The Gospel According to Cloud Watching

There are some summer activities that seem to disappear the older we become.

Building forts.

Running through sprinklers.

Trying to catch frogs.

And, perhaps saddest of all, lying flat on the grass watching clouds drift lazily across the sky.

Children can devote astonishing amounts of time to this pursuit. Entire afternoons may be spent identifying dragons, elephants, sailing ships, rabbits, castles, and at least one cloud that bears an uncanny resemblance to Aunt Mildred.

Adults, on the other hand, generally glance upward only long enough to determine whether they should bring an umbrella.

Somewhere along the journey to maturity, we become convinced that every minute must be productive.

Clouds, regrettably, refuse to cooperate.

They have absolutely no regard for efficiency.

They wander where the wind carries them.

They change shape without consulting anyone.

They never seem particularly concerned about accomplishing measurable outcomes before supper.

Grace abounds.

Now I suspect this is one reason Jesus was so fond of pointing people toward creation.

“Look at the birds of the air…”

“Consider the lilies of the field…”

One almost imagines that if Jesus had grown up in Southern Ontario, there might also have been a sermon beginning, “Now, lie down in the grass for a moment and watch the clouds.”

Not because clouds themselves possess secret theological knowledge.

But because they help uncover something we’ve forgotten.

I remember doing this for hours as a child.

The grass seemed impossibly soft.

The sky impossibly large.

Every passing cloud became a conversation.

“That one’s a whale.”

“No, it’s a train.”

“Actually… I think it’s Grandpa’s dog.”

The remarkable thing was that nobody was trying to be right.

The fun was simply imagining together.

Perhaps that is one of God’s quieter gifts.

Imagination.

We often think faith is primarily about having the correct answers.

Yet throughout Scripture, God continually enlarges people’s imagination before changing their lives.

Abram is invited to imagine descendants as countless as the stars.

The prophets imagine deserts blooming.

Mary imagines a kingdom where the lowly are lifted up.

The disciples slowly learn to imagine that death itself is not the final word.

Before our lives change, our imagination usually must.

Cloud watching quietly exercises that forgotten muscle.

It reminds us that not everything has to be fixed in place.

The world is still capable of surprising us.

The ordinary still hides beauty.

The sky itself is never quite the same twice.

Of course, adults become rather self-conscious about lying on the lawn.

Neighbours begin wondering whether you’ve become overcome by the July humidity.

Someone inevitably asks if you’ve misplaced your contact lens.

If you’re a priest, they may assume you’re conducting an unusually thorough inspection of God’s creation.

Which, in fairness, isn’t entirely inaccurate.

The truth is, we spend so much of life looking down.

At phones.

At calendars.

At grocery lists.

At receipts.

At the weeds that seem to multiply overnight despite our firm theological objections.

Perhaps every now and then we need to remember to look up.

Not because looking up solves every problem.

The mortgage remains.

The doctor’s appointment still arrives on Tuesday.

The laundry basket, in a breathtaking display of persistence, somehow refills itself before breakfast.

But perspective changes.

Wonder quietly returns.

And we remember that we live beneath a sky large enough to hold both our worries and God’s promises.

I sometimes think that recovering childlike faith has less to do with becoming naïve and more to do with becoming curious again.

Children assume there is always something worth discovering.

Adults often assume we’ve already seen everything.

The Kingdom of God gently disagrees.

Every ordinary day still carries surprises.

Every conversation may reveal grace.

Every meal can become thanksgiving.

Every passing cloud may briefly resemble a sailing ship before becoming something entirely different.

Creation continues preaching little sermons for anyone willing to slow down long enough to listen.

Perhaps that is why Ordinary Time matters so much.

This season isn’t about spectacular miracles or dramatic mountaintop moments.

It is about learning to notice God quietly at work in ordinary days.

In gardens.

On front porches.

Around backyard barbecues.

In neighbourhood conversations.

And sometimes while lying flat on the grass, smiling at clouds that refuse to stay still.

So sometime this week, find a patch of grass.

Leave your phone inside.

Spend ten unproductive minutes looking toward heaven.

You may not discover whether that cloud is a camel or a canoe.

But you just might rediscover something even more important.

Wonder.

And wonder, I’ve come to believe, is often where faith quietly begins again.

Grace abounds.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Creator of endless skies,

Thank you for reminding us that not every moment must be hurried, measured, or productive. Teach us again the gift of holy wonder. Open our eyes to the beauty that surrounds us each day and our hearts to the quiet ways your Spirit continues to surprise us.

Help us to look up from our worries long enough to see your goodness written across creation. Give us the curiosity of children, the imagination to dream of your Kingdom, and the faith to trust that you are always at work, even when life seems to drift as gently as the summer clouds.

May our days be filled with gratitude, laughter, and the joy of discovering you in ordinary moments.

Amen.

The Great Canadian Porch Visit

There are few experiences more distinctly Canadian than setting out to accomplish one small errand…

…and returning home an hour and fifteen minutes later because someone was sitting on their front porch.

Alleluia.

You were only planning to wave.

Perhaps you were retrieving the recycling bin.

Maybe you were walking the dog.

Perhaps you simply wandered outside to determine whether the weather was “humid” or “Ontario humid.”

Then someone called, “Well hello there!”

And before you knew it, both of you were leaning comfortably against the porch railing discussing gardens, grandchildren, hockey, the suspicious behaviour of squirrels, whether this winter will be bad because the woolly bears seem particularly fuzzy, and the remarkable fact that Harold down the street somehow continues cutting his lawn three times a week despite there being almost nothing left to cut.

Grace abounds.

Now, if someone from another country were observing this phenomenon, they might conclude Canadians possess an unusual inability to end conversations.

This is entirely possible.

But I suspect something much deeper is happening.

Because porch conversations have never really been about efficiency.

They are about presence.

One of the oddities of modern life is that almost every conversation now seems to have an objective.

