My grandson was born last Tuesday. (That sentence feels bizarre all by itself.) He came into the world after 48 hours of misery for his poor mother and ultimately an unplanned c-section. (If you knew me when his mother, Gracie, was born – you know that this story sounds eerily familiar.) My favorite picture of him so far is from the hour I met him. He has a look of – I swear – consternation on his face. Like “What the hell – I was FINE where I was. It is bright and cold out here and who are all these people?”

We have been so excited waiting for his arrival. Anticipating all the joy, all the love, all the fun he will bring into our lives. Everyone I know who has grandchildren have been saying “It’s the best thing ever – you’re going to love it!” And I’m sure I will. I’m sure all of that is coming. But it hasn’t arrived just yet.

He is objectively the cutest human baby ever to have been born. (You’ll have to take my word for it because his parents don’t want any photos on social media and parents are the bosses.) He is healthy and eating well and sleeping reasonably well for someone who is only 9 days old. He is wonderful. And he is not the problem.

The problem is a little hard to explain. I’ve been crying more than laughing over the course of the last week and a half. On reflection, there are many contributing factors.

· There is the worry about how much Gracie was going through physically and emotionally trying to get this baby born. She had blood pressure problems and blood sugar problems and her epidural failed about an hour and a half before the decision was made for a c-section. Hearing her screaming in pain was gut-wrenching, heart-breaking and I was helpless. Then during the surgery itself, her blood-pressure bottomed out and then spiked and it took a couple of hours to stabilize her. He’s cute and all, but SHE is my baby. That was awful.

· There is my sheer exhaustion – I have been running at a pretty steady clip since March – bridal shower, baby shower, wedding, writing trip to the mountains (where I did NO writing), weekends away, and then a full week back and forth to the hospital with Gracie and family. I am tired. Physically tired. Emotionally tired. I would even say spiritually tired. The kind of tired that sleep really doesn’t fix.

· Most surprising of all, however, was the grief. I was prepared to be sad that Bruce wasn’t at Abby’s wedding or at the birth of Gracie’s baby. I was NOT prepared for the PTSD of being in a hospital parking garage at 1 a.m. hoping I could pull myself together enough to drive back to Abby and Scott’s apartment where I was staying because it is so much closer to Northside Hospital than my house. I wasn’t prepared to sit down in the chapel at said hospital – a room I dearly love from my years of working there – and sob my eyes out. My heart was broken – not just because Gracie didn’t have her dad, but also because I didn’t have my dad, or my mom, or any of the dozens of others living and dead who I wished were there to hold my hand while I waited to hear that both Gracie and the baby were perfectly fine.

The truth is, as thrilled as I was to meet the baby, as grateful as I was that Gracie survived and will be just fine, as much joy as there was being in the room as loved one after loved one saw him for the first time – even with all those things, my primary emotion last week was sorrow. And it felt terrible.

And because I am the good Southern Girl that I am, I felt guilty for feeling sorrow instead of joy. Now, I know better. I know that feelings are feelings and you should take what comes without judgement. That doesn’t really matter when you are an over-achieving oldest child preacher’s kid whose internal monologue can be pretty intense. So, I have some work to do – don’t we all.

The good news is, I’m writing today. I haven’t written a word in weeks and that is diagnostic for me. As long as I’m writing I know I’m ok. I have a really good therapist and have already seen her this week. I have really good friends and am doing my best to be honest with them about all the things. I found a new podcast that has been helping: Life Wisdom by Words of Taoism

Here’s what I want to make sure I say about all of this – life is what it is. Sometimes life happens just like we think it will. Other times your husband dies and you have to figure out how to keep living on your own. Sometimes the world’s most beautiful baby is born and instead of smiling, you cry. There is no predicting it and there is no controlling it. The best we can do is just to keep living it – enjoy the ride, love the people you are with, trust that the Great God of the Universe loves you and has a good plan for your life.

I’m preaching at Mars Hill Presbyterian in a couple of weeks. The text will be from Matthew about how the birds always have what they need and the flowers are always beautiful without working for it. And Jesus says we are more valuable than the birds or the flowers. “But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”

That’s my plan for today – to seek first God’s plan for my life and let tomorrow worry about itself. And, good news for me, today the sun is shining and my grandson is healthy and my daughter is happy and all is well. Thanks be to God.

