Dear friends,
If you’ve turned on the news lately, you may have found yourself tempted to crawl under the bed with a thermos of tea and wait for the Second Coming. Wars, disasters, political squabbles that make kindergarten playgrounds look positively civil — sometimes it feels like the world has taken a wrong turn and is determined to drive the bus straight into a ditch.

And yet, here we are, Christians called not to despair, but to live faithfully in the thick of it. That’s no easy assignment. Frankly, there are days when I’d rather have the simpler biblical tasks—like naming the animals in Eden. At least “hippopotamus” sounds more cheerful than “climate crisis” or “market crash.”

But God has not given us the gift of selective news reception. We can’t only listen to the stories of weddings at Cana and fast-forward through Gethsemane. The hard headlines of our world demand our attention. They tell us that creation groans, that nations rage, and that people suffer. Yet Scripture reminds us of something deeper: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5). That verse doesn’t say there was no darkness. It says the darkness did not get the last word.

Hope, you see, is not optimism with a smiley face stuck on it. Hope is that quiet, stubborn trust that God is still God, even when the news ticker says otherwise. It’s the conviction that Christ is risen, and therefore life — real life — will always have the final say.

Now, this doesn’t mean Christians float serenely above the mess with beatific grins. Most of us, when confronted with the daily onslaught, react with something closer to groans, sighs, or the occasional muttered word that probably shouldn’t be repeated at Morning Prayer. And yet — even there — hope takes root. Not because we deny the brokenness, but because we dare to believe that God is working redemption in and through it.

Living faithfully amid overwhelming challenges doesn’t necessarily mean solving them all. (Although if you’ve figured out world peace or how to keep church basements free of mysterious leftover casseroles, do let me know.) Sometimes faithfulness is simply showing up with love: checking on a neighbour, offering a prayer, writing a letter, supporting justice in small but steady ways. It’s remembering that while the world may look like chaos, Christ is still Lord of history — and His Kingdom is coming.

So, dear friends, when the news is hard and your spirit feels weary, don’t crawl under the bed just yet. Instead, look to the One who is Light in darkness, and keep walking, faithfully, hopefully, one small act of love at a time. Because while the headlines may scream otherwise, the deeper truth remains: God’s grace is alive, and it will not be overcome.

A Prayer for Hope in Hard Times

God of Light and Life,
the world’s headlines often leave us weary,
our hearts heavy with grief,
our minds clouded with worry.
We confess that sometimes the darkness feels too great,
and hope seems a fragile thing.

Yet you promise that your light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness cannot overcome it.
Teach us to cling to that promise.
Give us courage to live faithfully amid the storms,
to act with compassion in small ways,
and to trust that you are redeeming all things in Christ.

When fear rises, ground us in your peace.
When despair whispers, remind us of the resurrection.
And when the world feels overwhelming,
draw us back to the simple truth:
you are God, and you are with us.

Through Jesus Christ, our Living Hope, we pray.
Amen.

This past Sunday was the first Sunday in September. It was the beginning of a new Fall season in our parish, and — as we do to celebrate such momentous occasions in the life of many a parish, we began that season with a potluck lunch to bring people back together. I love potluck lunches, not only for the great variety of foods, or even because of the great fellowship. I love those lunches, because they are holy.

It may surprise you to learn that some of the holiest ground I have ever stood upon is not paved with marble, nor covered in stained glass, nor lined with pews polished by generations of faithful backsides. No, it is tiled linoleum, sticky in spots, with the faint aroma of coffee percolating since 1978. Yes, I speak of the church kitchen.

If you’ve ever tried to navigate a church kitchen, you will know that it is a spiritual test of faith. Forks are never where forks should be, tea towels breed like rabbits in mysterious cupboards, and there is always that one drawer that contains everything from twist ties to rubber bands to a spatula older than the Reformation. And yet—this is sacred space.

Why? Because here, in the clang of pots and the hum of dishwashers, community takes flesh. Here is where potluck casseroles (of varying degrees of digestibility) are set out in love. Here is where the mountain of dirty dishes at the end of a parish supper becomes a sacrament of service. I remember a wise priest I once knew who insisted that the most pastoral conversations he ever had weren’t in his office, but standing elbow to elbow with parishioners, hands in sudsy water, washing plates together. The sink became his confessional, and the dishcloth his pastoral stole.

Now, I will confess, potluck dinners are a theological adventure all on their own. You never quite know if that mystery casserole is tuna, turkey, or possibly a relic of last year’s Christmas potluck making a reappearance. And yet, no matter the offering, it is received with gratitude and joy—reminding us that God’s economy is not about gourmet presentation, but about abundance and sharing.

