September Again: The Grace of Beginning Once More

There is something wonderfully Canadian about the first day of September.

Even if the calendar insists that summer still has another few weeks to go, nobody believes it. September has always been New Year’s Day wearing a cardigan instead of a party hat.

The children begin inspecting backpacks that somehow shrank over the summer. Teachers quietly wonder where the vacation disappeared. Parents discover that buying school supplies now requires a small bank loan. Churches dust off choir folders. Community groups wake from their summer naps. Golfers begin calculating how many more rounds can possibly fit into the season before someone uses the dreadful expression, “closing day.”

I have always loved September.

For more than thirty years of ordained ministry, September has felt like taking a deep breath before stepping once more into work that I genuinely love. My August vacation has always been a treasured gift—a chance to rest, read, write, spend time with family and friends, enjoy God’s beautiful creation, and perhaps consume one or two slices of watermelon that could reasonably have been classified as entire meals.

But eventually vacation does exactly what it is supposed to do.

It ends.

And strangely enough, I am always glad.

Not because I dislike vacation. Far from it. But because rest was never meant to become permanent residence. Rest prepares us to return to purpose.

The rhythm itself is holy.

Scripture has always understood that life moves in seasons. Ecclesiastes reminds us that there is “a time for every matter under heaven.” Creation itself keeps time. Fields are planted and harvested. Rivers rise and fall. Birds migrate. Trees surrender their leaves without filing formal complaints.

Only human beings insist that every season should last forever.

If we are honest, most of us resist change just enough to make ourselves unnecessarily tired.

We want June sunshine in November. Christmas joy in February. Summer freedom in September. We become experts at wishing we were somewhere other than where God has presently placed us.

Yet God has an annoying tendency—which I suspect is one of the Divine characteristics that keeps theologians humble—of meeting us exactly where we are instead of where we wish we were.

That means Christ is just as present in a staff meeting as on a mountain trail.

Just as present in a classroom as beside the lake.

Just as present in the routine of Tuesday morning as in the wonder of vacation sunsets.

Perhaps even more so.

After all, Jesus spent remarkably little time on mountaintops compared to the amount of time he spent simply walking ordinary roads with ordinary people.

The Kingdom of God has always done some of its finest work on perfectly ordinary Tuesdays.

That gives me tremendous hope.

Because most of life is not lived during spectacular moments.

Most of life happens while packing lunches.

Answering emails.

Driving children to school.

Preparing sermons.

Attending meetings.

Walking the dog.

Paying bills.

Making supper.

Folding laundry that somehow multiplies while no one is looking.

If God only appeared during dramatic moments, many of us would spend long stretches wondering where heaven had gone.

Instead, the Incarnation tells us exactly the opposite.

God delights in ordinary life.

Which means September may actually be one of the most spiritual months of the year.

It is the month when enthusiasm slowly gives way to commitment.

Anyone can enjoy Christmas.

Anyone can enjoy vacation.

September asks something different.

Will we love the ordinary?

Will we discover grace inside routine?

Will we notice Christ quietly waiting inside calendars, classrooms, church committees, hockey practices, coffee breaks, grocery stores, and neighbourhood sidewalks?

I believe we will.

In fact, that is exactly where I hope these reflections will wander during the coming weeks.

Throughout September we will leave behind our light-hearted summer adventures and begin exploring the quiet holiness hidden inside everyday routines. We will discover that backpacks, alarm clocks, autumn gardens, school buses, coffee mugs, falling leaves, worn hymn books, lunch boxes, crisp mornings, familiar prayers, and countless other ordinary companions all have something to teach us about following Christ.

Not because these things are magical.

But because God has always been wonderfully creative at using ordinary things to reveal extraordinary grace.

So welcome to September.

Welcome to new beginnings.

Welcome to fresh notebooks and familiar prayers.

Welcome to routines that become acts of discipleship.

Welcome back to work, back to school, back to church, back to community—and above all, back to the joyful discovery that wherever this season leads us, Christ is already there waiting with a smile.

And perhaps a fresh cup of coffee.

Which, if we are being perfectly honest, has probably been sustaining the Church almost as faithfully as committee minutes ever since Pentecost.

Almost.

May this new season be filled with purpose, peace, laughter, and the quiet confidence that the God who walked with us through summer sunshine is already walking beside us into the gentle beauty of autumn.

Thanks be to God.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual for more daily reflections on faith, life, and the surprising places where God still loves to meet us.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

As one season gently gives way to another, we thank you for the gift of rest and for the gift of purpose. Thank you for summer’s laughter, long evenings, family, friends, and quiet moments that renewed our spirits.

Now, as September begins, help us to embrace the ordinary rhythms of life with joyful hearts. Bless students as they return to school, teachers as they prepare to inspire, families as new routines begin, and all who return to work and daily responsibilities.

Teach us to recognize your presence not only in extraordinary moments, but also in the simple routines of each day. May every classroom, office, workshop, kitchen, church, and neighbourhood become a place where we encounter your grace.

