house two blocks away. I accept it with the serene resignation one hopes to achieve by the 10th hour of the Great Vigil.

Then there are the classics:

• The earnest couple convinced their wedding rehearsal is today, though the invitation, calendar, and creation itself insist otherwise.
• The parishioner returning a borrowed book, apologizing profusely because it’s three months late, only for me to discover I had forgotten I owned it.
• The child selling fundraising chocolate who somehow manages to evoke both the Parable of the Persistent Widow and a very small, very polite tax collector.

But among the comic surprises there are also holy ones.

The lonely widow who stops by because the silence of her house felt too heavy.

The neighbour who brings soup because they saw the rectory lights on late and assumed (rightly) that the sermon was “still cooking.”

The person who knocks just to say they’re grateful the church is on the corner — a steadying presence in a restless world.

These, too, are doorbell moments of grace: little sacramental reminders that the priestly life is lived not merely in pulpits and boardrooms, but on porches, in foyers, and at front doors where Christ often arrives disguised as an interruption.

Jesus, after all, never made an appointment when he appeared at someone’s home. He simply showed up — at dinner tables, beside wells, in upper rooms, even on the beach with breakfast in tow. The holy has a habit of arriving unannounced. The rectory doorbell merely ensures we don’t miss it.

So yes, when that familiar BING-BONG echoes through the house, I sometimes wince. I sometimes laugh. Occasionally I pray for fortitude. But more often than not, I give thanks — because behind that door is someone beloved of God, someone whose story is about to mingle with mine for a few minutes.

And if it happens to be the delivery driver again, well… perhaps that’s just God’s way of reminding me that grace, like Amazon packages, arrives whether we ordered it or not.

Amen — and kindly ring only once

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You come to us in every knock upon the door
and every unexpected moment of grace.
Bless all who arrive on our porches and cross our thresholds —
the neighbour in need, the friend with good news,
the stranger seeking kindness,
and even the delivery driver with the wrong package.

Give us hearts ready to welcome,
ears ready to listen,
and spirits ready to find you in every interruption.
May our homes, like your Church,
be places of hospitality, healing, and holy laughter.

In Christ, who still meets us unannounced.
Amen.