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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

The Gospel According to the Long Weekend Traffic Jam

There are certain signs that tell Canadians a long weekend is approaching.

The grocery store suddenly looks as though people are preparing for a six-month expedition into the Arctic. Hardware stores are full of people convinced that they absolutely must build a new deck before Monday morning. Every gas station develops lineups that would make Disneyland proud. Somewhere, someone has already forgotten the hot dog buns.

And then there is Highway 400.

There are few places where Christian character is tested quite so thoroughly as sitting in a traffic jam on the Friday afternoon before a summer long weekend.

Everyone begins the journey in excellent spirits. Windows are down. Favourite music is playing. Coffee is within reach. Vacation has officially begun.

Then, twenty kilometres later, you realize you have travelled precisely the distance of one respectable golf drive.

That is generally when sanctification begins.

You start making remarkable observations.

“Surely there must be another route.”

“There cannot possibly be this many cottages.”

“Who are all these people?”

The answer, of course, is wonderfully simple.

They are us.

Every driver believes traffic would disappear immediately if only everyone else would stay home. We somehow never suspect that we ourselves may have made a small contribution to the congestion.

The Kingdom of God has a curious habit of exposing that sort of thinking.

Jesus rarely seemed to be in a hurry. He walked almost everywhere. He stopped for children. He paused for blind beggars. He noticed women who quietly touched his cloak. He allowed interruptions to become opportunities for grace.

Most of us, on the other hand, become deeply inconvenienced if someone dares merge into our lane two car lengths ahead.

It is amazing how quickly a highway becomes a spiritual retreat when there is absolutely nothing else you can do.

The traffic jam quietly removes one illusion after another.

You are not in control.

You are not going to arrive any sooner by glaring at the brake lights ahead.

Your repeated consultation with the GPS does not magically create new pavement.

At some point, surrender becomes the only sensible strategy.

Oddly enough, surrender is one of the central disciplines of Christian life.

The Apostle Paul often speaks about patience as though it were one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit. I have occasionally suspected that the Holy Spirit spends every August practising this fruit somewhere between Barrie and Orillia.

Perhaps the real miracle of the long weekend is not that millions of people eventually reach the cottage.

The miracle is that they eventually relax enough to enjoy being there.

The traffic itself becomes forgotten almost immediately.

Isn’t that true of so many things we worry about?

The frustrations that consume us today often become stories we laugh about tomorrow.

The long line eventually moves.

The campground is reached.

The barbecue is lit.

Someone remembers the marshmallows after all.

The children run toward the lake.

The sunset appears without consulting anyone’s schedule.

Creation quietly reminds us that God has never measured life by kilometres travelled per hour.

Perhaps that is why Jesus so often invited people simply to “Come.”

Not, “Hurry.”

Not, “Rush.”

Not, “Beat everyone else there.”

Just…

“Come.”

As another long weekend approaches, perhaps the traffic jam itself can become an unexpected spiritual discipline.

Turn down the anxiety.

Turn up the gratitude.

Notice the people travelling with you.

Say a prayer for those travelling beside you.

Accept that some journeys simply take longer than we planned.

After all, the destination is not made more beautiful because we arrived five minutes earlier.

Grace has never once been delayed by traffic.

It has always travelled at exactly the speed our souls needed.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Loving God,

When our journeys slow and our patience wears thin, remind us that Your grace is never in a hurry. Give us calm hearts, kind spirits, and thankful eyes for the beauty that surrounds us. Watch over all who travel on our long weekend, bringing them safely to those they love. And wherever the road may lead, keep us always travelling in the company of Christ.

Amen.

The Theology of the Garage That Never Quite Gets Cleaned

There are certain projects in life that seem to exist not so much to be completed as to remind us of our humanity. For some people it is writing a novel. For others it is learning the bagpipes. For many of us, it is cleaning the garage.

Every summer begins with noble intentions.

“This is the year,” we tell ourselves confidently. “By Labour Day that garage will be immaculate.”

