The Gospel According to a Fresh Notebook

There is something quietly optimistic about a brand-new notebook.

Its pages are perfectly blank. The corners are crisp. The cover still lies flat instead of flopping open to that one page you have apparently visited three hundred and forty-seven times. There are no coffee stains. No mysterious grocery lists. No sermon ideas written upside down in the margins because inspiration arrived while you were balancing a cup of tea in one hand and trying to answer the telephone with the other.

It is, for a brief and glorious moment, a picture of possibility.

September has always been notebook season.

Even those of us who have not attended school in decades find ourselves wandering through office supply stores, admiring journals we absolutely do not need. We pick one up. We feel the paper. We imagine that this notebook will somehow organize our entire existence. This one, surely, will transform us into the sort of person who writes beautifully every day, never loses receipts, remembers birthdays, and perhaps even folds fitted sheets correctly.

By Thanksgiving it usually contains three pages of careful writing, two phone numbers with no names attached, an excellent recipe for soup, and a reminder to buy batteries.

Human beings are wonderfully hopeful creatures.

I suspect God smiles at that.

We often imagine that holiness arrives fully organized, colour-coded, and complete. Scripture tells a rather different story. God’s people seem forever beginning again.

Abraham packs up and starts walking.

Moses starts over in the wilderness.

Ruth begins a new life in a foreign land.

Peter begins again after failure.

Paul begins again after discovering that everything he thought he knew about God was much larger than he imagined.

And every morning, according to Lamentations, “His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.”

The Christian life has always involved more fresh starts than flawless performances.

Perhaps that is why September feels strangely spiritual.

The Church has never regarded January as the only season of new beginnings. Every liturgical season quietly invites us to begin again. Advent begins hope. Lent begins repentance. Easter begins resurrection. Ordinary Time begins the patient work of simply following Jesus through ordinary days.

September belongs to that same family.

Not because the calendar demands it, but because grace allows it.

The remarkable thing about a blank notebook is not that it contains nothing.

It is that it can still contain anything.

Grace works rather like that.

Many people arrive in September carrying the scribbles of the previous months. Plans that never happened. Prayers that seem unanswered. Friendships that became complicated. Dreams postponed. Mistakes we wish we could erase with a very large rubber eraser.

Unfortunately, life does not provide erasers that large.

Fortunately, it does provide grace.

God rarely tears out the previous pages. Instead, God patiently invites us to turn to the next one.

The story continues.

The Apostle Paul understood this well. “Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal…” Not because the past disappeared, but because Christ was already waiting in the future.

That changes everything.

The older I become, the more I appreciate that spiritual maturity looks less like having all the answers and more like remaining willing to write another page.

To pray one more prayer.

To forgive one more person.

To trust one more day.

To laugh at oneself one more time.

Stephen Leacock would probably remind us that Canadians possess a unique talent for purchasing notebooks while remaining deeply uncertain whether we own a pen that works. It is an oddly accurate picture of discipleship. We enthusiastically embrace God’s future while occasionally forgetting the practical means of living it.

Fortunately, the Holy Spirit has been known to provide both inspiration and ink.

So if September finds you standing before another blank page, do not be intimidated by its emptiness.

Receive it as an invitation.

Write with kindness.

Cross out without shame.

Laugh often.

Leave generous margins for surprises.

And remember that the Author of your salvation has never been frightened by unfinished manuscripts.

In fact, God seems to specialize in them.

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 gift of fresh beginnings and the quiet hope found in every new day. When I become discouraged by the pages already written, remind me that your mercy is always inviting me to turn to the next one.

Give me courage to keep trusting, wisdom to keep learning, humility to laugh at myself, and faith to follow wherever Christ leads. Fill the blank spaces of my life with your grace, your peace, and your love.

May every page I write this day tell, in some small way, the story of your faithfulness.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Sacred Sound of the School Bus

There are few sounds in Canadian life more capable of announcing a new season than the first school bus rumbling down the road in September.

It arrives before most of us are emotionally prepared.