We schedule meetings.

We book appointments.

We text ahead.

We send calendar invitations to discuss things that once required little more than walking across the lawn.

Everything has become organized, productive, and wonderfully optimized.

The porch, however, stubbornly refuses to cooperate.

The porch exists in that marvellous space between public and private.

Not quite inside.

Not quite outside.

Not entirely passing by.

Not entirely staying.

It is architecture designed specifically for interruption.

Now, I have always found interruptions rather fascinating.

Clergy live with them constantly.

The telephone rings.

Someone drops into the office.

A hospital calls.

A parishioner catches you just as you’re leaving church with the immortal words, “This will only take a minute…”

Experienced clergy know this sentence has almost no measurable relationship to actual time.

Grace abounds.

Yet some of the most important moments of ministry have happened precisely because the carefully planned schedule quietly fell apart.

A conversation that wasn’t expected.

A story someone finally felt ready to tell.

A prayer offered beside a car in the parking lot.

A laugh shared over absolutely nothing.

The interruption became the ministry.

Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable living that way.

Read the Gospels carefully and you discover that Jesus is almost always being interrupted.

People stop him while travelling.

Children gather around unexpectedly.

Blind beggars shout from roadsides.

Women reach through crowds.

Disciples ask bewildering questions with astonishing consistency.

Meals become teaching moments.

Walks become healing opportunities.

The Kingdom of God keeps arriving in what everyone else considered interruptions.

Perhaps they were never interruptions at all.

Perhaps they were the work.

And maybe that is part of what porch visits quietly teach us.

Neighbourliness cannot be hurried.

Friendship refuses to fit neatly into fifteen-minute appointments.

Community grows one unplanned conversation at a time.

Now, I grew up in a world where front porches were almost extensions of the living room.

People wandered over.

Nobody apologized for stopping by.

Coffee somehow appeared.

Conversation wandered wherever conversation wished to wander.

Nobody seemed particularly anxious about how long it was taking.

The tomatoes could wait.

The dishes could wait.

Even the lawn, despite Harold’s admirable dedication, could wait.

People came first.

Somewhere along the way, we became very busy.

Our calendars filled.

Our devices buzzed.

We became astonishingly efficient at staying connected electronically while slowly forgetting how to linger with one another.

And perhaps our souls have noticed the difference.

Because I suspect loneliness is not cured simply by having more contacts.

It is healed when someone chooses to remain on the porch a little longer.

To listen.

To laugh.

To ask one more question.

To be unhurried enough that another human being begins believing they matter.

That, it seems to me, sounds rather like the Kingdom of God.

Ordinary Time is, after all, the season in which we discover that holiness usually grows quietly.

Not through spectacular miracles every afternoon.

But through ordinary habits repeated faithfully.

Kind words.

Open doors.

Shared gardens.

Borrowed tomatoes.

And yes…

Long porch conversations that accomplish almost nothing…

…except reminding us that we belong to one another.

Perhaps the next time someone calls out from their porch, resist the urge to glance at your watch.

The weeds will still be there.

The emails will remain impressively patient.

Harold will almost certainly still be mowing.

But the opportunity to share half an hour with a neighbour—that may well be one of the holiest appointments you never scheduled.

Grace abounds.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of neighbours, shared laughter, and conversations that cannot be measured by the clock. Slow our hurried hearts, and teach us to welcome the holy interruptions that remind us we are not meant to journey through life alone.

Give us eyes to notice those who need a friendly word, ears willing to listen without rushing, and hearts open enough to make room for others. May our homes, our porches, our churches, and our lives become places of hospitality where your love is quietly lived out in ordinary moments.

Help us to discover your presence in every unexpected conversation, and may we leave each encounter having reflected a little more of your kindness, your peace, and your grace.

In the name of Christ, who was never too busy to stop for someone in need. Amen.

The Joy of an Unexpected Summer Rainstorm

There are few events capable of reorganizing an entire neighbourhood quite as efficiently as an unexpected summer rainstorm.

One moment everyone is happily outside.

Children are riding bicycles.

Someone is halfway through mowing the lawn.

Neighbours are chatting over fences.

The barbecue has just reached the exact right temperature.

Then, without much warning, the sky grows a little darker.

A breeze arrives carrying that unmistakable scent that every Canadian instinctively recognizes as, “You might want to pick up those patio cushions.”

Within seconds, there is a remarkable choreography.

People dash for porches.

Dogs suddenly decide they have urgent business indoors.

The barbecue chef begins transporting hamburgers with the determination of someone rescuing priceless works of art.

Someone always believes it will “blow over.”

Someone else has already disappeared inside with impressive foresight.

Grace abounds.

And then the rain comes.

Not the dreary rain of November.

Not the icy rain of March.

Summer rain.

Warm.

Generous.

Joyfully noisy.

The kind that drums on rooftops, splashes across driveways, and turns every puddle into an irresistible invitation for children wearing shoes their parents specifically told them not to get wet.

For a few minutes the whole world pauses.

The birds become quiet.

Conversations stop.

The earth simply drinks.

Then, almost as suddenly as it arrived, the rain moves on.

Doors begin opening again.

People wander back outside.

The children immediately locate every puddle.

The barbecue resumes its sacred ministry.

Neighbours continue conversations exactly where they left them, as though the interruption had merely been another paragraph in the story of the day.

And then comes my favourite part.

The smell.

Scientists call it petrichor, the earthy fragrance released when rain falls on dry ground.

Personally, I think God simply invented one of the finest perfumes in creation.

There is something deeply satisfying about that scent.

The grass seems greener.

The air feels cleaner.

The world somehow appears younger than it did fifteen minutes earlier.

Everything has been refreshed.

It is difficult not to think of Scripture.

The prophet Isaiah writes,

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth… so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth.” (Isaiah 55:10-11)

Rain has always been one of God’s favourite images for grace.