By the middle of August, however, the garage has merely become a different arrangement of the same clutter. We have successfully moved three boxes from the left wall to the right wall, rediscovered a rake we were convinced had been stolen sometime during the Harper administration, and found enough half-used paint cans to redecorate a small principality.

Progress has certainly been made.

Just perhaps not visible to the naked eye.

Stephen Leacock would surely have appreciated the garage. It is one of those places where optimism repeatedly collides with reality, yet optimism stubbornly returns the following Saturday morning wearing work gloves and carrying a fresh roll of garbage bags.

Growing up on our family farm in southwestern Ontario, garages and machine sheds were places of constant activity. Tractors came and went. Tools disappeared with astonishing speed and somehow always reappeared exactly where no one had looked first. There was always a coffee can full of mysterious bolts that everyone insisted might be needed someday. Nobody knew what they belonged to anymore, but throwing them away felt almost immoral.

Farm garages have their own archaeology.

One layer tells the story of haying season. Another remembers the combine repair of 1978. Somewhere underneath everything lies the socket wrench everyone has been looking for since Easter.

And somehow, despite the apparent disorder, Dad could usually lay his hands on exactly what he needed.

I never quite learned that particular spiritual gift.

The older I become, the more I suspect that garages have something to teach us about grace.

We spend an astonishing amount of energy trying to convince ourselves that life must be perfectly organized before God can make good use of us.

“I’ll volunteer once things settle down.”

“I’ll pray more when life gets less hectic.”

“I’ll become the person God wants me to be after I’ve sorted everything out.”

The difficulty is that life never really gets sorted out.

There is always another project leaning against the wall.

Another responsibility waiting on the workbench.

Another unexpected expense tucked behind the lawn mower.

Another emotional cardboard box labelled “I’ll deal with this later.”

God, meanwhile, seems remarkably unconcerned.

Throughout Scripture, the Lord repeatedly calls people whose lives resemble garages in late August rather than magazine showrooms.

Abraham was still wandering.

Moses was still making excuses.

David carried regrets.

Peter possessed enthusiasm in quantities far exceeding wisdom.

Paul admitted he was still pressing on rather than having already arrived.

Not one of them waited until life became perfectly organized before God began working through them.

Grace has never demanded immaculate storage.

Perhaps that is because God specializes in seeing possibilities where we mostly notice clutter.

The old experience that seems useless becomes wisdom for someone else.

The painful chapter we would rather hide becomes the place from which compassion grows.

The forgotten gifts tucked away for years suddenly become exactly what another person needs.

The Holy Spirit has an extraordinary habit of making beautiful things out of what we assumed belonged in the discard pile.

Even Jesus spent much of his earthly ministry among lives that looked anything but tidy.

Fishermen with tangled nets.

Tax collectors with tangled consciences.

Families with tangled relationships.

Disciples with tangled understanding.

He never stood at the doorway saying, “I’ll come back once you’ve cleaned this place up.”

He simply walked in.

Perhaps that is why I have grown rather fond of garages that never quite get finished.

They remind me that life is always under construction.

There is always another corner to sweep.

Another shelf to straighten.

Another cobweb to remove.

And there is always another Saturday when we smile, put on the old work clothes once again, and give it another try.

The Christian life is rather like that.

Sanctification is less like unveiling a perfectly restored museum and more like steadily making room for grace to work among the wonderfully ordinary accumulation of a lifetime.

One shelf at a time.

One dusty corner at a time.

One small act of faithfulness at a time.

So if your garage is still a little untidy this August, take heart.

It may simply be reminding you of one of the deepest truths of the Gospel.

God has never waited for perfect order before moving in.

In fact, some of the finest renovations the Holy Spirit ever undertakes begin in places that looked far too cluttered to be holy.

And if, while cleaning, you happen to discover the missing screwdriver, the Christmas lights, and a lawn chair you forgot you owned…

Count that as an unexpected blessing.

Just don’t ask where the tape measure has gone.

