There is something delightfully unremarkable about a Tuesday afternoon. It lacks the noble ambition of Monday, which always insists on “fresh starts” whether we want them or not, and it hasn’t yet acquired the hopeful aroma of Wednesday, which whispers that perhaps — just perhaps — we may actually survive the week. No, Tuesday afternoon is the quiet middle child of the calendar, sitting politely in the corner, stirring its tea, and hoping no one asks it to lead the meeting.

And yet, in God’s peculiar economy, Tuesday afternoon is often where holiness sneaks in through the side door.

It’s in the stack of emails that mysteriously regenerates every time you look away — an ecclesiastical version of loaves and fishes, except without the miracle or the satisfaction. It’s in the pastoral phone call you weren’t expecting, the parishioner who drops by “just for a minute” that turns into a tender half-hour of shared grief or laughter. It’s the moment you discover that the photocopier, like the human heart, works best when treated gently and occasionally forgiven.

These are the small sacraments of the everyday: quiet reminders that we are not meant to float from mountaintop to mountaintop. Most of life, and most of ministry, happens in the valley of the gloriously ordinary: brewing a cup of coffee, wiping down a counter at the church hall, or rescuing a bulletin from the recycling bin because someone printed the wrong version and now it must be saved like an endangered species.

But here is the grace of Tuesday afternoon: God is already there.

Christ meets us in the mundane long before we think to look. In the hum of fluorescent lights. In the shuffle of parish hall chairs. In the relentless — almost liturgical — rhythm of everyday tasks that seem to say, “Be faithful here. Just here. This is enough.”

It mirrors the truth of the Incarnation itself: God choosing not the spectacular, but the small. Not the extraordinary, but the everyday. Holiness goes undercover in the ordinary until it begins to look as familiar as our own hands. One need only think of the Incarnation that we will soon celebrate to see that this is true — All the power and wonder of God, set in a tiny poor human baby.

So the next time a Tuesday afternoon ambles into your life and you catch yourself sighing, take heart. You may be standing on the threshold of grace disguised as boredom. God may be whispering through the to-do list: This ordinary moment is beloved, too.

After all, if the Lord can transform water into wine, he can certainly make something beautiful out of a half-finished mug of lukewarm coffee and a calendar reminder you forgot to set.

Companion Prayer

Holy One,
You dwell not only in the shining moments but in the small, unnoticed hours of our lives.
Teach us to see you in the mundane —
in the emails, the errands, the conversations we didn’t plan.
Slow our steps, soften our hearts,
and let the quiet holiness of this ordinary moment
draw us into your extraordinary grace.
Amen.

It may not come as much of a surprise to anyone, but we have had a fall seaason with untld troubles with the office phone system. Some will have noticed that for some reason our voicemail even defaults back to a pre-recorded message — in french — that is singularly unhelpful. For this reason, I thought I would take some time to reflect on the parish office phone.

There are certain sounds in parish life that can raise the blood pressure of even the most seasoned cleric. The thump of a hymn book falling during silent prayer. The unmistakable metallic clang of the thurible lid coming loose mid-procession. And, of course, the parish office phone ringing at precisely the moment you’ve settled in with a cup of tea and a moment’s peace.

Ah yes — the parish office phone. That humble black and grey rectangle (or in some parishes, a rotary relic older than the rector) perched on the desk like a silent guardian of the Church’s mysteries. It is, in many ways, a portal: a ringing gateway through which all manner of pastoral surprises arrive.

One moment, it’s someone asking for the time of the Christmas bazaar — a date which, despite the posters, website, bulletin, and sandwich board outside, remains a tightly guarded parish secret. The next moment, it’s someone who “used to attend back in 1973” and remembers “a sermon about sheep” and wonders if you’d mind repeating it.

And then, of course, the deeply holy calls: the person seeking prayer in a time of crisis, the young parent wondering how to get their newborn baptized, the neighbour who needs a food voucher, the grieving widow asking gently if you might come. These calls arrive without warning — without any liturgical “The phone be with you” — and yet they carry the weight of ministry in ways nothing else does.