Grace does not usually arrive because we have earned it.

It simply comes.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

Sometimes unexpectedly.

It softens hearts that have become hard.

It nourishes hope that has begun to dry out.

It reminds us that life can begin again.

Most of us, if we are honest, experience seasons of spiritual drought.

Prayer feels difficult.

Hope grows thin.

Patience evaporates.

Joy seems harder to find than it once was.

We keep going, but everything feels dusty.

Then God sends rain.

Perhaps through a conversation.

Perhaps through worship.

Perhaps through forgiveness.

Perhaps through laughter with friends.

Perhaps simply through sitting quietly while listening to rain falling outside an open window.

Grace rarely asks permission before refreshing our souls.

It simply falls.

Of course, none of us enjoys being caught in a storm we weren’t expecting.

Life has a way of producing those as well.

Illness.

Disappointment.

Grief.

Change.

Those storms are different.

They are harder.

Yet even there, the promise of Scripture is not that storms never come.

The promise is that God meets us in them.

Even the hardest rain eventually gives way to clearer skies.

Even the longest sorrow does not have the final word.

The resurrection assures us of that.

Perhaps that is why I have always loved summer rainstorms.

They remind me that interruption is not always inconvenience.

Sometimes it is renewal.

Sometimes what appears to be ruining our carefully planned afternoon is quietly restoring the ground beneath our feet.

Sometimes God waters places we had forgotten were thirsty.

So the next time an unexpected summer shower sends everyone scrambling for shelter, don’t rush quite so quickly back to your schedule afterward.

Step outside.

Take a slow breath.

Notice the cool air.

Breathe deeply of that wonderful fragrance rising from the earth.

Creation is quietly preaching again.

It is whispering that renewal is always possible.

Grace still falls.

And after the rain, the world—and perhaps our souls as well—often smell wonderfully alive once more.

Thanks be to God.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Loving God,

Thank you for the gift of summer rain—for skies that remind us life can change in a moment, for the refreshing scent of the earth afterward, and for the quiet promise that renewal is always possible.

When our spirits feel dry and our hearts grow weary, let your grace fall upon us like gentle rain. Wash away what weighs us down, soften what has become hard within us, and awaken fresh hope where discouragement has taken root.

Teach us not to fear the interruptions that come into our lives, but to trust that you are often at work in places we did not expect. Help us to step back into each new day refreshed, grateful, and ready to share your love with those we meet.

May we breathe deeply of your goodness, delight in the beauty of your creation, and remember that your mercy is new every morning.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Theology of the Empty Hammock

I have discovered that there are two kinds of people in the world.

There are those who can climb into a hammock, gently sway in the breeze, close their eyes, and become one with creation.

And then there are the rest of us.

We lie down. We wobble. We spin sideways like an overturned turtle. We spend several frantic moments wondering whether this is how we shall be remembered: “He died exactly as he lived… trying to look dignified while failing spectacularly.”

Even after you finally get settled, there remains another problem.

You start thinking.

“Perhaps I should mow the lawn.”

“I wonder if the church email has arrived.”

“Did I remember to water the tomatoes?”

“Maybe I should reorganize the garage.”

It is astonishing how productive we become the very moment we decide to do absolutely nothing.

I suspect Stephen Leacock would have appreciated the peculiar athleticism required to relax.

The hammock, however, is quietly unimpressed.

It simply keeps swaying.

There is another reason hammocks have such a special place in my heart.

During my time serving alongside the Church in the Brazilian Amazon, hammocks were not quaint vacation accessories. They were simply part of everyday life.

My friends in Gurupá were often convinced that this Canadian priest was working far too hard in the relentless rainforest heat. More than once, someone would take me by the arm, bring me to their home, point firmly toward a hammock hanging in the shade, and insist, “Now you sleep.”

Coming from Southern Ontario, a midday nap was almost an admission of defeat. We were taught that the proper response to a long day was simply another cup of coffee.

The people of the Amazon knew better.

They understood that if you were going to live well in that climate, you had to respect both your limits and the rhythms of creation. Rest was not laziness. It was wisdom.

I still smile when I remember visiting a beautiful river beach with my dear friend, the Rev. Marcos. While I was admiring the scenery, he reached into a small bag, pulled out a hammock as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and within moments had it strung perfectly between two trees in a patch of cool shade. To him, this wasn’t camping equipment or vacation gear. It was simply the proper way to spend an afternoon.

And whenever we travelled the great rivers of the Amazon, the hammock became your little corner of the world. River boats weren’t filled with rows of seats. Instead, hundreds of brightly coloured hammocks stretched from beam to beam. They were your bed, your chair, your reading nook, your place for conversation, your refuge for prayer, and sometimes your only bit of personal space during journeys that lasted for days.

Perhaps that is why, even today, I cannot see a hammock without smiling.

It reminds me of a culture that taught me something I desperately needed to learn.

Sometimes resting is not an interruption of life.

Sometimes resting is life.

One of the hidden gifts of vacation is that it exposes something about us we normally manage to hide behind busy calendars and overflowing to-do lists.

Many of us are much better at working than resting.

We have become fluent in productivity but almost illiterate in stillness.

Yet Scripture tells us that Sabbath is not merely permission to rest. It is one of God’s commandments.

Not because God enjoys making rules.

Because God knows what endless striving does to the human soul.

When Elijah met God, it was not in the earthquake or the wind or the fire, but in what the old translation beautifully called “the still small voice.”

Apparently, God is perfectly capable of speaking at conversational volume.

It is we who insist on making enough noise to miss it.

I sometimes wonder whether Jesus would have been rather good at hammocks.

He certainly knew how to step away.

Again and again throughout the Gospels, Jesus slips away to lonely places to pray. Crowds are searching for him. The disciples are looking for him. There are sick people waiting.

And yet he withdraws.

Not because the work isn’t important.

Because remaining close to the Creator is even more important.