Walk beside us through this new season. Fill our hearts with hope, our hands with compassion, our minds with wisdom, and our lives with the quiet joy of serving you faithfully.

In the name of Jesus Christ, who is with us in every season of life.

Amen.

The Theology of the Worn Baseball Glove

There are some things in life that are simply more beautiful after they have been well used.

An old family Bible with dog-eared pages. A favourite armchair whose cushions have quietly surrendered after years of faithful service. A wooden spoon that has stirred enough soups to qualify for honorary citizenship in the kitchen.

And then there is the worn baseball glove.

When I was growing up, a new baseball glove was a rather stubborn piece of equipment. It was stiff enough to qualify as building material. Catching a ball with it often felt like trying to catch a meteorite using a frozen loaf of bread. The glove would snap shut only after considerable persuasion, repeated oiling, countless games of catch, and, according to neighbourhood legend, sleeping with it under your mattress.

Whether that last technique actually worked remains one of the great theological mysteries.

But over time something wonderful happened.

The leather softened. The pocket became deeper. Every catch left a tiny memory behind until the glove no longer looked new. It looked right. It had been shaped by thousands of moments.

You could almost tell who owned it simply by looking at it.

That makes me wonder if perhaps faith works much the same way.

When most of us first begin following Christ, we imagine holiness should happen quickly. We assume a few Bible studies, several earnest prayers, and perhaps one particularly inspiring sermon ought to complete the transformation.

Instead, God smiles patiently and seems content to play a much longer season.

Ordinary Time reminds us that disciples are not manufactured. They are formed.

Prayer after prayer.
Worship after worship.
Conversation after conversation.
Act of kindness after act of kindness.

None of these moments seems particularly dramatic on its own. But together they slowly shape the soul until grace fits us more naturally than it once did.

Saint Paul hints at this steady work when he encourages us not to grow weary in doing good (Galatians 6:9). Why? Because spiritual growth is usually less like fireworks and more like leather being gently softened over many seasons.

The world often celebrates things that look brand new.

God seems remarkably fond of things that have been faithfully used.

The experienced teacher.
The grandparent who quietly prays every morning.
The volunteer who has set up chairs for thirty years without expecting applause.
The Christian whose face has acquired those wonderful smile lines that come from decades of choosing hope over cynicism.

These people may show a little wear around the edges.

So did Moses.

So did Peter.

So did Paul.

And certainly so did Jesus.

Perhaps that is why I have never entirely trusted spirituality that appears perfectly polished. It usually has the look of a glove that has spent its entire life on a sporting goods shelf.

A glove becomes useful only after it has been stretched, scuffed, rained upon, baked in the summer sun, and occasionally forgotten in the trunk of the car until someone discovers it the following April with great relief.

The Christian life can feel rather similar.

There are seasons when life stretches us.

There are moments that leave us with a few spiritual scuff marks.

There are disappointments that soften our hearts in ways success never could.

Yet somehow God keeps shaping us through every inning.

The remarkable thing is that the older glove often becomes the one everyone wants to borrow. It catches almost effortlessly because it has learned its purpose through years of faithful use.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our souls became like that?

Not flawless.

Not shiny.

Simply trustworthy.

Softened by grace.

Ready to catch whatever opportunities God tosses our way.

By the time the final inning of life arrives, perhaps our greatest compliment will not be that we remained untouched, but that we were wonderfully worn by love, faithful service, and the gentle hands of God.

After all, the Master has never been looking for brand-new leather.

He has always preferred hearts that have learned how to catch grace.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual for more daily reflections on faith, life, and the surprising places where God still loves to meet us.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the slow work of your Spirit in our lives. When we become impatient with our own growth, remind us that you are not hurried. Shape us through the ordinary days, the joyful moments, and even the seasons that leave us feeling a little worn.

Soften our hearts with your grace. Deepen our faith through faithful practice. Make us people who are ready to receive your blessings and eager to share your love with others.

May our lives bear the beautiful marks of time spent in your hands, until we become trustworthy disciples whose greatest strength comes not from appearing perfect, but from having been shaped by your enduring love.

In the name of Jesus Christ, our Teacher, our Redeemer, and our Friend.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Park Bench

There are some pieces of church furniture that receive great respect. The altar, for instance. The pulpit. The baptismal font. They are polished, honoured, and treated with great care.

The average park bench, on the other hand, receives no such distinction.

It spends its life being rained upon by thunderstorms, baked by the August sun, occasionally decorated by enthusiastic pigeons, and sometimes occupied by teenagers who appear convinced that speaking quietly is somehow unconstitutional.

Yet, despite all of that, I have long suspected that God has conducted an astonishing amount of ministry from ordinary park benches.

A park bench asks very little of us.

It doesn’t require a reservation.

It never asks whether you are important.

It doesn’t care whether you arrived wearing expensive shoes or gardening boots.