That remains one of the Church’s enduring mysteries.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for loving us just as we are, not only as we hope someday to become. When our lives feel cluttered with unfinished tasks, old regrets, and worries tucked into forgotten corners, remind us that your grace is never discouraged by the mess.

Teach us to make room for your Spirit one small step at a time. Help us to trust that even the parts of our lives we would rather hide can become places where your mercy, healing, and purpose take root.

Give us patience with ourselves, generosity toward others, and the quiet confidence that you are always at work, even when progress seems slow.

And as we continue the holy work of becoming the people you created us to be, may we never forget that you entered our lives long before everything was in perfect order.

Through Jesus Christ, who is always making all things new.

Amen.

The Spiritual Discipline of Walking After Supper

There are many spiritual disciplines that have been recommended over the centuries. Prayer. Fasting. Silence. Solitude. Pilgrimage. Lectio Divina. Contemplation.

I would like to suggest adding one more to the list.

Walking after supper.

Now, I realize that this recommendation may not impress the monks of the fourth century. They spent decades perfecting lives of extraordinary holiness while living in caves. Compared to that, wandering down the sidewalk in running shoes while discussing whether the tomatoes need watering seems rather less heroic.

Even so, I think they would understand.

Some of the best conversations I have ever had have happened while walking after supper.

When I was growing up on our farm in southwestern Ontario, supper was an event, not simply a meal. Farm work has a remarkable ability to create healthy appetites. After everyone had eaten—and perhaps after someone had accepted a second helping they had loudly insisted they did not need—it was not unusual to wander outside.

There was no destination.

Someone would head toward the lane.

Someone else would drift toward the fields.

Before long, a small procession would develop that had absolutely no agenda whatsoever.

The dogs were delighted.

The mosquitoes were equally delighted.

The adults discussed crops, neighbours, weather, and family news.

Children chased butterflies, picked up interesting rocks, and somehow managed to arrive home carrying sticks that apparently possessed enormous scientific value.

Nothing important was scheduled.

Yet somehow everything important happened.

I sometimes wonder whether our souls still remember that rhythm.

Walking after supper slows us down enough to notice that the day is ending. The light softens. The air cools. Birds settle into the trees. Gardens begin to smell even sweeter than they did at noon. The whole creation seems to sigh contentedly before night arrives.

It is difficult to hurry while watching a sunset.

It is even more difficult to worry about tomorrow while listening to crickets tuning up for their evening concert.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of walking.

The Gospels are filled with roads, lakeshores, dusty paths, villages, gardens, and hillsides. So many of the deepest conversations in Scripture happen while people are walking together. The disciples often learned not while sitting in classrooms but while putting one sandal in front of the other.

Perhaps there is a reason for that.

Our bodies settle into a gentle rhythm that allows our minds to settle as well.

Words come more easily.

Silences become less awkward.

Gratitude sneaks up on us without making a fuss.

Walking has a way of untying knots that sitting in a chair never seems to manage.

There is, of course, one unavoidable hazard.

If you are married, there is always the possibility that your leisurely stroll will suddenly include the sentence, “While we’re out here, we might as well pull a few weeds.”

This is rarely followed by only a few weeds.

Half an hour later you are standing in the garden holding a bucket that now weighs approximately the same as a small hatchback, wondering how a peaceful evening constitutional became unpaid agricultural labour.

This, too, may be sanctifying.

Ordinary Time is full of invitations like this.

Not dramatic.

Not spectacular.

Simply faithful.

The Kingdom of God often grows while people are walking together after supper.

Perhaps that is why evening walks remain one of God’s favourite classrooms.

No admission fee.

No registration required.

Just comfortable shoes, open eyes, grateful hearts, and enough time to notice that the One who walked with two discouraged disciples on the road to Emmaus still enjoys accompanying ordinary people on ordinary roads.

So tonight, after supper, take a walk.

Leave your phone in your pocket.

Wave to the neighbours.

Admire someone else’s flowers.

Laugh at the rabbits who are convinced they own your lawn.

Listen to the birds.

Breathe deeply.

Give thanks.