Perhaps that’s one reason Jesus never seemed hurried, even when everyone else was.

Vacation offers us a rare opportunity.

Not simply to stop working.

But to notice who we are when we are no longer accomplishing anything.

Can we sit beside a lake without reaching for our phone?

Can we watch clouds drift overhead without feeling guilty?

Can we listen to loons calling across the water without mentally composing tomorrow’s grocery list?

Can we let an afternoon remain gloriously unproductive?

These may sound like small questions.

Spiritually, they are enormous.

Because if our value depends entirely upon our usefulness, we have quietly forgotten the Gospel.

God loved us long before we became efficient.

Grace has never been awarded for crossing items off a checklist.

Perhaps that is why children understand summer so much better than adults.

A child can spend half an hour watching an ant carry a crumb across the sidewalk.

An adult calls that “wasting time.”

Jesus calls it paying attention.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood we began believing that every minute must justify itself.

Creation has been trying to correct us ever since.

The breeze never hurries.

The trees never apologize for standing still.

The lake never feels guilty for reflecting the sky.

So if you happen to find yourself in a hammock this summer—or on an Adirondack chair, a dock, a porch swing, or simply sitting beneath the shade of a maple tree—resist the urge to accomplish something.

Allow yourself to be wonderfully, gloriously unproductive.

Let your breathing slow.

Listen for birds.

Watch the clouds.

Receive the day as gift instead of assignment.

You may discover that the soul grows best not while racing ahead…

…but while gently swaying in the breeze.

After all, even a hammock knows something that our calendars often forget.

Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is stay still long enough for grace to catch up with you.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
teach us the holy wisdom of rest. Quiet our restless hearts, slow our hurried minds, and help us receive each day as your gift rather than another task to complete. In the stillness, may we hear your gentle voice, discover again that we are loved simply because we are yours, and find renewed strength to walk faithfully with you. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Church Without Walls

There is a curious feeling that settles over a Sunday morning when you are not going to church.

For clergy, it feels almost suspicious.

I have spent more than three decades knowing exactly where I would be on Sunday morning. If someone phoned the rectory at 10:15 and asked where I was, nobody ever had to guess. “He’s in church,” they would say, with the confidence of someone announcing that ducks are in ponds and golfers are in sand traps.

This Sunday, however, I am on vacation.

There will be no alb to iron. No sermon to preach. No microphone that refuses to cooperate until precisely the opening hymn. No discreet glance at the clock wondering whether the announcements have quietly become the Epistle lesson.

Instead, I shall probably be holding a cup of coffee somewhere outdoors, listening to birds who have absolutely no concern whatsoever for the Anglican liturgical calendar.

And yet…

I have a suspicion that God will still show up.

That may sound obvious, but we Christians have an odd habit of imagining that God works office hours. We know, of course, that God is everywhere. We say it with great theological confidence. Then we secretly behave as though the Almighty spends the week wandering about creation waiting for Sunday morning to unlock the church doors.

Fortunately, God appears to have never accepted those limitations.

Long before there were cathedrals, there were mountaintops.

Long before there were stained-glass windows, there were sunrises.

Long before anyone processed behind a cross, people walked beside rivers and discovered that the Creator had already arrived ahead of them.

This is not an argument against worship. Quite the opposite.

Corporate worship remains one of the greatest gifts God has given us. There is something holy about gathering with people who sing beside us—even when they cannot find the tune—and praying words that have carried generations before us. We need the Church. We need one another. We need the sacraments, the Scriptures, the laughter over coffee, and even that person who always chooses your favourite pew five minutes before you arrive.

But vacations have their own liturgy.

The opening hymn may be loons calling across a lake.

The confession might happen while sitting quietly on a dock, suddenly remembering someone who deserves a telephone call.

The sermon could arrive through a child chasing butterflies with complete confidence that joy is worth pursuing.

The prayers of the people may be whispered while watching the wind ripple through cornfields or maple trees.

And the dismissal?

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

Which, as it turns out, is excellent advice whether you are leaving church or simply finishing your second cup of coffee.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that Canadians possess a remarkable talent for believing they are “roughing it” while carrying enough folding chairs, coolers, portable barbecues, inflatable mattresses, mosquito repellents, and extension cords to establish a respectable municipality. We call it escaping to nature. Nature occasionally calls it being invaded.

Still, somewhere between the campfire and the coffee mug, something wonderful happens.

We slow down.

We notice.

We remember that creation has always been one of God’s favourite ways of preaching.

Jesus seemed rather fond of outdoor sermons himself. Lilies. Sparrows. Vineyards. Mustard shrubs. Fishing boats. Hillsides. Sheep. Wheat fields. He apparently believed that the Kingdom of God could be explained quite effectively without the aid of PowerPoint.

Perhaps we should have trusted him sooner.

So if you are not sitting in your usual pew this Sunday, do not imagine that you have somehow wandered beyond the reach of grace.

Offer thanks before breakfast.

Read a few verses of Scripture.

Take a slow walk.

Watch the clouds.

Laugh with the people you love.

Phone someone who may be lonely.

Notice beauty without rushing past it.

These, too, can become acts of worship.

Then next Sunday, come back to church.

Bring your suntan, your stories, your mosquito bites, your photographs, and your renewed heart.

The Church will still be here.

More importantly, you will discover that the God who met you beside the lake, beneath the trees, on the hiking trail, or on your back deck… is exactly the same God waiting to welcome you at the Communion table.

Because the Church is where we gather.

But the whole world has always been God’s sanctuary.

And thanks be to God, there are no walls around heaven.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for meeting us wherever we are—whether in a church pew, on a quiet dock, along a woodland trail, beneath a wide summer sky, or around a family table.

Open our eyes to the beauty of your creation and our hearts to the quiet ways you continue to speak. Slow our hurried pace, deepen our gratitude, and remind us that your love is never confined to buildings, schedules, or routines.