It simply waits.

And that, I think, is part of its quiet holiness.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of places where people simply happened to be sitting. Hillsides became classrooms. Fishing boats became pulpits. Wells became places of theological conversation. Dinner tables became signs of the Kingdom.

If park benches had been scattered across first-century Galilee by the Roman Parks Department, I suspect Jesus would have used every one of them.

A park bench slows us down enough to notice things we usually hurry past.

You begin to hear birds that have apparently been singing all morning without your permission.

Children remind us that joy can still be manufactured from absolutely nothing except a stick, a puddle, and an imagination.

Dogs greet complete strangers with the sort of enthusiasm many church greeters secretly wish they possessed.

Older couples walk by holding hands with the quiet confidence of people who have survived enough of life to know that companionship is one of God’s finest gifts.

Meanwhile, squirrels continue gathering enough food to survive a winter that is still months away, proving that anxiety is not actually a prerequisite for preparation.

It is difficult to remain endlessly stressed while sitting on a park bench.

Not impossible, of course. Human beings have elevated worrying into something approaching an Olympic event. We are quite capable of sitting in the middle of God’s beautiful creation while mentally reorganizing next Tuesday’s schedule, replaying yesterday’s awkward conversation, and wondering whether we remembered to lock the back door.

God, however, remains wonderfully patient.

Creation has a remarkable habit of calling us back to the present moment.

The breeze reminds us to breathe.

The shade reminds us to rest.

The sunshine reminds us that light has a way of returning after long nights.

Perhaps that is why the Psalmist so often found God outdoors. Heaven has always seemed willing to speak through trees, rivers, birds, mountains, and fields. We simply become quiet enough to hear it when we stop moving.

Some of the best conversations I have ever had have happened while sitting on a park bench.

Not because the bench possessed miraculous theological powers.

It did not suddenly begin quoting Augustine.

It never offered pastoral counselling.

It certainly never produced coffee.

But it gave two people permission to stop walking long enough to truly listen.

That may be one of the greatest gifts we can ever offer another human being.

Our world is full of people longing to be heard.

Sometimes ministry begins not with having the right answer but with choosing the right place to sit.

I wonder if that is something of the Gospel itself.

God did not remain at a safe distance shouting instructions from heaven.

In Jesus Christ, God came and sat among us.

He walked our roads.

He shared our tables.

He listened to our stories.

He laughed at weddings.

He wept at gravesides.

He stayed long enough for love to become believable.

That is still how grace often works.

It sits beside us quietly.

It does not rush.

It does not interrupt.

It simply remains present until our hearts begin to heal.

So if you happen to pass a park bench today, perhaps take a seat for a few minutes.

Leave your phone in your pocket.

Watch the world that God is still lovingly sustaining.

Offer a quiet prayer for the strangers who walk past.

Smile at the children.

Wave to the dog.

Forgive the squirrel for looking slightly suspicious of you.

And remember that sometimes the holiest place you will visit all week isn’t a grand cathedral.

It is simply the ordinary bench where, for a few blessed moments, you finally become still enough to discover that God has been sitting beside you all along.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual for more daily reflections on faith, life, and the surprising places where God still delights to meet us.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of quiet places where our hurried hearts can finally rest. Help us to slow down, to notice the beauty of your creation, and to recognize your presence in the ordinary moments of each day. Teach us to listen well, to sit patiently with others, and to offer the kind of love that is present before it is persuasive. As we pause along life’s path, remind us that you are already there, waiting beside us with grace, peace, and hope. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Spirituality of the Wind Chime

There are certain sounds that belong entirely to summer.

The laughter of children in the distance.

The hum of a lawn mower that seems to begin at precisely the moment one sits down with a cup of coffee.

The enthusiastic but slightly confused robin that starts singing somewhere around 4:47 in the morning.

And then there are wind chimes.

I have always found wind chimes fascinating. They spend most of their lives doing absolutely nothing at all. They hang there from a porch beam with every appearance of being decorative, slightly optimistic, and perhaps just a little overconfident about their importance.

Then comes the breeze.

Without warning, the entire neighbourhood discovers that the wind has arrived because somebody’s collection of polished tubes has decided to perform a brief outdoor concert.

Of course, there are different kinds of wind chimes.

Some produce gentle music that sounds like a monastery hidden deep in the mountains.

Others sound as though someone has accidentally dropped a cutlery drawer down a flight of stairs.

One quickly learns which neighbours invested in craftsmanship… and which simply found a clearance sale at the garden centre.

Still, whether elegant or enthusiastic, wind chimes all have something rather beautiful in common.

They cannot create music by themselves.

They require the wind.

That strikes me as remarkably close to the Christian life.

Jesus once compared the Holy Spirit to the wind. “The wind blows where it chooses,” he said. “You hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.” (John 3:8)

The Spirit has always had a delightful habit of refusing to fit neatly inside our carefully organized schedules.

