In his book Sabbatical Journeys, Henri Nouwen wrote about the special relationship that trapeze artists have with one another when performing. He had some friends known as the Flying Rodleighs, and they described to him what goes on between the flyer and the catcher. They told Nouwen that the flyer is the one who lets go of the trapeze, and the catcher is the one who catches. As the flyer swings high above the crowd on the trapeze, the moment comes when he must let go. As he arcs out into the air, his only job is to remain as still as possible and wait for the strong hands of the catcher to pluck him from the air.

One of the Rodleighs told Nouwen, “The flyer must never try to catch the catcher.” The flyer must wait in absolute trust. The catcher will catch him, but for the catcher to be able to do that, the flyer must let go and completely trust that he will be caught.

On telling this story, my friend Charley Landreth said, “In living and in dying we must trust the Catcher.” He went on to tell about his grandmother Celia. He said he could remember sitting on her lap as a child in her rocking chair, her arms extended around him. She would read to him, sometimes from the Bible, sometimes from another book. “Trust the Lord with all your heart,” she would say.

Charley continued, “It’s been almost a whole lifetime since that early instruction and I am still learning to trust the Lord. You see, I’m a slow learner.”

Aren’t we all, Charley? Aren’t we all?

Let us pray: Loving God, in our everyday lives sometimes it is hard to trust. We want to take control. We want to hedge our bets. But eventually, we all come to a point when we realize that we have very little control. We need you. Help us today to trust that you are with us and that our lives rest in your loving hands. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Near the end of the Gospel of John, Jesus says to his disciples, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

Consider where the Father sent him. Not into isolation. Not into a life removed from ordinary people. Yes, Jesus prayed. Yes, he withdrew at times. But he did not remain on the mountaintop. He stepped fully into the fabric of daily life.

He worked with his hands. He walked dusty roads. He shared meals in crowded homes. He attended weddings and festivals. He touched lepers. He spoke with outsiders. He entered grief-stricken houses and celebratory gatherings alike. The Son of God did not hover above the world — he moved toward it.

And now he says, “As the Father sent me, so I send you.”

That means your neighborhood matters. Your workplace matters. Your family table 

matters. The ordinary rhythms of your week are not interruptions to your faith; they are the very places you are sent.

You may not preach a sermon or perform a miracle. But you can listen with compassion. You can act with integrity. You can forgive. You can show up. And in quiet, faithful ways, the love of Christ takes flesh again in the world.

So where is he sending you this week? Into what conversation? What challenge? What opportunity to serve?

Wherever it is, may your faith be steady, your hope contagious, and your love courageous — instruments through which God turns hatred toward love, conflict toward peace, and brokenness toward new life.

Let us pray: Loving God, you call us and you send us. Fill us with your Spirit — with courage, compassion, and conviction. Help us to care about what you care about. Shape our lives so that they bear witness to your grace in our homes, our work, our community, and this world you so love. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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In The Promise of Listening, Keith Wagner tells a poignant parable:

A young mother, just after her baby boy’s baptism, is approached by a ragged old man who offers to grant one wish for her son. Wanting only the best, she wishes that her son would always be loved by everyone he meets. “So be it,” the old man replies.

And so it happens. The boy grows into a young man adored by all. He never lacks for anything. Doors open. Needs are met before he can voice them. Yet something is wrong. Surrounded by admiration, he is starved for connection. Because everyone gives to him, he never learns to give. Because he is always affirmed, he never grows. He becomes empty — cynical and restless — discovering that being loved by everyone is not the same as truly living.

When his mother dies, the old man reappears and offers the son one wish of his own. This time, the young man asks not to be loved by all, but to love all. And in that turning — from receiving to giving, from being the center to pouring himself out — he finally finds joy.

There is deep gospel truth there. Jesus tells us that those who try to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for his sake will find it. The way of Christ is not grasping but giving. Not securing admiration, but extending love. Not arranging life around ourselves, but offering ourselves for others.

We live in a world that teaches us to ask, “Am I appreciated? Am I admired? Am I getting what I deserve?” The kingdom of God asks a different question: “How can I love?”

And in that shift — quiet, costly, and Christlike — we discover what life was meant to be.

Let us pray: Lord, bless us with

Enough tears to keep us human,

Enough humor to keep us wise,

Enough setbacks to keep us humble,

Enough accomplishments to keep us confident,

Enough patience to teach us endurance,

Enough hope to teach us trust,

Enough friends to give us love,

Enough memories to give us comfort,

And enough faith to keep us giving ourselves away in love;

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Over the last couple of days, we’ve reflected on the importance of lament and grief. We know that if we bury it, if we hold it all inside, it often comes back to hurt us worse later on. So it is important to grieve.

But it is also important not to get stuck in our grief.

A number of years ago, there was a woman in the church I was serving who lost her husband. They had been married 50-some years. And at first, I didn’t think she was going to survive the loss. For well over a year, she rarely went out. Whenever I’d see her, it was like the world was coming to an end. I can only imagine the loss after 50-some years, the hole that must remain.

But at some point — I think it was close to the second anniversary of her husband’s death — she made a turning point. She got involved in the Stephen Ministry program at our church. She received 50 hours of training in lay pastoral ministry and became someone I relied on to walk with other recent widows.

I don’t know what changed inside her. But she told me about this scripture in the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” She related that the word “comfort” in English comes from two Latin words, “cum fortis” — meaning “with strength.”

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be with strength.

I saw that in her. She had mourned, maybe too long. But because she had been through it, she was with strength. And it was the kind of strength that she could use to help others through it.

My prayer for you today is this: when loss comes and you find yourself gathering the pieces, take the time you need to grieve. Do not rush it. But also trust that God does not leave you there. In Christ, mourning is not the end of the story. The Spirit meets us in our sorrow and, over time, weaves strength into the very places that once felt shattered. And when that strength comes, may you receive it — not only for yourself, but as a quiet gift you can offer to others who are just beginning their own journey through the valley.

Let us pray: Heal us, O God, that we might be instruments of healing. We ask in Christ’s name. Amen.

Yesterday we reflected on tears. We’ll continue on that theme today.

The great American writer Frederick Buechner once said that whenever you find tears in your eyes, you should pay close attention. Tears, he suggests, are not only windows into the secret places of our own hearts — they are often moments when God is speaking, summoning us toward what comes next.

That is a profound thought. Our tears may reveal what we truly love. They may uncover what we fear. They may expose what we have ignored for too long. And sometimes, they may be God’s gentle nudge — or holy disruption — redirecting our steps.

At the end of Scripture, in the Book of Revelation, we are given a promise: one day God will wipe every tear from our eyes. Mourning and crying and pain will be no more. That is our hope.

Reflecting on this passage, Pastor Leonard Sweet wrote, “Until that day, it is our job, our joy, to wipe the eyes of those who weep, especially those who cannot wipe the tears away for themselves. And it is our job, our joy, to help those who are too hungry, too thirsty, too dehydrated for tears to form in their own eyes.”

So perhaps tears are both teachers and commissions. They teach us where our hearts are tender. And they send us toward those whose tears need tending.

May we not rush past them — our own or others’. May we listen for the voice of God within them. And may we follow where that voice leads.

Let us pray: Gracious God, you promise comfort to those who mourn. Meet us in our tears, and make us attentive to what they reveal. Open our eyes to the tears of others, and give us tender courage to respond. Comfort us, challenge us, and guide us; through Christ our Lord. Amen.