As we enjoy these summer days, help us to rest well, laugh freely, notice your goodness, and carry your peace wherever we go.

And when we gather again with your people, may we come with renewed hearts, ready to worship, to serve, and to share the joy we have found in your presence.

Through Christ, who walks with us wherever the journey leads.

Amen.

Another Trip Around the Sun

Today is my birthday.

Now, birthdays are curious things. When we are children, we count them with the enthusiasm of people expecting fireworks and cake to be permanent features of life. Somewhere around our twenties, we celebrate them with confidence. By middle age, we begin speaking of birthdays in the sort of hushed tones usually reserved for tax audits or dental appointments.

Eventually, one discovers that candles become less a decoration and more a legitimate fire hazard.

I have reached the age where the number itself matters considerably less than whether I can still remember where I left my glasses. Fortunately, I usually discover they are already perched on top of my head. This is one of the small miracles God continues to perform.

in my experience, growing older is much like owning a grandfather clock. It is stately, dependable, and full of character, but every so often it makes mysterious noises that nobody can explain. I find that comparison entirely reassuring.

Birthdays also have a way of becoming holy days.

Not because they are marked in the Church Calendar — although I would not object if someone suggested a Proper Preface for Birthday Cake — but because they invite us to stop and notice the grace that has accumulated over another year.

One cannot arrive at a birthday without travelling through a great many ordinary days. Thousands of breakfasts. Hundreds of sermons. Countless cups of coffee. A surprising number of misplaced car keys. More laughs than one remembers. A few tears one never quite forgets. All of them somehow woven together by the quiet faithfulness of God.

Every birthday is crowded with invisible guests.

I cannot help but think of my parents.

There was a time when they never missed this day. They were there at the beginning, after all, and for so many years they made birthdays feel wonderfully ordinary in the very best sense of the word. Today I miss their voices. I miss their laughter. I miss hearing them tell stories I had already heard a hundred times while pretending they were brand new.

Grief is an odd companion. It does not disappear. It simply learns better manners. It no longer dominates the room, but every now and then it gently taps you on the shoulder and reminds you how deeply you have been loved.

For that reminder, strangely enough, I have become grateful.

Then there is my sister and her family.

For years I did my very best to avoid birthday celebrations altogether. I have always believed that a quiet day with a good book, a comfortable chair, and perhaps an unreasonable quantity of pie was perfectly sufficient.

My sister, however, has never considered this an acceptable theological position.

She has consistently demonstrated that birthdays are meant to involve people, conversation, laughter, food, and enough affection to embarrass even the most reluctant recipient. She has been wonderfully persistent in reminding me that allowing others to celebrate you is sometimes every bit as important as celebrating them.

She was right.

Please don’t tell her I admitted that publicly.

Then there are dear friends.

One of life’s unexpected blessings is discovering that family grows larger than the people who happen to share your last name. Over the years, God has introduced remarkable people into my life — friends who have laughed with me, prayed with me, disagreed with me without disappearing, encouraged me, forgiven my occasional stubbornness, and gently reminded me not to take myself quite so seriously.

Good friends are one of God’s favourite ways of saying, “You don’t have to walk this road alone.”

As I look back over another year, I find myself far less interested in accomplishments than in companionship.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that success is measured less by what one has accumulated than by the people one would happily invite to sit around on the deck.

Of course, birthdays also encourage a little personal inventory.

I remain grateful beyond words for good health.

Having once travelled through some rather serious health challenges, I no longer assume that waking up feeling well is simply the normal state of affairs. It is grace.

To wake up eager for another day…
To enjoy walking…
To laugh easily…
To preach…
To cook…
To play a round of golf…
To delight in ordinary summer afternoons…

These are gifts.

None of them are guaranteed.

Every one of them is worth saying, “Thank you.”

Perhaps that is the real wisdom birthdays eventually teach us.

Not that we are getting older.

That part is painfully obvious whenever someone asks you to read the small print on a restaurant menu.

The real lesson is that life itself is astonishingly generous.

God keeps giving us another morning.

Another conversation.

Another opportunity to forgive.

Another chance to laugh.

Another sunset.

Another beginning.

I cannot honestly claim that I have grown wiser every year.

I have certainly grown older.

I have also grown slower at remembering names, somewhat louder in expressing opinions, considerably more appreciative of comfortable shoes, and increasingly convinced that naps deserve far greater theological attention than they have received.

But perhaps wisdom is not about knowing everything.

Perhaps wisdom is simply becoming more grateful.

One other thing has quietly marked this day for me over the past thirty-three years.

My birthday has also been the first day of my annual vacation.

That means August 1 has never simply been about getting another year older. It has also become the doorway into a season of rest. Every year, after Easter, Holy Week, Christmas, parish meetings, pastoral visits, sermons, weddings, funerals, and all the beautiful unpredictability of parish life, this day has gently whispered, “Now… breathe.”

Perhaps that is one more gift hidden inside a birthday.

It reminds us that God never intended life to be lived at full throttle all the time. Even Jesus stepped away from the crowds. Even creation pauses. Sabbath is not an interruption of life; it is part of the rhythm that allows life to flourish.

For thirty-three years, my birthday has been more than a celebration. It has been an invitation to rest, to play a little golf, to spend long afternoons with people I love, to linger over coffee, to read books that have been patiently waiting on the shelf, and to remember that before I am a priest, I am simply one of God’s beloved children.

So today I celebrate.

I celebrate another year I never could have planned.

I celebrate people I have loved and people who still love me.

I celebrate family, friends, parishioners, neighbours, and companions along the road.

Most of all, I celebrate the God whose goodness has quietly followed me through every chapter of my life—even the chapters I would never have chosen to write myself.

Another birthday.

Another lap around the sun.

Another reminder that grace has carried me farther than I ever imagined.

Thanks be to God.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe there is birthday cake requiring my immediate pastoral attention.