We cannot manufacture the breeze.

We cannot command it.

We certainly cannot invoice it.

All we can really do is remain open to it.

Perhaps that is one of the quiet lessons of Ordinary Time.

Much of discipleship is not about frantic activity.

It is about availability.

A wind chime never strains to make music.

It simply hangs where it has been placed, ready for the slightest movement of air.

Likewise, the Christian life is often less about forcing spectacular moments of faith and more about remaining open enough that the Holy Spirit can gently move through us.

Sometimes that movement is dramatic.

More often, it is wonderfully ordinary.

A kind word spoken almost without thinking.

A patient response instead of a sharp one.

A prayer that quietly rises while washing dishes.

A decision to forgive when no one else even notices.

The Spirit often creates music in lives that appear quite ordinary from the outside.

The older I become, the more I appreciate that.

As a younger priest, I occasionally imagined that faithful ministry required the volume of cathedral bells.

After thirty-three years, I have become rather fond of wind chimes.

They remind me that grace often announces itself softly.

Not every act of holiness requires a trumpet.

Sometimes all heaven asks is that we remain available to the breeze.

So today, if you happen to hear a wind chime singing somewhere on a porch, pause for just a moment.

Listen carefully.

The sound is not really about metal striking metal.

It is a quiet reminder that the most beautiful music often comes when something ordinary becomes wonderfully responsive to an unseen wind.

And that, I suspect, has always been one of the Holy Spirit’s favourite compositions.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual for more daily reflections on faith, life, and the surprising places where God still loves to meet us.

Companion Prayer

Gracious and life-giving God,
thank you for the gentle ways your Holy Spirit still moves through our lives. Keep our hearts open to your unseen breeze, and make us ready to respond with kindness, patience, generosity, and love. May our words and actions become a quiet song of your grace, bringing hope and encouragement to all who hear them. Teach us to trust your timing, to welcome your movement, and to rejoice in the beautiful music you create through ordinary people like us.

In the name of Jesus Christ, who sends us the Spirit anew each day. Amen.

The Theology of the Weathered Fence Post

There are some things in rural Ontario that simply refuse to disappear. One of them is the weathered wooden fence post.

You know the sort. It leans ever so slightly—not enough to be considered a hazard, but enough to suggest that it has opinions about modern engineering. It has survived forty winters, several ambitious vines, countless squirrels, one determined woodpecker, and at least three generations of farmers who all said, “I really should replace that someday.”

Someday, apparently, never arrived.

Growing up on the farm, fence posts fascinated me. Brand-new ones looked impressive for about three weeks. They stood proudly, perfectly straight, smelling of fresh cedar and optimism. But the older posts—the silver-grey ones, cracked from years of sun and frost—those were the ones I trusted. They had already proven themselves.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that Canadians possess an extraordinary affection for objects that have become almost—but not quite—unserviceable. We rarely throw anything away if it still performs at least sixty-three percent of its intended purpose. Somewhere across this country there are garages filled with bent rakes, mysterious jars of nails, and fence posts that have been “saved just in case” since the administration of Lester Pearson.

And yet, there is wisdom in that old fence post.

It has stood through blazing July afternoons and February blizzards. It has watched calves become cows, children become parents, and neighbours become lifelong friends. It has quietly held its place while the world around it changed.

That strikes me as a rather Christian vocation.

St. Paul speaks about standing firm in the faith (1 Corinthians 16:13). He does not say we must always be shiny. He does not insist that faithful people remain free of cracks, scars, or signs of age. He simply urges us to remain steadfast.

There is an enormous difference.

Our culture often celebrates what is newest. New phone. New car. New kitchen. New version of ourselves.

The Kingdom of God, however, has always shown a remarkable appreciation for the faithful old fence posts.

Think of Abraham, already well advanced in years before God finally fulfilled the promise. Think of Sarah laughing at the impossible before discovering that God’s timing rarely consults our calendars. Think of Simeon and Anna, waiting patiently in the Temple long enough to recognize the Christ child when everyone else simply saw another baby.

God seems wonderfully fond of people who have weathered a few seasons.

Perhaps that is because weathering produces something polish never can.

The cracks become places where compassion settles.

The rough edges become gentleness.

The faded colour becomes quiet humility.

Even the slight lean reminds us that none of us stand entirely upright by our own strength.

If you have lived long enough, you already know this.

Life has probably blown against you with stronger winds than you ever expected. There have been disappointments, illnesses, griefs, broken plans, unexpected blessings, surprising friendships, and countless ordinary Tuesdays when faith quietly carried you farther than enthusiasm ever could.

And here you are.

Maybe not quite as smooth as you once were.

Perhaps leaning just a little.

But still standing.

Still holding the line.

Still quietly witnessing to the goodness of God.

That, I suspect, is holiness.

Jesus himself was raised not in a palace but in a carpenter’s workshop, where wood was understood. A carpenter knows that the strongest timber is not always the prettiest. Grain, knots, scars, and weathering all tell the story of strength earned over time.