One day the neighbourhood is enjoying the slow rhythm of summer mornings. Coffee is consumed at a civilized pace. Dogs stroll rather than march. Children seem to emerge from their houses around noon looking as though breakfast is still a negotiable concept.

Then suddenly, one Tuesday morning, a large yellow vehicle appears before sunrise with all the subtlety of the Second Coming.

Within minutes, lunch bags have gone missing, somebody cannot find a shoe, parents are wondering why homework already exists after only one day of school, and the entire neighbourhood is awake fifteen minutes earlier than it had intended.

September has officially arrived.

Even those of us who no longer have children heading off to school somehow feel it. We instinctively begin organizing calendars, clearing desks, making lists, and promising ourselves that this year we will finally become the sort of organized people we have admired from a respectful distance for decades.

It is a lovely annual illusion.

The remarkable thing is that God seems to have built this rhythm into creation itself.

Scripture is filled with fresh beginnings.

Abraham leaves home.

Moses starts over in the wilderness.

Israel crosses the Jordan into a new land.

The disciples leave their fishing nets.

Paul begins again after discovering that everything he thought he knew about God was only the introduction.

Again and again, God seems wonderfully comfortable beginning new chapters.

Perhaps that is because grace is always more interested in the future than in the past.

One of the great gifts of September is that it quietly reminds us we are allowed to begin again.

Not because we have failed.

Not because the previous season was wasted.

But because living things naturally keep growing.

Trees do not apologize for producing another ring.

Farmers do not criticize wheat for needing another season.

Gardeners do not scold tomatoes for taking time.

Growth has always required another chapter.

I suspect adults need September almost as much as children do.

The children receive new backpacks.

We receive another opportunity to become the people God has patiently been shaping all along.

Perhaps this is the month to reopen your Bible.

Perhaps it is time to begin praying again after a long silence.

Perhaps there is someone who deserves a phone call.

Perhaps there is forgiveness waiting to be offered—or received.

Perhaps there is a ministry you’ve quietly been postponing because you imagined someone else was more qualified.

The school bus reminds us that lessons are beginning once again.

The Holy Spirit has been conducting continuing education for disciples ever since Pentecost.

The curriculum never really ends.

Thankfully, neither does the patience of the Teacher.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that schools spend considerable effort convincing children that education requires bells, schedules, attendance records, and report cards, while God somehow manages to teach most of life’s deepest lessons through ordinary Tuesdays, unexpected conversations, burnt casseroles, missed turns, long walks, and the occasional spectacular mistake.

The Divine Classroom has always been somewhat unconventional.

Fortunately, the Instructor is exceptionally patient.

As the first buses roll through our neighbourhoods this September, perhaps they carry more than students.

Perhaps they carry an invitation.

Not merely to remember our own school days.

But to remember that discipleship is lifelong.

No one ever graduates from learning the love of God.

And that may be the best news September has to offer.

May God grant us the curiosity of children, the humility of beginners, and the joyful confidence to climb aboard whatever new lesson grace has prepared for us next.

After all, the Teacher has already arrived.

We’re simply waiting for the bus.

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 Teacher,

As a new season begins, give us the courage to be lifelong learners in the school of your grace. Open our hearts to the lessons you place before us in ordinary days, familiar faces, and unexpected moments. Grant us the humility to begin again, the patience to keep growing, and the faith to trust that you are always leading us toward the fullness of life in Christ.

May we welcome each new day with curiosity, hope, and joy, knowing that your mercies are new every morning.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Full Backpack

One of the unmistakable signs that September has arrived is that backpacks suddenly begin appearing everywhere.

All summer long they have lived quiet, forgotten lives. They have been hanging from hooks in closets, buried beneath winter mittens that nobody remembered putting there, or lying under beds collecting enough dust to qualify as archaeological discoveries. Then, almost overnight, they return.

They emerge into daylight looking slightly bewildered.

Children inspect them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Parents inspect them with considerably more urgency. Zippers are tested. Lunch containers are rediscovered. Water bottles that mysteriously vanished sometime around June are found in places where modern science insists they could not possibly have been.