The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2). I am fairly certain that if angels ever do show up in disguise, they will be found carrying a dish to the church kitchen, and probably staying after supper to help with the dishes.

So let us reframe the church kitchen for what it truly is—not just a utilitarian space where food is prepared and cleaned up after, but a holy place where hospitality becomes ministry, where laughter echoes more loudly than the clatter of plates, and where the Kingdom of God quietly breaks in between the casserole and the coffee urn.

So the next time you find yourself on dish duty, remember: you are standing on sacred ground. Take off your rubber gloves, for the place where you scrub is holy.

A Prayer for the Sacred Kitchen

Gracious God,
You meet us not only in sanctuaries of wood and stone,
but in the hum of the dishwasher and the clatter of dishes.
Bless the kitchens of our churches,
where casseroles are offered in love,
where hands are plunged into soapy water,
and where laughter mingles with service.

May the work done there remind us
that hospitality is holy,
and that every shared meal is a glimpse of your Kingdom.
Teach us to see even the dishpan as an altar,
and the tea towel as a stole of service.

Through Christ, who broke bread and washed feet,
we pray.
Amen.

If there’s one thing most of us can agree on, it’s that forgiveness sounds lovely in theory and feels terribly awkward in practice. It’s like exercise: we all nod politely when someone recommends it, but when the time comes, we find about 93 reasons why today is not the day.

Forgiveness is hard because it asks us to let go of something we’d rather keep — our carefully polished grudges, our indignation that still feels fresh after all these years, our private sense that we were “in the right” and the other person deserves to squirm just a bit longer. To forgive is to set down that heavy backpack we’ve been lugging around — except we’ve grown so accustomed to the weight, we don’t quite know who we are without it.

Scripture does not soften the challenge. Jesus tells Peter that we are to forgive “seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22), which is biblical shorthand for as many times as it takes. That’s not because God is trying to make us do spiritual push-ups until we collapse, but because forgiveness is the very air of the Kingdom. As Paul writes, “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you” (Ephesians 4:32). We forgive because we have been forgiven — not out of duty, but out of grace received and grace shared.

Of course, some injuries cut deep. Forgiveness does not mean excusing harm or pretending it never happened. It doesn’t mean skipping over justice. What it means is refusing to let bitterness be the final word. When we forgive, we release ourselves as much as the other person. We allow God to write a different ending than the one resentment keeps rehearsing.

I once heard forgiveness described this way: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free — and then discover the prisoner was you.” It’s awkward, yes. It feels unnatural, yes. But it is also one of the most profoundly Christ-shaped things we can do.

And sometimes forgiveness is small and daily — in the kitchen, when someone forgets to refill the ice cube trays again, or when socks are once more abandoned in the hallway like small white flags of surrender. Sometimes forgiveness is in the monumental, the wounds that scar generations. In both, the invitation is the same: to trust that God’s mercy is big enough to carry what we cannot.

Forgiveness feels hard because it is hard. But it is also the road to freedom, to healing, and to life lived in the wide embrace of God’s love.

Amen.

Prayer

Merciful God,
you know how tightly we hold our hurts,
and how heavy the weight of unforgiveness can be.
Teach us to trust your grace more than our grudges.
Help us to release what binds us,
to forgive as we have been forgiven,
and to discover the freedom of your mercy.

Strengthen us where wounds run deep,
give us wisdom where justice is needed,
and surround us with your healing love.
Through Jesus Christ, who bore the cross
that we might be set free.

Amen.

All through the year, I have a visitor that is regularly in attendance on my back deck. It is a black squirrel that I have often described as the fattest squirrel I have ever seen. My nephew doesn’t like it when I say that though, and says, “You shouldn’t fat shame that poor squirrel.” Putting that aside though, this squirrel is absolutely huge. I saw him on the deck again this morning, and in his quiet squirrelly way, he preached me a sermon.

Now, squirrels are not everyone’s favourite creatures. They chatter at us from the trees, dig up the flowerbeds, and seem to have a particular fondness for anything we’d rather keep safe — birdseed, tulip bulbs, and in my case, the occasional tomato. One could say that if there’s an Olympic medal for persistence, the squirrels have already won the gold.