God has always been rather good at recognizing beauty that the world overlooks.

So today, if you happen to pass an old fence post standing faithfully along a country road, offer it a little nod of appreciation.

It may be preaching a better sermon than most of us.

And if, while looking at it, you happen to recognize a little of yourself…

Then give thanks.

Because by the grace of God, weathered does not mean worn out.

It simply means you have been standing where God planted you for quite some time—and by His mercy, you are still quietly pointing people toward home.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
thank you for standing with us through every season of life. When we feel weathered by time, strengthened by experience, or leaning under life’s burdens, remind us that your grace is always enough. Help us to remain steadfast, rooted in your love, and quietly faithful wherever you have planted us. May our lives point others toward the hope, peace, and home that are found in Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Shade Tree

There comes a point in every respectable Ontario summer when a person develops a rather profound theological appreciation for shade.

This realization usually arrives somewhere around two o’clock in the afternoon when the humidity has climbed to the point where stepping outdoors feels remarkably similar to walking into a bowl of warm soup. One leaves the cool comfort of the house full of confidence, only to discover halfway across the lawn that perhaps the pioneers were not nearly as cheerful as history books suggest.

Fortunately, God invented trees.

Or perhaps more accurately, God created trees long before any of us realized just how desperately we would need them.

I have always admired an old shade tree. There is something wonderfully dependable about one. It has likely stood in the same place for decades, watching generations of children race bicycles, grandparents sip iced tea, dogs chase squirrels, and neighbours wander over for conversations that somehow begin with the weather and end with the meaning of life.

The remarkable thing is that the tree never asks who deserves its shade.

It shelters everyone.

Rich or poor.

Churchgoer or skeptic.

The fellow who carefully waters his lawn and the fellow whose lawn has become an official wildlife sanctuary.

The Gospel has always been rather like that.

Jesus never seemed particularly interested in distributing grace only to those who had completed the proper paperwork.

He welcomed fishermen who smelled like yesterday’s catch.

Tax collectors whose popularity could not have survived a parish council election.

Women, children, foreigners, lepers, Roman officers, and people whose lives looked thoroughly untidy.

The shade of God’s mercy has always been gloriously indiscriminate.

Isaiah writes:

“The Lord is your keeper… the sun shall not strike you by day.” (Psalm 121 borrows the same comforting image.)

One suspects the Psalmist had experienced at least one unpleasant afternoon without sunscreen.

Of course, every shade tree also teaches patience.

The magnificent maple under which you now enjoy your lawn chair did not become impressive overnight.

It spent years doing something that modern society finds terribly unfashionable.

Growing slowly.

One ring at a time.

One season after another.

Roots before branches.

Strength before spectacle.

We admire the broad canopy but forget the decades of quiet becoming that produced it.

The Christian life works much the same way.

We often pray for instant holiness.

God generally grows oaks.

That may explain why the Holy Spirit occasionally seems less interested in speed than in depth.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that Canadians possess an extraordinary ability to drive hundreds of kilometres searching for the perfect picnic location while entirely overlooking the magnificent shade tree already standing in the backyard.

The Kingdom of God frequently suffers from the same condition.

We search for spectacular spiritual experiences while quietly ignoring the ordinary places where God has faithfully been meeting us all along.

Perhaps the old maple behind the garage.

Perhaps the bench beside the church.

Perhaps the familiar chair on the porch where morning coffee somehow turns into prayer without anyone announcing that prayer has officially begun.

Some of the holiest moments of my life have not occurred in great cathedrals.

Many have happened sitting quietly beneath trees.

There is something about leaves whispering in a summer breeze that reminds us we are not responsible for holding the whole universe together.

God has that well in hand.

The tree simply invites us to stop striving long enough to remember it.

That may be one of the finest invitations of Ordinary Time.

Not every season needs fireworks.

Some seasons simply need faithful roots.

So today, if you find yourself beneath a generous old tree, don’t rush away too quickly.

Sit for a while.

Listen to the breeze.

Offer thanks.

Rest in the cool shade.

And remember that long before you ever sought God’s shelter, God had already planted it there, waiting for your arrival.

After all, the Gospel has always had plenty of room beneath its branches.

And thanks be to God for that.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the shade You provide when life becomes hot, hurried, and exhausting. Thank You for the quiet places where our souls can rest and remember that You are always near.

Plant our lives deeply in Your love, that our faith may grow strong with patient roots and generous branches. Help us to become people who offer welcome, kindness, and shelter to others, just as Christ has welcomed us.

Teach us to slow down enough to hear the whisper of Your Spirit in the breeze, to find holy moments in ordinary places, and to trust that while we are growing quietly, You are faithfully at work within us.

May we rest today beneath the wide canopy of Your grace, and then rise refreshed to share that same grace with everyone we meet.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Theology of the Broken Rake Handle

There are few moments in life quite as humbling as confidently setting out to complete a simple outdoor chore only to discover that your rake has chosen retirement without consulting you.

