Heart, Hounds & Hobbies

Tag: #HeartAndSoul

  • Sunday Reflections: Trust & Gratitude

    Sunday Reflections: Trust & Gratitude

    Yesterday, in our Sunday morning liturgy, we got to sink into a sermon about stewardship as a spiritual practice. We took a look at Luke 16:1–13, and Reverend Pat delivered a thoughtful message inviting us to see stewardship in a new light. She shared how, in our Episcopal and Anglican tradition, the spiritual practice of stewardship is rooted in the belief that all we have and all we are comes from God, including our very lives.

    Reverend Pat put it this way: “I want to make the case that following the spiritual practice of stewardship in little things can add up to so much more than just giving money or time or talent.” She reminded us that true stewardship isn’t just about one aspect of our lives—it’s about recognizing that everything we are and everything we have is part of what we’re called to steward.

    And as we explored that gospel passage, Jesus’s words stood out: “Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much.” It was a reminder that the small daily acts of trust we practice shape us for the bigger steps of faith down the line.

    Reflections on Stewardship

    During her sermon, Reverend Pat nudged us to think beyond the usual “just give money” mindset. She invited us to see stewardship as a way of living faithfully in a world that often sells us the idea that we never have enough.

    For me, that often means resisting the idea that some new gadget or piece of furniture will magically make life perfect. Honestly, online shopping makes it so easy to just grab things without thinking, so I have to be mindful about what I’m buying and why. It’s okay if I don’t have everything I want in this world; the heart of it is remembering that even if I don’t have all the things I want, God will always provide what I need.

    Tithing as Trust

    That understanding really shapes how Nathan and I approach tithing. As Reverend Pat shared, tithing isn’t about giving from abundance—it’s about practicing trust. That really hit home for me, because in my own journey I’ve wrestled with the idea of tithing feeling like a status symbol in past communities. But for us, it was about making a regular act of trust part of our spiritual practice of stewardship.

    We decided to start small, not feeling like we had to hit a certain percentage immediately. We just committed to a simple monthly amount and set it up as an automatic withdrawal. Doing that really took the pressure off and made sure we were consistent. And just like Reverend Pat noticed unexpected blessings when she started tithing, we’ve also found that some surprising little cash inflows showed up when we didn’t expect them. It was a gentle reminder that it’s okay to start small, and that faithfulness grows from those little steps.

    Transformation Through Faithfulness

    Reverend Pat spoke about how her own practice of tithing gradually transformed her life. Starting small led to surprising changes: debts eased, opportunities opened, and most of all, her posture shifted from fear to trust, and from trust to gratitude. What began as a reluctant step of obedience became a way of life rooted in confidence that God would provide.

    That part resonated with me deeply. I think back to when Nathan and I took the leap to move to North Carolina. At the time, it felt like a risk — uncertain jobs, new surroundings, health questions still hanging over me. But over the years, that step has incrementally turned into an unexpected blessing. Looking back, I can see how that small act of trust has unfolded into a beautiful life — a transformation I could never have scripted for myself.

    Faith doesn’t usually unfold all at once. It grows through the steady practice of offering what we have, and trusting that God meets us in the gaps.

    Conclusion: Trust & Gratitude

    Reverend Pat closed with an invitation that was both simple and stretching: stewardship isn’t only about money. It’s about offering our whole selves — our time, our talents, our energy, and our love. The size of the act isn’t what matters; it’s the faithfulness behind it. Even the smallest gesture of trust can open us to God’s larger work.

    She landed on the idea that stewardship, at its heart, rests on two commandments: trust and gratitude. That struck something in me. Those words aren’t lofty theology; they’re daily practices. They remind me that faith is built in the small steps — the ways I choose to trust when I don’t have all the answers, and the ways I choose gratitude even when things aren’t perfect.

    For me, these have become my own commandments too. Practicing faith in small things strengthens me for the larger leaps. And carrying trust and gratitude forward feels like the clearest way to walk in faith this week.

    Prayer for Stewardship

    Gracious Lord, teach me to trust you in the small things, that I may grow in faith for the larger callings before me. Fill my heart with gratitude, that in all I have and all I am, I may offer myself to your service. Through Jesus Christ my Lord. Amen.

  • He Was a Really, Really Good Dad

    My dad died early in the morning on Wednesday July 16.