A Pantoum of Time

Today is one of those days

And I am not really here for it.

Although yesterday I spent with my girl shopping for my other girl and her new, soon-to-be-born baby.

As I write I smell the coffee I spilled everywhere on the way to work

And I am not really here for it.

When I was younger I thought life would be easier by now.

As I write I smell the coffee and reflect on the argument with FedEx – day 37 of trying to get this solved.

I couldn’t have known about cancer and student loans and widowhood and shifting theology and Trump.

When I was younger I thought life would be easier by now.

And anyway, life is full of surprises – both bad and good.

I couldn’t have known about cancer and student loans and widowhood and shifting theology and Trump.

I had a dream that you were here and I was smiling. Soon

And anyway life is full of surprises – both bad and good.

Although yesterday I spent with my girl shopping for my other girl and her new, soon-to-be-born baby.

I had a dream that you were here and I was smiling. Soon.

Today is one of those days.

May 27, 2026

I love driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway, especially on a day like today – blue skies, green mountains, white fluffy clouds and even some pink mountain laurel hanging around. The Mountains delivered on their “Blue Ridge” reputation with peak after peak after peak sporting progressively pale azure hues. This drive was practically perfect.

Practically Perfect. The only way it could have been any better involves time travel.

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The first drive I remember taking on the Blue Ridge Parkway was on a Sunday afternoon in 1982. I was a back-seat passenger in a car with 3 other teenaged girls from our youth group at New Pisgah Baptist Church in Spartanburg, SC. I was the new kid – I was always the new kid – 3 high schools in 3 cities in 4 years. I was also in the middle of my first (sadly not last) clinical depression. I was miserable. We had just moved from Weatherford, TX, leaving behind the youth group where I had finally come into my own. I had friends. I was leader. I even got to sing a solo in the musical “The Witness” which we took on tour across Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi. And when we spent a day in New Orleans, I was cold and Tracy Holcomb let me wear his jacket. All day. I had such a crush on him.

Moving across the country to Spartanburg yanked the rug out from under my adolescent heart. If I wasn’t at school or at church, I was hiding in my room. My new friends had compassion on the sad new girl and took me places with them. One of those places was the Blue Ridge Parkway. I didn’t really appreciate the beauty of it all back then. I did, however, grab the lifeline those wonderful girls were throwing me by including me in their plans.

Later that same year, another kind church member offered their vacation home in Brevard, NC to our family for a summer respite. That was the first of many summers our family – immediate and extended on both sides – spent in Brevard. My father and his brothers came to Brevard to fish. My mom and her siblings rented a giant cabin where all the Aunts and Uncles and cousins gathered every summer.

Eventually, my Uncle Jack and Aunt Nella bought their own cabin here. And that cabin (where I sit as I type this) became the center of family holidays and vacations and weekends away for decades to come. Bruce and I spent our first vacation after seminary here – in the rain. So much rain. Later we brought our preschool daughters here for Christmas and summer vacations. (Gracie called it Jack and Jill’s house.) My brother proposed to his now wife at the top of Connestee Falls just down the road from the cabin. When we lived in Asheville, we would come out just for dinner – Aunt Nell was a fabulous cook. My favorite picture of my mom and her sisters was taken on the porch of this cabin – the four of them sitting together on the porch swing. They are grinning – I’m sure sharing one of their “Langely Logic” stories that only they understood.

And during all these trips to Brevard – as a teen, as a young wife and mother, as empty-nester, and now as a widow – there have always been days on the Parkway. Sunday School picnics, family trips with my parents taking the slow road, family trips with our children taking the slow road, solo drives - just me and the mountains.

One of the musicals my Texas youth group sang was The Backpacker’s Suite, Sonny Salsbury’s work about a youth group on a camping trip. Today, as I drove in the sunshine surrounded by so much beauty and so many memories, I sang songs from that musical at the top of my lungs. “Give me men to match my mountains…wildflower smiling good morning to me…listen to the wind blow, someone’s wanting you to know that you never leave His mind, no matter where you go.” And I thanked God for each friend, each family member, and those wonderful church members who first introduced me to this town where I’ve never lived, but where I feel so at home. “Don’t you know that you belong? Don’t you know He can’t be wrong. It’s the Lord exalting over you in happy song.”