It usually happens with impressive theatrical timing.

The leaves—or in August, the grass clippings and garden debris—have finally accumulated enough to justify action. The weather is perfect. You are feeling unusually productive. You grasp the rake with determination, make one magnificent sweep… and suddenly hear the unmistakable crack!

The handle snaps clean in two.

One half remains in your hands. The other half lies in the garden looking almost embarrassed.

The pile of leaves, meanwhile, appears quietly delighted.

Stephen Leacock himself would have appreciated the scene. There is something distinctly Canadian about losing an argument with a gardening tool.

The temptation, of course, is to blame the rake.

We speak sternly to it.

“I’ve only had you for fifteen years.”

Or perhaps:

“They certainly don’t make these like they used to.”

Naturally, none of this repairs the handle.

Broken tools have a curious way of reminding us that nearly everything in life has limits. Handles break. Lawnmowers refuse to start precisely when company is expected. Barbecue igniters fail on the first beautiful evening of the season. Patio chairs mysteriously develop a wobble that seems to worsen every time someone important sits down.

Creation itself reminds us that nothing built by human hands is permanent.

Oddly enough, that is not bad news.

It is simply reality.

The Christian faith has never promised us lives where nothing breaks. In fact, Scripture seems almost determined to tell the opposite story.

Jacob limped.

Moses stuttered.

David made terrible mistakes.

Peter denied Jesus.

Paul carried what he called a “thorn in the flesh.”

Yet God never seemed especially discouraged by brokenness.

Quite the opposite.

Again and again, God chose to work through cracked vessels, imperfect disciples, hesitant saints, and ordinary people who often felt as though their own handles had snapped somewhere along the journey.

Perhaps God understands something we often forget.

Broken things invite dependence.

As long as every tool works perfectly, it is remarkably easy to imagine that we are accomplishing everything ourselves. But eventually the rake breaks, the plans change, our energy fades, our certainty weakens, and suddenly we remember that grace has been carrying far more of the load than we ever noticed.

The older I become, the less impressed I am by people who appear perfectly polished.

I find myself drawn instead to those whose broken places have made them gentler.

Kinder.

More patient.

More forgiving.

They know what it is to depend upon God.

Those are often the people who reflect Christ most beautifully.

There is another curious thing about broken rake handles.

Most Canadians, particularly those who grew up in farming communities, cannot simply throw them away.

Oh no.

A broken rake handle instantly becomes “a perfectly good piece of wood.”

It is leaned into the corner of the garage beside seventeen other perfectly good pieces of wood whose future purpose remains gloriously undefined.

One day, we assure ourselves, it may become a tomato stake.

Or a support for beans.

Or part of some ingenious repair we have not yet imagined.

Whether that day ever arrives is entirely beside the point.

Hope is apparently stored in garages.

And perhaps that is not a bad image for the Kingdom of God.

God has always had a remarkable habit of seeing possibilities where everyone else sees only brokenness.

The cross itself looked like failure.

The empty tomb revealed it to be the beginning of everything.

So if today you feel a little like the broken rake handle—splintered, worn, not quite as useful as you once imagined—remember this:

God has never been in the business of throwing faithful people onto the scrap pile.

The Master Carpenter has always preferred restoration over replacement.

And somehow, in the hands of Christ, even broken things continue to build the Kingdom.

Thanks be to God.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
When we feel worn, broken, or less useful than we once were, remind us that your love has never depended on our perfection. Shape us with the hands of the Master Carpenter, mend what needs healing, and help us trust that you can still accomplish beautiful things through us. May our weakness become a place where your grace shines most clearly. Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Spirituality of the Gravel Driveway

There are certain things in life that quietly reveal a person’s character. A gravel driveway is one of them.

A paved driveway gives the impression that someone has everything neatly under control. It lies there with remarkable confidence, as though it has never heard of frost heaves, spring mud, or teenagers learning to back up trailers.

A gravel driveway, however, tells the truth.

It shifts. It wanders. It grows potholes that seem to appear overnight through means that remain scientifically unexplained. Every spring, it develops geological features worthy of a National Geographic documentary. One day it is perfectly level. The next it has produced a crater large enough to qualify for municipal recognition.

Growing up on the farm, gravel driveways were simply part of life. Ours was long enough that by the time you reached the house you had already had sufficient opportunity to reconsider every decision you had made that day. Every summer there came the annual ritual of grading fresh gravel. Dad would carefully smooth everything out until the driveway looked almost elegant. We admired it for perhaps forty-eight hours.

Then someone drove on it.

Within days the tires had created new tracks, the loose stones had migrated into the lawn, and somehow there were bumps exactly where there had been none before. It was as though the driveway had a deep theological objection to remaining perfect.

I have often suspected that gravel driveways understand something about the Christian life that we sometimes forget.