I watched my little squirrel friend the other day. He was clearly determined to break into the bird feeder I had so carefully “squirrel-proofed.” (A phrase that I now realize belongs in the same category as “jumbo shrimp” or “honest politician.”) For a full ten minutes he tried every possible angle   — leaping, hanging upside down, even attempting what looked suspiciously like a three-point landing on the feeder. At last, with an acrobatic twist that would make a gymnast proud, he secured a single seed, scampered away, and then promptly came back for another.

As I watched him, I began to realize: there’s definitely a sermon here.

Jesus tells us in Matthew’s Gospel to “look at the birds of the air” and see how God provides for them. I wonder if He might also have said, “pay attention to the squirrels too.” For here is a creature that embodies persistence. The squirrel doesn’t give up at the first obstacle. He doesn’t stop because the feeder is designed against him. He keeps at it, trusting (or perhaps just instinctively knowing) that there will be something to eat if he just continues the work.

There is something profoundly theological in that. Our faith journey is often filled with obstacles  —  closed doors, difficult seasons, unanswered prayers. It is tempting to give up, to say, “this is too hard,” or “God must not be listening.” But the squirrel, in all his whiskered determination, reminds us that perseverance matters.

And more than that, the squirrel also trusts in abundance. He gathers acorns and buries them  —  so many that he cannot possibly find them all again. And yet, creation does not waste what he forgets. Those lost acorns become oak trees, spreading their branches wide, providing shade, shelter, and more acorns for generations of squirrels to come. God’s provision is not only enough  —  it overflows.

So perhaps the next time we see a squirrel darting across the lawn, or swinging wildly from a feeder, we can hear a little sermon preached to us. A sermon of persistence, of trust in provision, and of abundance that spills into blessing.

It seems even the squirrels have something to teach us about the Kingdom of God.

Amen.

Companion Prayer

Gracious and abundant God,
you speak to us not only through prophets and preachers,
but through the small, persistent voices of your creation.
Teach us to see your lessons in unlikely teachers  —
in the chatter of squirrels, the patience of birds,
and the quiet rhythms of daily life.

Give us the perseverance to keep faith when the way is hard,
the trust to believe in your provision,
and the joy of knowing your abundance overflows
beyond what we can measure or imagine.

Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.

Dear reader, if you’ve known me for very long, you will know that I am very much a creature of habit. I like to structure my life with very set schedules and familiar patterns. In that familiar pattern, Saturday is Laundry Day; the day when the beds are stripped, and the towels are taken from the bathrooms and the kitchen to be laundered and returned fresh for another week. As I started that process, I began to see theology in that laundry.

There are few mysteries in life as profound and perplexing as the disappearance of socks. You put two in the washer, you take one out of the dryer. It’s not higher mathematics, but somehow the numbers never quite add up. Somewhere in the great spinning cosmos of laundry, socks are vanishing — into a parallel universe, a sock-sized black hole, or perhaps a secret society meeting behind the dryer lint trap.

Now, before you accuse me of stretching theology past its breaking point, hear me out. These small, silly mysteries of daily life can point us to the bigger mysteries of God’s Kingdom.

The Already and the Not Yet of Laundry

Theologians often describe the Kingdom of God as “already and not yet.” Christ has come, salvation is here, the Kingdom is breaking in — already. But the fullness of God’s reign, where all things are made whole, is still ahead of us — not yet.

In the same way, laundry day is an exercise in eschatology. We already have the basket full of clean clothes — folded, fresh, almost complete. And yet… the missing sock remains. We live in that tension: the drawer is almost whole, but not entirely.

It’s the same with the Kingdom. We taste it now in acts of mercy, justice, forgiveness, and grace. But we also live in longing for the day when all that is lost — whether socks, loved ones, or fractured hopes — will be gathered up by God’s love.

The Great Sock Reunion

Jesus tells parables of lost sheep, lost coins, lost sons. Each time, the story ends with rejoicing when what was lost is found. If Christ cares for lost sheep and coins, who’s to say the joy of the Kingdom doesn’t include a reunion with that elusive argyle sock?

Of course, the point isn’t laundry — it’s love. The Gospel tells us that God notices, God seeks, God gathers, and nothing is too small or too lost to be redeemed. Even in our own lives, where relationships fray, dreams unravel, or faith feels threadbare, God is weaving all things together.

Folding the Kingdom into Daily Life

So what does the eschatology of lost socks teach us? That our daily, ordinary tasks — yes, even folding laundry — can remind us of holy hope. Each time we sort and match, we can remember that God is sorting and mending the world. Each time we sigh at a single sock, we can remember that what feels incomplete now will one day be made whole.