    Even as I write that, it still doesn’t feel entirely real. I’ve cried — there have definitely been tears — but beneath the sorrow, there’s a surprising and steady peace. His suffering is over now. He is free, held in the presence of God the Father. And because of our shared faith, I believe with every fiber of my being that he’s in heaven… and that one day, I’ll see him again.

    Me and my Dad

    Shortly after I got the call — it was twenty after one in the morning — I came out to the kitchen, to the little workstation where I so often sit and write. The world was still and quiet. I lit a candle. I lit some incense. And I opened the Book of Common Prayer to the section titled Ministration at the Time of Death. Then in the stillness of the night — just me, God, and the memory of my dad — I went through the entire liturgy, piece by piece. I let the tears fall as they wanted to fall, praying for his soul, for his journey home, for his union with our Father in heaven.

    When the prayers were done, I stayed there in the silence, holding space for my grief.

    Later that day, I attended a healing Eucharist service at our church. I spent time meditating on my father’s life and how much he meant to me. I received a blessing and anointing, and I prayed that the Lord would ease my grief and comfort me in the knowledge that my father is at peace and in glory. After the service, I sat quietly and prayed a rosary for him.

    Before I left church, I was blessed with the unexpected grace of time with our reverend. During that time, I was able to tell her about my dad. I shared stories, feelings, the heartbreak and the hope. She offered compassion and peace, and I left feeling a sense of fullness from my faith community.

    Then, not even 24 hours after he passed, I found myself in attendance at a performance of Les Misérables. It was magical — the way the Lord used that performance to speak to me, to speak straight to my heart. It brought to mind so many things about my dad: his sacrifices, his upright character, his flaws, and his unwavering dedication.

    He wasn’t perfect, but he was good. He loved me unconditionally. He was the first — and one of only two men — who ever did.

    And at the end of the show, when the hero passes peacefully and is greeted by angels, I wept again — picturing my father being carried home in just that way. Welcomed. Rested. Free.

    In those first 24 hours, I was given space to grieve, to remember, to pray, and to say goodbye.

    And I am so grateful.

    Since then, my mind has been filled with memories — the big, life-shaping ones, and the small, tender ones. One of the stories I always tell is from when I was a little girl. He’d pick me up from dance class and take me to the toy store, and then to McDonald’s. One time, I fell in love with this big Raggedy Ann doll. It was more than he usually spent, and he said, “If you get the doll, we can’t do McDonald’s.” I said I wanted the doll — and he bought it for me. And then… we went to McDonald’s anyway.

    That was just who he was. I still have that doll.

    Helping build the workshop.

    There were so many moments like that, even later in life. He once took me to a Star Trek convention when I was in high school. He didn’t know anything about Star Trek, but he came along just to be with me. We even had lunch at the fancy restaurant in the convention center — just the two of us. Mom joked that she was jealous when we got home because he never took her there!

    And I’ll never forget the years we went to that Christian music festival together. It started because I didn’t have anyone to go with one year, and when Dad found out I was planning to go alone, he said, “Nope. I’m coming with you.” And he did — not just that year, but for four years after. Some of my favorite memories are from those trips: camping, concerts, long drives, and quiet moments together.

    Through it all, I never missed a chance to tell him I loved him. I said it in person, in cards, in hugs and words and every possible way I knew how. I told him he was the best dad in the world. And I know — with complete certainty — that he knew how deeply I loved and cherished him.

    That’s part of why I can feel peace now. Yes, there is grief. But there is peace, too.

    He was a good dad.

    A really, really good dad.

    And I was so lucky to be his daughter.

    “Well done, good and faithful servant… enter into the joy of your Lord.” — Matthew 25:23

  • Spiritual Reflections on the Gospel of Mark: Touching the Untouchable

    Spiritual Reflections on the Gospel of Mark: Touching the Untouchable

    This morning’s lectionary reading came from the Gospel of Mark, focusing on the moment when Jesus heals a man with leprosy (Mark 1:40–45). It’s a story I’ve heard many times, but today it struck me differently.

    “A leper came to Him begging Him, and kneeling said to Him, ‘If you choose, you can make me clean.’ Moved with pity, Jesus stretched out His hand and touched him, and said to him, ‘I do choose. Be made clean!’” (Mark 1:40–41, NRSV)

    What really stayed with me was the simple, stunning fact that even though Jesus would show again and again that He can heal with just a word—from a distance, as with the centurion’s servant (Matthew 8:5–13) or when He raised Lazarus (John 11:1–44)—He chose, in this moment, to reach out and physically touch the leper.