I have often suspected that backpacks spend July and August holding secret conventions somewhere.

Then comes September.

Suddenly every backpack is filled with purpose.

Books replace beach towels. Pencils replace sunscreen. Calendars replace vacation brochures. The whole world seems to stand just a little straighter.

Even those of us who haven’t been students for decades somehow feel it.

There is something wonderfully hopeful about carrying what we need for the journey ahead.

That, it seems to me, is not a bad description of the Christian life.

Scripture often speaks of travelling.

Abraham leaves home without a map.

Israel wanders through the wilderness carrying the Ark of God’s presence.

The disciples travel dusty roads with Jesus.

The early Christians were not originally called Christians at all. They were known as “The Way.” Their faith was understood not merely as a set of beliefs but as a journey walked together.

God has always seemed remarkably interested in people who are on the move.

Perhaps that is because faith is never something we finish packing once and for all.

Every September reminds us that we continue learning.

There is something deeply comforting about that.

The older I become, the less interested I am in pretending that I have all the answers. Thirty-three years of ordained ministry have taught me that the Christian life is less about arriving than about remaining teachable.

There is always another lesson in grace.

Always another opportunity to forgive.

Always another invitation to grow kinder.

Always another page in the textbook that we somehow managed to skip the first dozen times we read it.

God, thankfully, has never objected to reviewing the material.

Of course, not everything belongs in a backpack.

One of the great skills students eventually learn is deciding what is actually worth carrying. If you try to take absolutely everything, your shoulders begin protesting before you reach the first classroom.

The same is true spiritually.

Many of us spend enormous amounts of energy carrying old disappointments.

Old arguments.

Old embarrassments.

Old fears.

Old versions of ourselves that God quietly finished redeeming years ago, while we kept insisting on dragging them around like extra textbooks we no longer need.

Jesus once said, “Come to me… and I will give you rest… for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Notice He never promised we would carry nothing.

He simply promised we would not have to carry everything.

There is a profound difference.

Perhaps September is also God’s annual invitation to clean out the backpack of the soul.

Keep gratitude.

Pack hope.

Bring curiosity.

Carry compassion.

Don’t forget forgiveness.

Those will serve you remarkably well this year.

Leave behind resentment if you can.

It weighs far more than people realize.

And if there is still room, tuck in a healthy sense of humour.

The Kingdom of God has always travelled more comfortably with people who know how to laugh.

Stephen Leacock understood that. So did Jesus, I suspect. Anyone who nicknamed fishermen “Sons of Thunder,” compared religious leaders to whitewashed tombs, and talked about camels squeezing through the eyes of needles probably smiled more often than our stained-glass windows sometimes suggest.

The road ahead will undoubtedly contain assignments we did not choose, surprises we never expected, and perhaps a few pop quizzes in patience.

Fortunately, we do not walk it alone.

The most important thing we carry has never been our own strength.

It is the steady presence of Christ, who has been making this journey with ordinary people since long before backpacks were invented.

So shoulder your pack.

Take the next faithful step.

And if somewhere along the way you discover an old granola bar from last spring hiding in one of the pockets, consider it a gentle reminder that God specializes in accompanying wonderfully imperfect travellers.

Even in September.

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 we begin this new season, help us to carry only what draws us closer to you. Fill our hearts with hope, our minds with wisdom, and our hands with kindness. Teach us to leave behind every burden that keeps us from walking freely in your grace, and remind us each day that Christ journeys beside us. May we step into September with courage, joy, and the quiet confidence that you are leading us every step of the way.

Amen.

The Holiness of Sharpening Pencils

One of the surest signs that September has arrived is not found on a calendar.

It is found in the sound of someone sharpening a pencil.

Now I realize that in many homes pencils have been replaced by laptops, tablets, and devices that seem capable of doing everything except finding where you left your reading glasses. Even so, there remains something wonderfully hopeful about school supplies. Fresh notebooks. New binders. Clean lunch bags. Boxes of crayons lined up with military precision before they begin their inevitable migration to every corner of the house.