And perhaps, in the Kingdom of God, there will be no mismatched socks at all — just a holy laundry line, where everything is paired, perfect, and dancing in the breeze of God’s Spirit.

Until then, dear friends, may even your laundry point you to the joy of God’s Kingdom — already here, but not yet complete.

Prayer

Gracious God,
you gather what is scattered
and mend what is torn.
In the small frustrations of life—
even in the mystery of missing socks—
teach us to glimpse the greater mystery of your Kingdom.

When our lives feel incomplete,
remind us that you are weaving all things together.
When we are weary of searching,
assure us that nothing is ever lost to your love.

Give us patience in the “not yet,”
joy in the “already,”
and hope in the promise that all will be made whole
in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Amen.

It happens in every household. The supper is finished, the conversation winds down, and then someone utters the fateful words: “Who’s doing the dishes?” Suddenly, chairs scrape back with remarkable speed, family members discover urgent tasks elsewhere, and the dog must be let out immediately — even if you don’t own a dog.

Yes, the dishes. That never-ending cycle of cups and plates, the great equalizer of domestic life. They pile up as surely as manna in the wilderness, except that unlike manna they do not vanish by morning. No, they are still there, stacked precariously in the sink, silently accusing you of neglect.

And yet — believe it or not — there is theology in the dishes.

Psalm 139 reminds us that God knows us in every place and at every moment. Not just in the pews on Sunday, but in the kitchen on Tuesday night. The God who formed the stars and knit us together in our mother’s womb is also the God who notices when we mutter over a greasy frying pan.

Doing the dishes is an act of service. It is not glamorous service, not the sort that earns you medals or even polite applause. But it is service nonetheless. Jesus knelt to wash the feet of his disciples — a menial, humble task — and told us to do likewise. I sometimes wonder if, in a modern retelling, it might be washing the supper dishes instead of washing the feet.

In my very first parish, I was blessed to serve alongside an amazing honorary assistant priest, Fr. Kent Gardiner — a man of deep humility and an incredible pastor. Each year at Vestry, someone would propose that since the parish held so many church suppers, we ought to install a commercial dishwasher in the kitchen. Kent would rise, clear his throat, and gently say, “I wouldn’t use the thing. Some of the best pastoral work I do is gathered with others in that kitchen, with our hands in soapy dishwater.” And he was as good as his word. After every church supper, there was Kent — apron on, sleeves rolled up — serving Christ and his community one plate and one pan at a time.

And here is the deeper truth: discipleship is not made up only of the grand gestures — those rare moments of heroic faith. It is also made up of countless small obediences, quiet acts of love repeated over and over. Like dishes, it never really ends. The Christian life is not one glorious triumph but a daily rhythm of choosing to serve, again and again.

So the next time you find yourself staring at a mountain of dishes, remember this: holiness may be hiding in the bubbles. The sink can become a sanctuary. And in the clatter of plates and the swish of the sponge, you just might hear the quiet voice of God saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

A Prayer

Gracious God, teach us to see you not only in the great and shining moments of life, but also in the small and ordinary tasks that fill our days. May we find holiness even at the kitchen sink, and in every act of service, may we reflect the love of Christ. Amen.

Yesterday, I came into the office with a very specific list of things that I wanted to accomplish. The list wasn’t one that I would usually consider terribly long, but in my mind, every thing on that list was of crucial importance. But God it would seem, thought otherwise. Yesterday was a day filled with other distractions that derailed my plan almost entirely. Most of those “important tasks” are now on the to-do list for today. And do you know what? The world did not end.

We tend to live by calendars. Some of us are ruled by little squares on a wall calendar, others by a buzzing phone that interrupts us more often than we’d like. And of course, we are terribly proud of how busy those calendars look. I’ve often thought that clergy could take Olympic gold in the event of “calendar clutter.”

But then, along comes God — who, as it turns out, is not bound by iCal or Outlook. God has a habit of stepping into our lives when we least expect it, and certainly when we haven’t pencilled God in. Scripture is full of these “sacred interruptions.” Moses is minding his own business, tending sheep, when suddenly a bush starts burning and talking. Mary is making her plans for a simple village life when Gabriel knocks at the door. Saul is trotting along the Damascus road, intent on mischief, when he finds himself face-down in the dust. None of these were in the day-planner.

And yet, it is precisely in those interruptions that lives are changed and God’s purposes unfold.

We don’t usually welcome interruptions. They break the rhythm, they delay the task, they derail the plan. But sometimes it’s in the missed bus, the unexpected visitor, the phone call at the wrong time, that God does some of God’s best work. One of the saints of our Anglican tradition once said that interruptions are not obstacles to ministry — they are the ministry.