We often imagine that spiritual growth should resemble freshly poured concrete: smooth, permanent, predictable. Once we have figured everything out, surely we ought to remain exactly that way forever.

God, however, seems remarkably comfortable working with gravel.

The disciples themselves were hardly polished. Peter lurched between breathtaking faith and spectacular foolishness with astonishing efficiency. James and John were forever arguing about greatness. Thomas required evidence. Martha worried. Mary pondered. Even after the Resurrection they continued learning, stumbling, and growing.

They were never static.

Neither are we.

The Holy Spirit has an extraordinary habit of using lives that are still under construction. Our rough edges become places where grace gets a better grip. Our failures become opportunities for mercy. Our detours often become the very roads that lead us home.

Perhaps that is why Jesus spent so much of his ministry walking dusty roads rather than polished marble floors. The Kingdom has always been more interested in travellers than in perfect pavement.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that gravel possesses a curious personality. Every stone seems convinced it should occupy precisely the place where your lawn mower intends to travel. It displays an independence of spirit rarely found among inanimate objects. One might almost suspect that gravel gathers in committee meetings after dark to discuss migration strategies.

And yet, despite its occasional rebellion, the driveway continues faithfully carrying us home.

So does grace.

It does not wait until all the bumps have disappeared before welcoming us. It does not insist that every pothole be filled before allowing us to continue. It simply keeps inviting us onward, one somewhat uneven step at a time.

Perhaps today you feel as though your life has developed a few unexpected ruts. Maybe the path is not nearly as smooth as you had hoped it would be.

Do not be discouraged.

The road beneath your feet may be rougher than you planned, but if it is leading you closer to Christ, it is still a very good road indeed.

And if you happen to hear a few stones crunching beneath your feet today, give thanks.

Sometimes the most ordinary roads make the finest pilgrimages.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for walking with us on every road, even the rough and uneven ones. When life feels full of bumps, ruts, and unexpected detours, remind us that your grace never leaves our side. Keep our hearts moving toward Christ, one faithful step at a time, until every journey finally brings us home. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Theology of the Well-Worn Picnic Blanket

There is something wonderfully honest about an old picnic blanket.

A brand-new one, fresh out of the package, still has crisp folds and bright colours. It looks as though it belongs in an outdoor catalogue where everyone is smiling suspiciously and no one has ever spilled mustard. But a picnic blanket that has survived several summers tells a much richer story. It has grass stains that refuse to surrender, a faint smell of sunscreen, and perhaps one mysterious mark that no one can identify but everyone politely agrees not to discuss.

A well-worn picnic blanket is a faithful servant.

As we move through late August, with another long weekend just over the horizon, many families are beginning to think about one last picnic before autumn quietly starts peeking around the corner. There is something deeply comforting about spreading out a blanket beneath a maple tree, unpacking sandwiches that somehow always taste better outdoors, and watching children and grandchildren immediately ignore the carefully prepared seating arrangement in favour of chasing dragonflies.

The blanket itself becomes holy ground.

That may sound like an unusual statement, but Scripture has always had a habit of making ordinary places sacred. Moses found holy ground in a desert. Jesus turned grassy hillsides into dining rooms for thousands. The early Church gathered around ordinary tables in ordinary homes and discovered that Christ was in their midst.

God has never seemed overly concerned with impressive real estate.

The picnic blanket reminds us of that.

No one lays out a picnic blanket because it is luxurious. They lay it out because it creates a place where people can gather. It says, “Come. Sit down. There is room for you.”

That sounds remarkably like the Kingdom of God.

The Church has sometimes been tempted to believe that ministry happens only inside carefully maintained buildings with polished floors and matching chairs. Yet Jesus did some of his finest teaching while sitting on hillsides, beside lakes, under trees, and along dusty roads. He seemed perfectly content with whatever furniture creation happened to provide.

I suspect that if someone had offered Him a faded plaid picnic blanket, He would have thought it perfectly adequate.

Perhaps Peter would have worried whether it was straight.

Thomas would have questioned whether it could support everyone’s weight.

Judas might have suggested purchasing a newer model.

Meanwhile Jesus would already be passing around the bread.

That seems about right.

The older I become, the more I appreciate things that have been well used rather than perfectly preserved. An old Bible with notes in the margins. A favourite cast-iron frying pan. A comfortable chair on the porch. A walking stick polished smooth by countless hikes.

Or a picnic blanket that has faithfully hosted dozens of conversations, family reunions, birthday cakes, church picnics, children’s games, and quiet afternoon naps.

Objects become precious not because they remain untouched, but because they have been lovingly used.

People are much the same.

The saints are rarely polished specimens. More often they bear the marks of long lives lived faithfully. They carry scars from disappointment, wrinkles from laughter, tears from grief, and wisdom earned the slow way. Like that old picnic blanket, they may no longer look brand new, but they have become wonderfully dependable.

Ordinary Time teaches us exactly that.