Nakupenda Sana my beloveds. And in case you don’t feel as loved as you are today, I’ll remind you of Zephaniah 3:17 - God loves you so much he sings over you:

The Lord, your God, is in your midst,
a warrior who gives victory;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will renew you in his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing (NRSV)

Selah,

Cathy

The wedding was exactly what she wanted – little white chapel, her closest friends, my friends and family, good food, dancing, laughter, and absolutely no drama. I don’t know how you put ten 20-something women in the same house for the whole weekend and get no drama, but they did it. These women are amazing! And one of them brought her super-hero mother and sister to make sure the entire bridal party was fed and cared for. Rachel’s mom Amy (and sister Christine) made my life incredibly easy all weekend.

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My people were, of course, equally amazing. Abby picked a long-time (I initially wrote “old” but decided she wouldn’t like that) friend from First Baptist of Asheville to officiate. Rev. Leah Brown has loved Abby since the day she was born. We raised our two girls and their two boys together in the family that was the New Testament Sunday School class of FBC Asheville. Those friends are some of the best, most faithful friends Bruce and I have ever had. And although we left in 2006, I could still call any one of them with a need and know they would pick up and make it happen.

And the A-team was there of course. Those amazing friends who have loved me forever and most recently loved me through watching my partner of more than 30 years get sick and die. Friends like that are … indescribable really. Irreplaceable. I can’t imagine life without them. The Echols clan, Mars Hill EPC family, the Virginia Paynes – they all came.

A beautiful wedding filled with beautiful people and tons of love.

And then there is today. (In a rare moment of wisdom I had already taken today off anticipating I might be tired.) This day always happens – the day after the big event. Family and friends come in from near and far. We stay up way too late, laugh and cry and tell too many stories, cook and clean and prepare and … post-pare? Once the beautiful event is over, everyone heads back to their corners of the world and I’m here in mine. Alone. I wasn’t always alone. Back in the day there would have been Mom and Dad and my pesky little brother. Years later there was a husband and little children who always needed something – enough to keep me distracted. Not anymore. At home today it is just me, 2 cats, and a DVR full of shows I haven’t had time (or energy) to watch.

Don’t get me wrong – there are a dozen friends I could call up and say “dinner?” and any of them will say “Sure – where and when?” But today, what I want – what I need – is some time to rest, gather my senses and capture my thoughts.

I went to bed at 8 pm last night and did not leave my bed until 8 am. (Did I mention how tired I was?) When I did finally get up, I made a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet of my screened-in porch. The breeze was blowing, birds were singing, the wind chimes sang along. It is cool today for the last week of April in Georgia. Cool enough that I eventually went back inside, snuggled under the Ted Lasso blanket in my recliner, turned on the heating pad and promptly fell back asleep.

After a visit from a dear neighbor (dropping off a baby gift for Gracie) and some rustled up lunch, I was ready to venture out into the sunshine. So here I sit in Gordon County at the Salacoa Creek Park – enjoying the view and the sunshine and the breeze and the quiet.

Processing thoughts and emotions always seems to be easier for me sitting somewhere with a beautiful view in nature. This park certainly fits that bill. I’m seated on a hillside next to an idyllic little lake surrounded by forested mountains. I open my laptop, take a deep breath and begin to try to gather my senses and my thoughts.

This weekend was in so very many ways exactly what we’d expected it to be – filled with joy and love and laughter. In other ways it was nothing like we’d expected. Never in all the years I dreamed of my daughters’ weddings did I imagine only one of them would be walked down the aisle by their Dad. But there we were – still celebrating – still loving – still laughing even though He wasn’t with us.

So much about my life has changed in the last 22 months. Much of it has been written in this space. Much more has not. While my life looks different from the outside, that is nothing compared to the work Holy Spirit and I (and my excellent therapist) have been doing together on the inside. My view of myself, my way of practicing my faith, my understanding of love, the way I mother (and soon will grandmother), the friend I am, the chaplain I am – none of these areas has gone unexamined. None of them is the same as it was 22 months ago. I have to say I am incredibly thankful for that truth. Not that my old life was bad or wrong or any of those things. It’s just that this season has opened me up in ways I didn’t know I had been closed. My heart has broken in places I’d never let myself survey before. I’ve been awestruck at ways God has shown up for me – ways I could not have predicted or even believed if I hadn’t lived them. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been crying or praying or ranting about something and my Spotify playlist tosses me a song with just the right lyric to stop me in my tracks. Some days messages come from far away friends who seem to know just which scripture will help in that moment – even though they have no way of knowing what “that moment” entails. I’ve been turned around by the laughter of little children and by the tears of grieving patients. Once God even spoke through a random painting at the High Museum of Art.