Now, I don’t mean to suggest that every traffic jam is a burning bush or that every telemarketer is Gabriel in disguise. But I do believe that God often meets us in the unscheduled moments: the child who needs our attention when we’re trying to finish an email, the neighbour who drops by just as we’re putting on our shoes, the quiet nudge in prayer when we’d rather be planning our week. These are opportunities to remember that the world does not, in fact, revolve around our calendar — but around God’s grace.

So perhaps the invitation today is this: instead of seeing interruptions as enemies of productivity, we might receive them as holy moments in disguise. Who knows? The person tugging at your sleeve may be the very one God is sending to bless you — or to be blessed by you.

And if that thought doesn’t lighten your schedule, at least it may lighten your heart.

A Prayer

Gracious God, thank you for meeting us in the interruptions of our lives. Give us eyes to see your hand at work in the unexpected, patience to receive what we did not plan, and joy in the holy surprises of each day. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dear reader, I have long cherished the quiet moments of prayer, when the silence itself seems to hum with the presence of God. But lately, I’ve also found myself thinking about another kind of prayerful sound: the hearty belly laugh. If silence is the hymn of the contemplative soul, then surely laughter is the psalm of joy — sometimes slightly off-key, but all the more beautiful for it.

I don’t know when we got the idea that holiness always comes with a serious face. Somewhere along the way, Christians began to think that God’s business was best conducted with furrowed brows and pursed lips, as though Jesus came not so much that our joy may be full, but that our frowns may be perfected. And yet, in the gospels, we find a Christ who brings feasts, banquets, and celebrations. The kingdom of heaven, after all, is described more like a wedding reception than a board meeting.

Laughter, I think, is a ministry in its own right. It lifts the weary heart, eases the load of a heavy day, and bridges the distance between strangers. A well-timed laugh has healed more wounds than a thousand sermons — though, I assure you, we clergy keep valiantly trying with both.

I recall once, after a particularly chaotic parish dinner, someone said to me, “Father, I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in months.” And there it was: holiness. Not in a hushed chapel, but in the clatter of dishes, spilled gravy, and the sound of friends roaring with laughter until tears came. That night, joy was the sacrament we all shared, and the Spirit was unmistakably present — even if the potatoes were overcooked.

The Book of Proverbs reminds us: “A cheerful heart is a good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones.” Medicine, indeed. The laughter of a child, the chuckle of a grandparent, the snort in the middle of a solemn hymn (though hopefully not from the choir) — these are not distractions from holiness, but reminders of it. They are glimpses of the joy that is at the heart of God’s creation.

So yes, silence will always have its sacred place. But do not underestimate the ministry of laughter. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is to laugh until our sides ache — and in that moment, we may find ourselves closer to God than we ever imagined.

And, dear reader, if you happen to laugh at yourself along the way, consider it an advanced course in humility. I’ve been enrolled in that course for quite some time now.

A Prayer for Holy Joy

Gracious God,
You are the giver of joy and the source of every good laugh.
Thank You for the gift of laughter that lightens our burdens,
for the smiles that knit us together in friendship,
and for the joy that points us back to You.

Teach us to cherish holy silence,
but also to celebrate holy laughter —
to know that both are sacraments of Your love.
When life feels heavy, lift our spirits with joy.
When our hearts are weary, remind us that
a cheerful heart is Your good medicine.

May our lives ring with the sound of both prayer and laughter,
until the day when we join in the eternal chorus of joy
around Your heavenly banquet table.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dear reader, as I sit this morning with my first steaming cup of coffee, I am reminded once again that God’s grace often comes to us in the most ordinary of ways. Coffee is, for me at least, one of those small but daily sacraments of life. It is not (before anyone calls the Bishop) one of the seven great sacraments of the Church, but it is nonetheless a sign, a token, and a gift of grace. That first sip, when the aroma fills the air and the warmth passes through you — well, let’s just say that more than once I’ve whispered Deo gratias before I’ve managed even my morning prayers.

I sometimes think that the Lord, in creating beans, must have had coffee in mind all along. And when someone first figured out that roasted beans, ground fine and steeped in hot water, could produce this holy elixir — surely angels sang. Some people find God in the sunrise; I, too, find God there, but with a mug in my hand.