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A Birthday Prayer of Thanksgiving

Gracious and loving God,

Today I pause to give you thanks for another year of life.

Thank you for every joy that made me laugh, every challenge that helped me grow, every friendship that strengthened my heart, and every quiet moment in which your presence was nearer than I realized.

Thank you for the people who have loved me into the person I am today. I remember with gratitude those whose birthdays I once celebrated beside me, especially my parents, whose love still echoes through my life. Though I miss them deeply, I thank you that love is stronger than death and that precious memories remain your enduring gift.

Thank you for my sister and her family, whose generous love has so often reminded me that celebrations are meant to be shared. Thank you for dear friends who have walked beside me through seasons of laughter and sorrow, success and disappointment, always reflecting something of your own steadfast love.

Above all, thank you for the gift of health, for mornings that begin with hope, for work that still brings purpose, for the beauty of creation, for the privilege of serving your Church, and for the countless ordinary blessings that fill my days with quiet grace.

As I begin another year, grant me a grateful heart, a generous spirit, and a joyful sense of humour. Keep me curious enough to keep learning, humble enough to keep growing, and faithful enough to keep following wherever you lead.

May I never become so busy counting my years that I forget to count my blessings.

And when this next birthday arrives, may I look back once again with thanksgiving, knowing that your mercy has been new every morning and your faithfulness has never failed.

For all that has been,
for all that is,
and for all that is yet to come,

I give you thanks through Jesus Christ our Saviour.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Backyard Clothesline

There are certain sights that immediately announce that summer has truly arrived.

The smell of fresh-cut grass.

The sound of children arguing over whose turn it is to hold the garden hose.

A neighbour standing in the driveway wearing sandals with socks while explaining why this is actually “quite practical.”

And, of course, the backyard clothesline.

Now I realize that not everyone still hangs laundry outdoors. Some neighbourhoods have quietly retired the clothesline in favour of dryers that hum faithfully away in the basement. But every now and then I drive past a yard where bedsheets are dancing in the breeze like enormous white sails, towels are flapping enthusiastically, and somebody’s plaid boxer shorts are evangelizing the entire subdivision.

There is something wonderfully hopeful about a clothesline.

A washing machine is an act of necessity.

A clothesline is an act of optimism.

You are placing your complete confidence in sunshine, wind, and the continued absence of unexpected thunderstorms.

As a priest, I have often reflected that faith occasionally looks remarkably similar.

Most of us would much prefer God’s industrial-sized heavenly dryer. We would like our problems solved in forty-five minutes on “Permanent Press.” Instead, God frequently seems to hand us a clothesline.

“Let’s hang this out for a while.”

“Will it take long?”

“It depends on the wind.”

That is not always the answer we were hoping for.

The clothesline also possesses an uncanny ability to humble us.

No matter how dignified you believe yourself to be, eventually you will find yourself chasing a pillowcase that has escaped its clothespin and is making a determined sprint toward the neighbour’s vegetable garden.

There are few spiritual disciplines quite as effective as pursuing your own fitted sheet across the lawn while trying to appear composed.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that nothing reminds a person of human limitations faster than wrestling a king-sized bedsheet during a lively August breeze. The bedsheet almost always wins.

Yet there is joy hidden in all of this.

Those towels drying in the sunshine somehow smell different from anything that ever emerges from a dryer. Scientists can probably explain it. I prefer to believe that sunshine leaves fingerprints.

The Scriptures often remind us that God meets us in wind and breath. The Hebrew word ruach means both wind and Spirit. Perhaps that is why there is something almost sacramental about watching clean laundry sway gently beneath a blue July sky. Ordinary things become reminders that invisible gifts are often doing their quiet work all around us.

Most of God’s finest work is like that.

We cannot see grace.

We simply notice its effects.

Patience slowly growing.

Forgiveness becoming easier.

Hope returning after it had quietly wandered off.

Kindness appearing in conversations where it had previously been absent.

The Spirit moves rather like the summer breeze. We cannot command it, bottle it, or predict exactly when it will arrive. But when it does, everything hanging in our lives begins to move.

Perhaps that is one of the hidden invitations of Ordinary Time.

We spend so much of life trying to hurry every process along. Yet fruit ripens slowly. Friendships deepen slowly. Healing comes slowly. Wisdom almost stubbornly refuses to be microwaved.

Even laundry takes its own sweet time.

So this weekend, if you happen to pass a backyard clothesline, don’t dismiss it as merely another household chore.

See instead a small sermon fluttering in the breeze.

A reminder that not everything needs to be rushed.

That fresh air still has work to do.

That sunshine remains one of God’s oldest collaborators.

And that sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply pin our ordinary lives out into the care of God… and trust the wind.

After all, the Kingdom of Heaven has probably been quietly flapping on backyard clotheslines for generations.

We just haven’t always noticed.

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Companion Prayer

Loving God,

Thank you for the simple joys of summer—the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze, and the ordinary moments that quietly fill our hearts with gratitude.

When I am tempted to rush through life, teach me to trust your patient work within me. Like laundry drying in the open air, help me to rest in your care, knowing that your Spirit is always at work, even when I cannot see it.

May I notice your grace in the smallest moments today, and may my life be refreshed by the wind of your love.

In the name of Christ, who makes all things new.

Amen.

The Theology of Sidewalk Chalk

There are times when for for no apparent reason, I find myself journeying into nostalgia. This morning I found myself remembering summer days when the sidewalk at my sister’s home would be covered in sidewalk chalk. Each of the kids would have contributed their own masterpieces, and a walk down that path was filled with the story they had drawn. Today, I simply wanted to write an homage to what simple sidewalk chalk gan tell us about God.

There comes a point every summer when perfectly respectable neighbourhood sidewalks begin to lose all sense of dignity.

One morning they are ordinary stretches of concrete.

By afternoon they have become galleries.

Rainbows appear.