This long green season is less about dramatic mountaintop experiences and more about the steady grace that forms us day after day. It is about discovering that holiness grows through repeated acts of welcome, generosity, forgiveness, and shared meals. The spectacular moments are memorable, but the ordinary ones are what shape us.

Perhaps that is why Jesus so often chose meals as the setting for grace.

A picnic has no assigned seating. People shuffle around. Children migrate from one end to the other. Someone inevitably forgets the napkins. Someone else discovers the potato salad has been sitting in the sun a little longer than intended. Yet somehow, everyone leaves full—not only of food, but of companionship.

Grace works much the same way.

It is rarely neat.

It is almost never perfectly organized.

But somehow, everyone who stays long enough discovers they have been fed.

So if you happen to unfold an old picnic blanket over the next week or two, pause for a moment before setting out the sandwiches.

Give thanks for every stain that tells a story.

Give thanks for every meal that has already been shared.

Give thanks that God’s Kingdom is built less upon perfection than upon hospitality.

Then make a little extra room on the blanket.

You never know when grace might arrive carrying its own lunch basket.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for every table—whether polished wood or a well-worn picnic blanket—where love is shared and friendships grow. Help us to make room for others with generous hearts, remembering that your Kingdom is built through simple acts of welcome. Bless our homes, our meals, and all who gather with us, that every shared moment may become a place where your grace is known. Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Rain Barrel

There is something deeply satisfying about a rain barrel.

For one thing, it quietly proves that not every useful thing in life has to plug into the wall. While the rest of the neighbourhood is buying elaborate irrigation systems with enough electronic components to launch a small satellite, the humble rain barrel simply stands beneath the downspout doing what it has done faithfully for generations: waiting.

It does not chase the rain.

It does not complain when the skies are blue.

It simply remains open, ready for whatever heaven chooses to send.

I have always admired that.

The funny thing is that rain barrels are rather unimpressive when the weather has been dry for a while. You can lift the lid, peer inside, and discover little more than a lonely inch of water and perhaps a mosquito that has made some unfortunate life choices. It is hardly inspiring.

Yet one good summer thunderstorm changes everything.

By morning the barrel is full again, quietly storing enough water to keep flowers blooming through another hot spell. Nothing dramatic happened. It simply received what fell from above.

There may be a sermon hiding in that.

Ordinary Time is rather like the rain barrel season of the Christian year. There are no great festivals at the moment. Christmas is a memory. Easter lilies have long since disappeared. Pentecost flames have settled into ordinary Tuesdays and Wednesdays.

This is simply the season of quietly collecting grace.

Most of us imagine spiritual growth happens through spectacular experiences. We wait for mountaintop moments, dramatic prayers, or some profound revelation that arrives with heavenly orchestras in the background.

More often, however, God works one gentle shower at a time.

A kind conversation.

A peaceful morning prayer.

A quiet walk after supper.

A familiar hymn.

A meal shared with friends.

A Sunday Eucharist.

None of these seems extraordinary by itself. Yet over weeks and months they fill the soul the way summer rains fill a barrel.

One blessing at a time.

The Prophet Isaiah records God’s promise:

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven… so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty.” (Isaiah 55:10–11)

God has always liked working through rain.

Of course, every gardener knows there is one important rule. You cannot collect yesterday’s rain.

Once it has run off, it is gone.

The barrel only receives what is falling now.

The same is true of grace.

We sometimes spend so much energy regretting yesterday or worrying about next week that today’s blessing runs right past us. God is offering enough mercy for this day, enough strength for this conversation, enough joy for this moment.

Not all of next month.

Just today.

That turns out to be enough.

Growing up on our family farm in southern Ontario, rain was always part of the daily conversation. During dry spells everyone watched the horizon with growing interest. My father could identify promising clouds from what seemed like half a county away. When rain finally arrived, there was almost a collective sigh of relief. Nobody stood in the middle of the field complaining that it had not come yesterday. We were simply grateful that it had come today.

Farmers understand something that the rest of us occasionally forget.

You cannot manufacture rain.

You can only prepare to receive it.

Perhaps that is one reason Jesus so often spoke about seeds, fields, vineyards, and harvests. The people who worked the land already understood dependence upon grace.

As we move toward the final week or so of summer before Labour Day, many of us begin making lists. School supplies. Church programmes. Autumn schedules. Holidays ending. Calendars filling.

There is nothing wrong with planning ahead.

Just don’t forget to keep your rain barrel open.

God is still sending quiet showers of grace today.

The soul that remains open will discover that heaven has been filling it all along.

And when the hotter days inevitably come again—as they always do—you may discover that you have far more living water stored within you than you ever realized.

That, it seems to me, is the Gospel according to the rain barrel.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God, teach us to remain open to your grace each day. Fill our hearts with the quiet showers of your love, your peace, and your wisdom, until they overflow into kindness for others. Help us to trust that even the smallest daily blessings are enough for today. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.