September has always been the season of preparation.

As a child growing up on our farm, September meant that summer freedom quietly gave way to routines. School clothes appeared. The smell of new scribblers filled the kitchen table. Somewhere in the distance, Dad was already thinking about harvest while the rest of us wondered whether our teachers would remember our names after two months away.

For clergy, September feels surprisingly similar.

The Church’s calendar does not officially begin until Advent, but parish life certainly wakes up after Labour Day. Choirs return. Bible studies resume. Committees discover that they have not met since June and therefore require two meetings to discuss why they missed the first one. The coffee hour grows louder. Children’s voices once again echo through church hallways. Suddenly the building feels wonderfully alive.

I have always loved that.

There is something deeply theological about beginnings.

Scripture is full of them.

“In the beginning…” are among the very first words we encounter in the Bible.

Abraham begins a journey.

Moses begins a calling.

The disciples begin following Jesus.

The Church begins at Pentecost.

Again and again, God seems remarkably unwilling to let people remain permanently defined by what happened yesterday.

That is good news for all of us.

Many people secretly carry into September a list of regrets from the summer.

“I didn’t accomplish what I hoped.”

“I never got around to…”

“I should have…”

“I wish I had…”

Those sentences have an unfortunate habit of becoming permanent residents in our minds.

God, however, is much more interested in the next sentence.

Grace has always been forward-looking.

One of the great gifts of the Christian life is discovering that God rarely asks us to begin perfectly.

God simply invites us to begin.

There is an enormous difference.

If perfection were required before starting, none of us would ever leave the driveway.

The disciples themselves were not exactly the Dean’s List of theological education. They misunderstood Jesus with remarkable consistency. They argued about status. Peter occasionally spoke before consulting his brain. Thomas required extra evidence. James and John wanted front-row seats in the Kingdom.

In other words, they were reassuringly human.

Yet Jesus called them anyway.

Perhaps holiness has less to do with flawless performance than faithful willingness.

That thought has comforted me more than once.

Stephen Leacock once delighted in observing the splendid chaos of ordinary Canadian life. He understood that humanity is often at its funniest when it imagines itself terribly organized.

September has a similar talent.

On Labour Day weekend, we produce elaborate colour-coded calendars worthy of a military campaign. Every appointment has its place. Every evening has a purpose.

By the second Thursday, someone cannot find a gym shoe.

The dog has eaten part of a permission slip.

The dentist has scheduled an appointment directly in the middle of choir practice.

Half the family is living on reheated chili.

The other half wonders why there is so much chili.

Civilization begins to wobble.

And somehow…life carries on.

Thankfully, so does grace.

God has never required our calendars to be tidy before offering us divine companionship.

In fact, God seems remarkably willing to walk beside us while we search for lost backpacks, forget passwords, misplace sermon notes, or discover that the meeting we carefully prepared for is actually next Tuesday.

That, too, is holy ground.

Perhaps this September we need not strive quite so hard to have everything under control.

Perhaps we simply need to become available.

Available to notice.

Available to listen.

Available to encourage.

Available to pray.

Available to laugh at ourselves when life inevitably refuses to cooperate with our carefully laminated schedules.

Because the Kingdom of God has always grown through ordinary people living ordinary days with extraordinary faithfulness.

Every September reminds us that life begins again.

Not because we have finally become better people.

But because the God who creates mornings also delights in creating fresh starts.

So sharpen your pencils.

Open the notebook.

Straighten the desk if it makes you happy.

Label the binders.

Make the plans.

Then smile when half of them need revising before the week is over.

Because the most important thing beginning this September is not your schedule.

It is God’s continuing work within you.

And that has always been the finest beginning of all.

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 gift of new beginnings. As this September unfolds, help us to welcome each day not with fear of what we have left undone, but with hope for what you are still creating within us. Give us patient hearts when our plans unravel, joyful spirits that can laugh at ourselves, and faithful courage to follow wherever you lead. May we discover your presence in ordinary routines, everyday conversations, and the quiet moments in between. Continue your good work in us, one day at a time, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

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.