But let us not forget the classics. My personal favourites include:
    •    The person who wants to know who shovels the walkway, and whether the rector can come take a look “just to make sure they’re doing it properly.”
    •    The caller who begins with, “I don’t want to bother you, but…” thereby ensuring they already have.
    •    And the inevitable telemarketer who mispronounces the parish name so creatively that it becomes a sort of spiritual charism: “Hello, may I speak to the pastor of Saint Androo’s Anglican and Fishery?”

In all these things — between the laughter, the sighs, the pastoral pivots — the parish office phone remains a sacramental object of sorts. Not in any official church doctrine sense (though I’m sure we could footnote our way there), but in the lived sense: it becomes a meeting place between God and God’s people, mediated through a surprising number of voicemails that begin with, “I’m not sure if this is the right number…”

Every time that phone rings, something is being asked of us — sometimes patience, sometimes clarity, sometimes pastoral imagination. And beneath it all, always, the gentle truth that ministry is rarely scheduled and never tidy. Grace, like phone calls, tends to arrive unexpectedly, at inopportune hours, and with great persistence.

Companion Prayer
Holy One,
Thank you for every voice that reaches out in need, in hope, in curiosity, and even in mild confusion.
Bless the calls that interrupt our plans and open our hearts.
Give us patience for the strange ones, tenderness for the heavy ones, and joy for the surprising ones.
May every ring be an invitation to serve you with grace, humour, and love. Amen.

There are certain objects that inspire deep spiritual reflection: a well-worn prayer book, a perfectly brewed cup of tea after the 10 a.m. service, and — of course — the humble name tag.

Yes, the name tag.
That small rectangle of adhesive (or the lanyard version, if one is feeling particularly ecumenical) that promises clarity, connection, and, occasionally, comedic disaster.

Somewhere in the lore of Anglicanism, we developed an unspoken belief that God knows our names, and therefore no one else needs to. This works well for the Almighty but proves challenging at coffee hour, where one may find oneself trapped in a polite conversation with a parishioner whose face is familiar but whose name dances just beyond the reach of memory. It is in these moments that the Holy Spirit surely whispers, “A name tag might have helped.”

Of course, name tags come with their own perils. Sticker tags tend to curl at the edges and fall off at inopportune moments, usually mid-conversation, prompting the wearer to fetch it from the floor like a dropped sacramental wafer. Lanyards, on the other hand, have a mild whiff of diocesan synod about them. One cannot don a lanyard without feeling both important and slightly exhausted.

But the real challenge is convincing Anglicans to actually wear them. There is something about placing a sticker on one’s chest that feels suspiciously like drawing attention to oneself, and we are a people formed by the spiritual discipline of modest invisibility. When asked to put on a name tag, many respond with an expression typically reserved for being voluntold to join a new committee.

Yet — here is the mystery — the name tag is a tiny, holy instrument of hospitality. It makes the newcomer feel less like the lone penguin at the wrong end of the pew. It allows us to address each other with dignity rather than resorting to conversational strategies like, “And how long have you been coming here?” (which is Anglican for “I can’t remember your name to save my life.”)

In a world aching for belonging, it may be that the name tag — simple, unfashionable, persistently sticky — can serve as a small sacrament of welcome. A reminder that we are known, seen, and remembered — even by those of us who sometimes forget where we left our reading glasses.

So the next time the parish hosts a brunch, special service, or visioning workshop, embrace the lost art. Peel the sticker. Loop the lanyard. Wear your name with joy. After all, Scripture tells us God calls us by name — surely we can give each other a head start.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You know us by name and call us your own.
Give us grace to welcome one another with warmth, honesty, and gentle humour.
Bless the humble name tag — the tiny tool that helps us build community and remember the gift of each person you send our way.
May our gatherings be filled with kindness, recognition, and the joy of belonging.
In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.

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.