Of course, there is humour in all of this. I’ve often remarked that the most theologically charged moment of a parish Sunday is not always the sermon or even the hymns — but the line at the coffee urn after worship. Coffee hour, I have long believed, is the eighth sacrament of Anglicanism. Conversations deepen there, friendships are renewed, the lonely find companions, and someone always discovers that the last cookie has been taken (and offers forgiveness anyway). It is in those simple cups poured and shared that community takes shape.

I am reminded, too, of the Emmaus story. The disciples didn’t recognize Jesus on the road, but when He broke the bread, their eyes were opened. I often think He could just as easily have offered them a cup of coffee and had the same effect. Sharing a cup, breaking bread — they are both reminders of the presence of Christ among us, hidden in the ordinary, revealed in love.

So, dear friends, I encourage you to think of your morning coffee (or tea, or whatever warms your heart) as more than just a necessity for getting the eyelids open. Think of it as a small sacramental act, a reminder that God meets us in the daily and the ordinary, in mugs and moments, as much as in chalices and cathedrals.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe the Kingdom of God is calling from the kitchen — in the form of a second cup.

A Prayer Before Coffee

Gracious God,
You meet us in the simplest gifts of daily life.
Bless this cup before me —
that its warmth may steady my spirit,
its strength may ready me for service,
and its aroma remind me that joy is found in small, holy things.

May this morning’s coffee be a token of Your grace,
sustaining me in patience, kindness, and love.
And if it also helps keep my eyes open during Morning Prayer,
well, Lord, You know my frame, and You understand.

Through Jesus Christ, who breaks bread with us,
and would surely share a cup as well.
Amen.

Grace Before Coffee

Lord of life and early mornings,
we thank You for this holy brew.
May it wake our hearts as much as our minds,
warm our fellowship, and keep us kind.

Bless the hands that prepared it,
the friends who share it,
and grant that no one spill on the church carpet.

Amen.

Well, dear reader, my boots may be back in the front closet and my pack tucked away on its shelf, but I have come to realize that the Camino is not something you simply finish. Like a particularly catchy hymn that won’t leave your head (I’m looking at you, All Glory, Laud, and Honour), the Camino lingers. It moves into the rhythms of daily life.

Walking through Spain, I learned that pilgrimage is about more than the destination. It is about the road beneath your feet, the people you meet along the way, and the God who walks with you whether you’re crossing a medieval bridge or just the supermarket parking lot. Now that I’m home, I see the same truth: pilgrimage never really ends — it simply changes scenery.

There’s a temptation to think of life as divided neatly into “holy” moments and “ordinary” ones, as though God were only present in a cathedral in Spain, half a world away, and not in my local hardware store. But the Camino teaches us otherwise. The Spirit of God is just as present in the slow line at the grocery checkout as in the hushed silence of a chapel. (Though, in fairness, both can feel equally penitential at times.)

One thing that struck me on the Camino was how each day had its mix of delight and difficulty. Some stages were breathtakingly beautiful; others seemed to be made entirely of blister-inducing cobblestones. Isn’t that life? One day is filled with laughter and grace, another with tears or frustration. Yet in both, Christ is present. The pilgrimage of daily life is no less holy than the walk across Spain — if anything, it is the real work of faith, where love, patience, and trust are put to the test in small, hidden ways.

I remember one evening on the Camino when David and I toasted our fathers with a small dram of Scotch. That moment, as simple as it was, felt sacramental — an earthly act suffused with heavenly grace. At home, I’ve begun to notice how even a quiet walk around the block, can carry that same weight of holiness. Pilgrimage does not stop; it simply finds new routes through the ordinary fabric of our lives.

So today, I give thanks for the road beneath my feet, whatever shape it takes. Whether it’s cobblestones in Spain, the sidewalks of my neighbourhood, or the carpet in my office, all of it is Camino. All of it is life lived in the company of Christ, and in the cloud of saints who walk with us still.

And if, dear reader, you happen to hear me humming “He Who Would Valiant Be” while working, just know — it’s all part of the journey.

Prayer

Gracious God,
you call us to walk each day in the light of your presence.
Thank you for the pilgrim paths of our lives—
the sacred roads, the ordinary sidewalks,
and even the winding detours that test our patience.
Help us to see that every step is holy
when it is taken with you.
Grant us eyes to notice your grace in small moments,
ears to hear your Spirit in the everyday,
and hearts to trust that the journey never ends—
it only deepens in your love.

Through Jesus Christ, our faithful companion on the way.
Amen.

And if, along the way, I should forget that every step is holy, Lord, kindly remind me — perhaps before I trip over the cat or discover that I’ve been on pilgrimage all along to the kitchen fridge.