My life is richer, deeper, more thoughtful than it has ever been. I know that is a strange thing to say a year and half after the death of my husband and in the middle of the chaos that is life on this planet right now. It is, none-the-less, true. And I hope that brings a little light into whatever dark places you m ight be experiencing right now. Hear me say God loves you. God answers every prayer – just not always the way we wish. I do believe, however, that story God is writing for me is better than anything I could have dreamed up for myself. I am more grateful than words can express. I’m looking forward to what God has in store for me next. Who knows what will happen?

Nakupenda Sana my Rafiki. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah,

Cathy

P.S. I wish you were here.

Dear Bruce,

I’m sitting on the back porch just after sundown. (I just finished de-pollenating the furniture and watering the “garden” on the deck.) It’s just me, two cats, a cacophony of birds, one bunny, and the remains of the day. Your wind chimes are silent – perfectly still even.

I haven’t written in a while. There’s a lot going on – Abby’s wedding is in 4 days and family and friends are coming in from all over. Gracie’s baby’s arrival gets closer and closer. Anna Kate and I led a women’s retreat last weekend at church. It went really well. I talked about Isaiah 43 and that day when Roberta and Aunt Becky and Tim and Humphry all sent the same scripture to me. “Do not be afraid. I have redeemed you. I have called you by name and you are mine….” We actually talked about you quite a bit on Saturday.

There’s a lot going on inside me too. I’m learning how to live and laugh and love without you. When I was 25 and you convinced me that you loved me and wanted to build a life with me, I had no way of knowing where I would be today – at 59 – alone in this house and doing okay. I couldn’t know about all the ways I would change in the years after you died. In some ways I am a stranger – completely other than that girl from so long ago. In other ways I am more myself than I have ever been. I couldn’t have known that me without you would be someone this brave, this determined to speak truth to myself, no matter what that truth holds. In some ways I’m more Peggy’s daughter than I’ve ever been even though she’s been gone for 5 years now. I’m learning new ways to live into her old faith – to trust her God.

I think what I need you to know is that I’m doing ok. Better than ok, really. I’m learning. I’m growing. I’m making space in my life for new hobbies and new friends and new truths. I am grateful every day for the life we built – our family, our careers, our friends. And I am grateful for a chance to begin again – build this new life without you. I’m pretty sure if you were here you would tell me you are proud of me – glad that I didn’t quit living when you died.

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Which brings me back around to the nail polish. I’ve been getting my nails done every 3 weeks since your funeral – just a little treat for my new brave life. Most days I avoid the color purple. Purple was your color – our color. It is the color of a life I don’t live any more. But today, as I was getting my nails done for Abby’s wedding this Saturday, I chose a purple I knew you would love. It’s one small way I’ll be taking you with me this weekend. You’ll be there when I hug our family and friends. You’ll be there (rolling your eyes) when we play a giant game of Nertz. You’ll be there as I stay up too late talking and make sure everyone has everything they need and try to keep the level of crazy down to a dull roar. Most of all, you’ll be there when I walk our girl down the aisle.

I can’t believe you died before this day. I can’t believe you died before any of our grandchildren were born. That makes me sad. But I’m still here – and that makes me happy. At some point with almost every grief group I lead I say the sentences “Bruce died and I did not. I have to live like both of those things are true.”

So this weekend, I’ll be living. I’ll be laughing and loving and crying and doing my best to inhale every breath of every moment – to not miss a single thing. And you’ll be with me – on my fingers and in my heart.

You will always be my first love. But I’m going to keep loving without you like I hope you would have done if it had been me. I know that you and Mom and Dad and David and Granny and Wayne and Tommy and so many, many others will be with us this weekend. I hope you can feel how much we all love you.