You may discover that God has been waiting just around the corner, perfectly content to keep pace with you all along.

After all, grace has never been in much of a hurry.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of ordinary evenings, shared meals, and quiet walks beneath your wide sky. Slow our hurried hearts so that we may notice your presence in the beauty of creation, the laughter of those we love, and the kindness of neighbours along the way. Teach us to walk at the pace of your grace, trusting that you are always beside us, even on the most familiar roads. May every step become an act of gratitude and every ordinary day become another opportunity to grow closer to you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Spirituality of Opening Every Window

There comes a point in every Ontario summer when the weather is just right. The humidity finally takes a day off, the breeze remembers its manners, and someone in the house declares, “Open every window!”

Suddenly there is a great flurry of activity. Windows that have been firmly shut against winter cold, spring pollen, or July heat are thrown wide open. Curtains begin to dance like they have been waiting months for an invitation. Fresh air wanders from room to room as though it owns the place. Even the house seems to breathe a long sigh of relief.

It is one of the happiest sounds of summer.

It is also, I suspect, one of God’s favourite metaphors.

The trouble is that most of us spend much of life behaving like old farmhouses in January. We keep ourselves buttoned up. We close the windows against disappointment, criticism, grief, awkward conversations, and people who might rearrange our comfortable furniture. We convince ourselves that staying sealed up will keep us safe.

Instead, we slowly become stuffy.

The soul is rather like that. Without fresh air, it becomes filled with stale worries, recycled resentments, and opinions that have been sitting in the corner since the last federal election. Before long, we cannot remember whether we are protecting our peace or simply preserving our dust.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that there are few people more determined than a homeowner who has just decided the outdoor air is “perfect.” Every window must be opened immediately, regardless of whether anyone else in the household is wearing a sweater. Someone invariably insists that a cross-breeze has been scientifically proven to cure every known ailment except perhaps taxes. Another family member quietly closes the bedroom window five minutes later. Thus begins one of summer’s great domestic liturgies.

I confess that I rather enjoy it.

There is something wonderfully hopeful about opening every window. It assumes that what is outside may actually be a blessing. It welcomes birdsong instead of silence. It exchanges conditioned air for living air.

Faith asks us to do something remarkably similar.

The Holy Spirit has never shown much interest in remaining outside politely knocking forever. Throughout Scripture, the Spirit arrives as breath, wind, fresh air, and unexpected movement. Pentecost itself sounds less like an orderly committee meeting and more like every window in the house flying open at once.

Perhaps discipleship is simply learning to crack open another window.

A window of gratitude.

A window of forgiveness.

A window of curiosity.

A window toward someone whose story we have never taken the time to hear.

A window that lets God surprise us again.

The wonderful thing about fresh air is that it does not ask permission to improve the room. It simply comes in and quietly does its work.

Grace often behaves exactly the same way.

So perhaps today, if the weather cooperates, throw open every window in your house. Let the breeze wander through the rooms. Listen to the trees applauding outside. Breathe deeply.

Then ask yourself a gentler question.

“Lord, is there a window in my heart that I’ve kept closed for far too long?”

Do not be surprised if the answer arrives on the wind.

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Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of fresh air, gentle breezes, and hearts that can still be opened. Sweep through our lives with your Holy Spirit. Clear away what has become stale, fill us with new hope, and teach us to welcome your surprising grace each day. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Ministry of the Extra Cob of Corn

There are certain moments in life that reveal the true character of a Canadian summer. One of them happens when someone asks, “How many cobs would you like?”

Now, sensible people answer, “One.”

Reasonable people answer, “Two.”

But there is always one saintly soul standing beside the barbecue who says, “Go on… have another. We’ve got lots.”

That, my friends, is the ministry of the extra cob of corn.

I have never once in my life heard anyone say those words with reluctance. They are always spoken with generosity, usually while balancing tongs in one hand and trying not to burn the hamburgers with the other.