    In Jesus’ time, lepers were not just physically ill; they were social and religious outcasts. According to the Law of Moses (Leviticus 13:45–46; Numbers 5:2–3), they were required to live outside the community and announce their presence by crying out “Unclean! Unclean!” so others could keep their distance. They carried the weight of being seen as spiritually unclean, untouchable, unredeemable. The idea that anyone would move closer to a leper—let alone touch them—was unthinkable.

    But Jesus did exactly that. He closed the distance everyone else kept. He crossed the barrier that fear and ritual purity laws had built. His healing was more than a physical cure—it was an act of restoration and redemption. It was as if, in that touch, Jesus was declaring: No one is too far gone, too unclean, too unworthy to be reached, healed, and loved.

    While I reflected on this, another story from the Gospels came to mind—the woman who suffered from constant bleeding (Mark 5:25–34). She, too, was untouchable in the eyes of her community. Imagine her daily shame, the discomfort, the isolation—she was likely used to people recoiling from her presence. And yet, she believed that if she could just reach out and touch the hem of Jesus’ robe, it would be enough.

    What moves me is that her faith was hidden—quiet but desperate. She didn’t ask Jesus directly; she didn’t want to be seen. She simply reached out, hoping for healing. And Jesus, feeling that act of faith, stopped everything. He saw her. He called her “daughter.” He named her faith and made her whole again.

    Both of these stories remind me of that image so many of us hold dear: a human hand reaching up for the hand of God. In these moments, Jesus not only allowed the “untouchable” to reach for Him—He reached back, closing the gap that the world had forced open.

    There is such a powerful lesson here for me today. No one is beyond compassion or hope. No one is unworthy of being restored. We are not defined by what society labels as unclean or unworthy. Christ shattered those barriers, then and now. He made clear that every person is redeemable, saveable, healable—and loved.

    It’s easy to think of ourselves—or others—as too far gone, too broken, or too lost. But the Gospel of Mark reminds us that our faith, even a hidden touch on the hem of His robe, is enough. And when we reach out, we find that Jesus is already reaching back.

  • Grace and Self-Control: A Reflection on Titus 2:11–12

    Grace and Self-Control: A Reflection on Titus 2:11–12

    Lately, I’ve felt deeply grateful for re-establishing a steady morning routine of prayer and quiet study. It’s so easy to drift when life feels noisy, but carving out that space each day — even just a little while — is a way of planting seeds for my spiritual life to grow.

    One small but meaningful change I’ve added is taking time to journal after my morning prayers. Sometimes I let a good insight slip away in the busyness of the day, but writing down what stands out helps me carry it forward.

    A big source of support for me has been my Hour by Hour prayer book. I’ve found it to be a practical, comforting companion alongside my Book of Common Prayer. It’s like having a well-laid path through the Daily Office — the readings and prayers are ready for me, and yet they always feel fresh.

    This week, my heart settled on Titus 2:11–12:

    “For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all, training us to renounce impiety and worldly passions, and in the present age to live lives that are self-controlled, upright, and godly.”

    What struck me most was the reminder that God’s grace doesn’t just save — it trains. Grace has appeared in Jesus and continues to live in us through the Holy Spirit. It teaches us to turn away from things that keep us disconnected from God: irreverence, the temptations of a world that pulls our hearts in so many directions.

    I spent time looking up “impiety” — the idea of lacking reverence — and it gave me a fresh perspective. Grace helps me see where I’ve grown careless with my respect for God, or when I let other things matter more than they should. And “worldly passions” — those fleeting temptations, whether it’s materialism, anger, or unhealthy desires — can so easily overshadow what truly matters.

    What brings me hope is that grace doesn’t just point out the problem; it trains me to live differently. Self-control, uprightness, and godliness don’t come naturally to any of us — they’re cultivated. I love the image of being “upright” like a strong pillar, steady enough to help bear the weight of others’ burdens too.

    And all of this, Paul reminds us, is for “the present age.” God’s grace is timeless. No matter the world’s chaos, this promise remains: we are invited to live as people through whom Christ shines.

    This week, I’m committing to memorize Titus 2:11–12. I want it tucked into my heart, ready when I need to remember what this training looks like in real life. And each morning, I’ll sit down after my prayers to jot down whatever new seeds God plants in me.

    Maybe you’ll join me — a small habit, but one that could make all the difference.

    Grace has appeared. Let’s let it train us to live well, together.

    The featured image was thoughtfully created with the help of AI image generation tools to capture the mood of peaceful reflection.