Flowers bloom.

Hopscotch courts stretch halfway to the mailbox.

Entire families are depicted with astonishing optimism. Every person has a smile approximately the size of Lake Ontario, and the family dog is somehow larger than the family car.

The artistic standards, I should point out, are wonderfully inconsistent.

Perspective is optional.

Cats may be blue.

The sun often wears sunglasses.

And every house, no matter its actual appearance, seems to have at least three chimneys.

Art critics would have much to discuss.

Children simply call it Tuesday.

One of the delights of sidewalk chalk is that nobody seems particularly concerned about permanence.

Nobody says, “I’m investing seventy-two hours in this masterpiece because future generations deserve to appreciate my stick figure.”

Quite the opposite.

Children pour their hearts into creations they know perfectly well will disappear.

The next rain will wash everything away.

Tomorrow’s bicycle tires will scatter the colours.

The neighbour’s enthusiastic Labrador may contribute to the process.

And yet…

The artists keep drawing.

Perhaps adults are the peculiar ones.

We have become strangely convinced that only permanent things are worthwhile.

We frame photographs.

Back up computer files.

Laminate certificates.

Purchase storage bins with reassuringly secure lids.

There are entire television channels devoted to helping us organize things we haven’t used since the last century.

Children, meanwhile, quietly create beauty with the full knowledge that it is temporary.

There is wisdom in that.

Jesus rarely measured life by how long something lasted.

He spoke of birds that sing for a season.

Lilies that bloom and fade.

Seeds that disappear into the earth before becoming something altogether new.

He seemed remarkably unconcerned with preserving everything exactly as it was.

Instead, he kept pointing people toward the joy of what God was doing right now.

Perhaps that is why summer feels so sacramental.

We know it will not last.

The tomatoes will finish ripening.

The evenings will grow cooler.

The children drawing dragons on the sidewalk today will someday be driving cars across those same streets.

That knowledge does not diminish the beauty.

It deepens it.

I sometimes wonder whether God smiles every time a child kneels on a warm driveway holding a piece of purple chalk.

Not because the drawing is perfect.

But because the child is utterly absorbed in delight.

There is no audience to impress.

No prize to win.

No social media strategy.

Only imagination spilling onto concrete.

Isn’t that remarkably close to prayer?

Perhaps prayer is less about producing something impressive than about spending time joyfully in the presence of the One who delights in us.

After all, the God who invented butterflies, sunsets, cardinals, and the northern lights has never appeared overly concerned with making everything practical.

Beauty has always been one of God’s favourite languages.

Even when it lasts only until the next rainfall.

The older I become, the more I suspect that faith itself resembles sidewalk chalk.

Not because it disappears.

But because it is meant to be lived out in the open where people can see it.

It colours ordinary places.

It invites others to join in.

It makes familiar paths a little more joyful.

And if the rain eventually comes—as it always does—we simply kneel down again when the sun returns.

There is always another piece of chalk.

There is always another summer afternoon.

And there is always another opportunity to colour the world with grace.

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Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
thank you for the gift of imagination, laughter, and the simple joys of summer. Teach us to create beauty without worrying about how long it will last, to delight in each day as your gift, and to colour the world with kindness wherever we go. May our lives, like bright chalk on a warm sidewalk, point others toward your love. Amen.

The Gospel According to the Neighbour’s Garden Hose

One of the great mysteries of suburban life is that everyone seems to know precisely when you have just finished washing your car.

It is an astonishing phenomenon.

You can spend the entire morning in perfect solitude. Not a soul appears. Birds sing. Bees hum. Time itself seems to have wandered off for a nap.

Then, at the exact moment you coil up the hose…

…your neighbour walks outside carrying a watering can.

Or another neighbour begins washing windows.

Someone else decides today is finally the day to pressure wash the deck.

It is almost liturgical.

I suspect there is a secret neighbourhood committee devoted entirely to synchronized outdoor chores.

Membership appears to be hereditary.

Now, before anyone writes to inform me that this is merely coincidence, allow me to point out that coincidence explains far fewer things than theologians generally admit.

At any rate, there is something rather delightful about these summer rituals.

Nobody schedules them.

Nobody sends invitations.

Yet somehow, entire streets quietly come alive.

One person trims hedges.

Another weeds flowerbeds.

Someone else pushes a lawn mower in perfectly straight lines that would make Roman engineers proud.

Children ride bicycles.

Dogs supervise.

Retired gentlemen stand with remarkable authority beside absolutely nothing in particular, hands folded behind their backs, offering thoughtful observations such as, “Looks like rain.”

This, I should point out, is considered an important civic duty.

What fascinates me is that almost none of these little encounters begin with important conversations.

Nobody marches across the lawn to debate theology or economics.

Instead they begin with wonderfully ordinary things.

“Your tomatoes are coming along.”

“That rose bush looks happy.”

“Nice evening.”

“You’re getting there.”

Entire friendships have been built upon conversations that started with garden hoses.

Perhaps that should not surprise us.

God has always seemed remarkably fond of beginning extraordinary things with ordinary conversations.

Jesus spoke while walking dusty roads.

He talked beside wells.

Along seashores.

At dinner tables.

While people were fishing.

While they were gardening.

While someone climbed a tree just to get a better view.

The Kingdom of God has an unmistakable habit of arriving in places where people least expect to discover theology.

Sometimes all it takes is a hose.

Or a watering can.

Or two neighbours standing beside a fence pretending to discuss mulch while actually sharing the burdens of life.

There is something quietly holy about those backyard conversations.

They ask nothing of us except presence.

No appointments.

No agendas.

No presentations.

Just the gentle willingness to stop for five minutes before going back to pulling weeds.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that grace enjoys lingering in precisely these unspectacular moments.

We often imagine spiritual growth arriving through dramatic revelations.

Instead, it frequently sneaks up on us while discussing whether this year’s hydrangeas look better than last year’s.