There is something wonderfully extravagant about fresh Ontario sweet corn. It arrives for only a short season, and for those few glorious weeks we behave as though every meal ought to include six dozen ears. Farmers’ wagons appear along country roads. Pickup trucks become mobile corn markets. Churches seem incapable of holding a summer barbecue without it. Entire families gather around picnic tables looking like participants in some ancient agricultural ritual, complete with butter running down their elbows.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that no civilized conversation can continue once everyone has been handed a cob of corn. It is impossible to appear dignified while chasing kernels around your plate or discovering that butter has somehow migrated onto your glasses. Corn is God’s great equalizer. Bishops, bankers, plumbers, teachers and toddlers all end up looking exactly the same.

Perhaps that is one of its hidden ministries.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of meals where there was more than enough. The feeding of the five thousand was not merely about avoiding hunger. It was about revealing the abundance of God. Everyone ate until they were satisfied, and there were baskets left over besides.

God does not seem especially interested in calculating grace by the teaspoon.

The Kingdom often feels like that unexpected extra serving. Forgiveness beyond what we deserve. Mercy beyond what we imagined. Hope beyond what circumstances would suggest. Joy that sneaks into ordinary Tuesday evenings over supper.

We spend a surprising amount of our lives worrying there will not be enough—enough money, enough energy, enough time, enough love, enough faith. Scarcity becomes our default setting.

Yet the Gospel keeps placing another cob of corn on our plate.

Not because we earned it.

Simply because generosity is what God does.

Looking back, many of the richest moments of my life have come from someone’s “extra.” The extra invitation to stay for coffee. The extra chair pulled up around the table. The extra phone call when life was difficult. The extra prayer offered quietly after everyone else had gone home. The extra chance when I had made a mess of things.

None of those could be measured in dollars.

All of them were grace.

Perhaps that is why St. Paul speaks of the fruit of the Spirit rather than the ration of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity… these are not commodities to be guarded carefully in a locked pantry. They are crops meant to be harvested and shared freely.

And perhaps that is the invitation for today.

Be the person who offers the extra cob.

Not only at supper, although that would certainly brighten someone’s evening.

Offer the extra smile.

The extra word of encouragement.

The extra measure of patience.

The extra act of kindness that no one expected.

Because somewhere today, someone is quietly wondering whether there will be enough goodness left in the world to carry them through.

You may become the proof that there is.

After all, our Lord has always specialized in feeding people until they discover that grace is far more abundant than they first imagined.

And if there happens to be butter dripping off your chin while you remember that…

Well, that simply makes the sermon more believable.

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Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
thank you for the countless ways your generosity fills our lives, often in places we least expect. Teach us to trust that your grace is always enough, and then make us generous with what we have received. Help us to offer an extra measure of kindness, patience, encouragement, and love, so that others may catch a glimpse of your abundant Kingdom through us. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Spirituality of Picking Wild Berries.

Growing up on a fairly large cash crop farm in southern Ontario, I lived a remarkably blessed childhood. The fence rows and ditch banks that bordered our fields were full of wild treasures if you knew where to look.

Early each summer came the wild strawberries. They were tiny compared with the strawberries we grew in the garden, but they possessed a sweetness that no supermarket berry has ever managed to imitate. You had to pick a great many of them to fill even a small bowl, but every one was worth the effort.

A few weeks later came raspberry season. Along the edges of the fields grew wild red raspberries and black raspberries in astonishing abundance. A walk along the fence line with a pail often became an expedition that ended with quarts of berries making their way back to the farmhouse.

There was a particular satisfaction in sprinkling those berries over a bowl of morning cereal or spooning them over vanilla ice cream. They were the labour of your own hands. They tasted better because you had found them yourself.

Mind you, raspberry season also left evidence. My forearms usually carried enough scratches from the thorn bushes to convince anyone that I had been engaged in some sort of agricultural combat. I considered those scratches badges of honour, proof that persistence often has delicious rewards.

Even now, whenever I see a patch of wild berries beside a country road, I am carried back to those summer mornings on the family farm. They remain among my happiest memories, and perhaps that is one reason I have always thought that God has something to teach us through wild berries.