That, I suspect, is one reason Scripture is filled with gardens.

The Garden of Eden.

The vineyards of Israel.

The mustard seed.

The lilies of the field.

The garden outside the empty tomb.

God seems entirely comfortable doing important work among growing things.

Perhaps that includes us.

Ordinary Time is, after all, the Church’s gardening season.

No great festivals.

No dramatic holy days.

Just the slow, patient work of becoming people who resemble Christ a little more than we did yesterday.

Growth is seldom spectacular.

It is usually as quiet as tomatoes ripening.

As unnoticed as grass growing.

As ordinary as neighbours waving across the driveway.

Which means that this week, should you happen to be outside with a hose in your hand, pay attention.

You may find yourself in conversation.

You may discover someone needing encouragement.

You may end up laughing over absolutely nothing at all.

And if you do…

Do not be too quick to dismiss it as merely another suburban coincidence.

It may simply be another place where the Kingdom has decided to bloom.

Even beside the petunias.

The Gospel According to the Ice Cream Truck

Or, Why Grace Always Seems to Arrive Playing Slightly Out-of-Tune Music

There are certain sounds that belong entirely to summer.

The distant buzz of lawn mowers.

Children arguing about whether someone was “really” out.

The neighbour who insists on testing every power tool he owns at precisely 7:15 on a Saturday morning.

And then…

At least in my memory, I must admit I haven’t heard it live in many years. There it is.

That unmistakable melody floating through the neighbourhood.

Not quite in tune.

Not quite loud enough to identify immediately.

Somewhere between a nursery rhyme and a mechanical sigh.

The ice cream truck.

Now I have no scientific evidence for this whatsoever, but I remain convinced that no matter where children happen to be, they possess an astonishing spiritual gift for detecting the approach of an ice cream truck at distances that would impress military radar operators.

Parents hear nothing.

Grandparents hear nothing.

The dog occasionally notices.

But children?

They are already halfway down the driveway shouting,

“IT’S HERE!”

before the first electronic note has drifted over the rooftops.

It is one of the great mysteries of creation.

I suspect it belongs somewhere between salmon finding their birthplace and geese navigating south.

It simply happens.

And then comes the great migration.

Doors fly open.

Flip-flops appear from nowhere.

Someone is desperately searching the sofa cushions for enough change.

A younger sibling announces they wanted a popsicle all along.

A parent quietly calculates whether buying treats for three children now requires refinancing part of the mortgage.

The whole neighbourhood springs briefly to life.

It lasts perhaps five minutes.

Then the truck moves on, trailing sticky fingers, chocolate smiles, and a surprising amount of happiness behind it.

I’ve often thought there is something wonderfully theological about all this.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of interrupting ordinary days.

People were fishing.

Collecting taxes.

Walking dusty roads.

Preparing meals.

Attending weddings.

And then Christ arrived.

Grace rarely announced itself with advance reservations.

It simply appeared.

Unexpected.

Joyful.

Inviting.

Much like an ice cream truck turning unexpectedly onto your street.

The Kingdom often arrives this way.

Not necessarily with trumpets.

More often with little invitations to stop what we are doing and receive something delightful.

We adults become remarkably skilled at resisting these interruptions.

“We’re too busy.”

“We’ve got work to finish.”

“We’re in the middle of something important.”

Children rarely make that mistake.

They understand instinctively that some invitations deserve immediate attention.

Joy, after all, has a limited parking time.

Perhaps that is why Jesus kept telling adults to become more like children.

Not because children are naïve.

But because they remain gloriously interruptible.

Wonder still outranks productivity.

Delight still outranks efficiency.

A sunny Tuesday afternoon is still allowed to become something memorable simply because frozen treats unexpectedly appeared around the corner.

I confess there may even be a lesson here for clergy.

We sometimes imagine ministry must always sound profound.

But some of the holiest moments I have witnessed have involved laughter in church parking lots, conversations over melting ice cream cones after community events, and grandparents introducing grandchildren to neighbours they had never previously met.

No committee organized those moments.

No strategic plan anticipated them.

Grace simply parked for a few minutes with cheerful music playing.

Stephen Leacock, I suspect, would have appreciated the delicious absurdity of the whole enterprise.

One slightly battered vehicle, equipped with questionable speakers and enough frozen desserts to induce widespread happiness, can temporarily transform an entire suburban street into a festival.

For five glorious minutes everyone forgets deadlines.

Adults smile at strangers.

Children laugh without self-consciousness.

Even teenagers occasionally emerge from indoors.

Now that may qualify as miraculous.

By evening the music has faded.

The wrappers have found their way to recycling.

Life resumes its ordinary rhythm.

But somehow the neighbourhood feels just a little friendlier.

Perhaps that’s how grace usually works.

It does not always solve our problems.

It doesn’t erase sorrow.

It doesn’t make tomorrow’s responsibilities disappear.

Sometimes it simply reminds us that joy still lives on our street.

Sometimes it arrives unexpectedly.

Sometimes it melts rather quickly.

But while it is here, it is entirely worth receiving.

So if, sometime this week, you happen to hear that slightly off-key melody drifting through the summer air, don’t be in too much of a hurry.

Step outside for a moment.

Wave to your neighbours.

Smile at the children racing barefoot down the sidewalk.

Perhaps even buy yourself an ice cream.

Not because you need one.

Because every now and then the Kingdom of God quietly reminds us that delight is also one of the fruits of grace.

And it would be a shame to let the truck pass by without noticing.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the simple joys that surprise us in ordinary days—the laughter of children, the kindness of neighbours, and moments that remind us life is meant to be savoured as well as lived.

Keep our hearts open to the unexpected gifts of your grace. Help us to remain interruptible by joy, generous with our smiles, and willing to delight in the small blessings that pass by each day.

May we never become too busy to notice the music of your presence, quietly calling us into wonder.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.