There is something wonderfully optimistic about a person who goes looking for wild berries.

It begins with confidence bordering on theological certainty. We march into the woods carrying an empty bucket and the firm conviction that somewhere out there is a patch of berries just waiting to make our breakfast more interesting. We have no guarantee. We simply trust.

Faith often begins exactly there.

Wild berry picking has always struck me as one of God’s quieter classrooms. There are no admission fees, no PowerPoint presentations, and very little applause. Just a patch of raspberry canes or blueberries tucked into the edge of a field, quietly producing fruit because that is simply what they were created to do.

Of course, they do not make it easy.

The berries always seem to grow in places protected by an impressive security system of mosquitoes, blackflies, thistles, poison ivy, and branches that somehow know precisely where your glasses are. You return home with a litre of berries and enough scratches to convince your family you have wrestled a small bear.

This is one of God’s gentler reminders that many worthwhile things require a little inconvenience.

Canadians spend an extraordinary amount of effort cheerfully wandering into mosquito-infested bushes in search of food that is freely available in neat little plastic containers at the grocery store. But somehow the berries taste different when you have earned every handful.

Grace has always had that quality about it.

The sweetest blessings are often the ones that required patience rather than speed.

You cannot hurry wild berries. You learn to look carefully. At first all you see are leaves. Then suddenly your eyes adjust, and everywhere there are little flashes of red, blue, or black hiding beneath the branches. What seemed empty is actually full.

Prayer works much the same way.

Most of us begin by saying, “Lord, I don’t see much happening.”

Then, slowly, our spiritual eyesight changes.

We begin noticing small mercies that were there all along. A friend’s encouraging word. A cool breeze after a hot afternoon. A child laughing. A neighbour waving from across the street. A moment of unexpected peace. They are scattered through the ordinary landscape like berries waiting to be discovered.

The Kingdom of God is rarely loud. It is often hidden just beneath the leaves.

Berry picking also teaches moderation.

The first few berries usually make it into the bucket. The next several mysteriously disappear into the picker. Scientific studies have yet to explain this phenomenon, although experienced berry pickers know it has absolutely nothing to do with self-control and everything to do with quality assurance.

By the time you reach home, your bucket may not contain quite as many berries as originally anticipated, but your soul is noticeably happier.

Perhaps God smiles at this.

Not every blessing needs to be stored away for later. Some are meant simply to be enjoyed while they are fresh.

And then there is the unexpected generosity of nature.

You rarely find just one berry. Where there is one, there are usually many more nearby. God’s creation seems to delight in abundance. A single bush becomes dozens. A handful becomes enough for a pie. A morning’s wander becomes enough to share with neighbours.

That, too, is how grace behaves.

God seldom gives us just enough to survive. More often, God gives enough to share.

Jesus fed crowds. The manna covered the ground. The nets overflowed with fish. The baskets of leftovers were gathered up. The Gospel is remarkably generous.

Perhaps that is why picking wild berries feels almost sacramental.

It invites us to slow down.

To pay attention.

To trust that goodness is often hidden where we least expect it.

To discover that abundance usually reveals itself to those willing to look carefully.

And perhaps, when we return home with purple fingers, scratched arms, and a bowl full of berries, we discover that the greatest harvest was not the fruit we carried back at all.

It was the quieter heart that returned with us.

Thanks be to God for berry patches, patient searching, and all the sweet surprises hidden beneath the leaves.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the quiet lessons hidden in ordinary places. Thank you for berry patches, summer mornings, patient searching, and the joy of small discoveries.

Teach us to slow our hurried pace so that we may notice the gifts you scatter throughout each day. Give us eyes to see your grace hidden beneath the leaves of ordinary life, hearts that delight in sharing your abundance, and spirits that trust that you are always at work, even when we cannot yet see the fruit.

And when life leaves us with a few scratches along the way, remind us that your sweetest blessings are often found by those who keep looking with hope.

May our lives bear the fruit of your love, for the nourishment of the world and the glory of your holy name.

Amen.