Cate

I’ve been thinking about my Mom a lot lately. My dreams have been filled with family members who are already on the other side – Mom, Dad, Bruce – they are showing up nightly and this isn’t typical for me. It’s almost as if Heaven needs my attention and is pulling out all the stops to get it.

Some of it, I am sure, is that my family has some big days ahead. Abby and Scott get married 16 days from now. The following weekend we’ll throw a baby shower in preparation for the newest member of the family. Gracie and Tyler will welcome that little boy sometime between now and June 19. I can’t wait to meet him, love on him, spoil him rotten. It hurts more than a little to know that Mom, Dad, and Bruce won’t be here to welcome him to the world. For that matter, neither will David or Tiny or any of my grandparents or so many other people who are family to me and my girls.

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This little boy will have an incredible crowd of witnesses to his life – both on this side and beyond. When I think about all the things that had to happen exactly right for him to exist – all the people who had to meet, fall in love and raise families – I realize that he is (as we all are) a miracle. I am incredibly grateful.

But back to Mom. I’ve been specifically thinking about the prayers she surely prayed while she was pregnant with me. I know this woman. I’m sure she spent every day of those nine months asking God to keep me safe, to guide me, to help me find the right partner and bless me with children and grandchildren. Those prayers are (as Jan Richardson says) “written on my bones.” Mom lived to see all but one of those prayers answered. I know with no doubt that she will be with me when the next one is answered as well. My cloud of witnesses has always been pretty incredible.

The prayers I prayed for my girls as I carried them are also coming true in front of my eyes. I am grateful to be alive to see them. I’m grateful to be where I am in my life – even without Mom, Dad and Bruce. I am surrounded by friends and family who love me, listen to me, and support me without question. I know what it is to be loved beyond all reason. I have a job I love that I get to do with people I love. I have enough of every single thing I need.

Maybe this is what Heaven has been trying to remind me…Gratitude. The world is hard and frightening right now. Even so, my life is amazing. I need to stop and treasure that every single day.

Beloveds, I hope you will take a moment today to stop, breathe, and take in the beauty around you. Giving thanks for what we have is the best defense there is against the despair that is so desperately trying to do us all in. I’ll be praying for you as I hope you’ll be praying for me. We’re going to be ok. No, we’re going to be amazing just the way God created each of us to be.

Nakupenda Sana Marafiki. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah,

Cathy

I was walking into church. The service was about to start. Through the glass front doors I could see the children were lined-up in the narthex waiting to march in waving their palm branches. And off to the side, sitting on a bench, I saw a familiar bald head. “Oh good – there’s Bruce.”

And then it hit. Bruce died. That’s not Bruce – just someone whose head reminded me of his head. I didn’t realize I was still – somewhere deep in my subconscious – still looking for him. Still expecting him to be with me at church.

These days are filled with a hurricane of emotions – excitement, grief, rage, compassion, fury, confusion, loneliness, exhaustion, and straight up love. My family has so much to look forward to right now. Abby gets married in less than 4 weeks. It’s going to be a wonderful weekend filled with some of my most favorite humans. Gracie’s baby boy will be born sometime between now and June 19. For years now all my friends who are already grandparents have been trying to explain how amazing this will be – the love I will feel for this tiny human will, if they are to be believed, be unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

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At the same time, I am acutely aware of others of my favorite humans who will not be here for these events. Mom and Dad, David and Tiny, Tommy, and most painfully Bruce will all miss these days. I’m convinced they will be watching from the other side, but that doesn’t really help me feel better about their absence. And the grief of missing them on a normal day can sneak up on me. I can only imagine what it will be like on those beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime days.

Long time readers may remember that April is a month which carries extra weight for me. My dad died a long time ago on April the 3^rd. April 4^th is my wedding anniversary – the day we said vows that included “’till death do us part.” April 12^th is the 5^th anniversary of my mom’s death – when she was released from her dementia-ravaged body and reunited with my dad – the thing she’d wanted more than anything for the 2 decades she lived without him. This April has potential to be heavier than most. The world is simply too much right now. Wars, an economy crushing down on those with the fewest resources to cope, leaders desperate to draw our attention away from unbelievably horrific acts against children – sexual exploitation, slavery, bombs blowing them up. There is chaos in the world and in the streets of our cities. And our country is so divided we can’t even agree on what is true and what is a lie.

Meanwhile, my job that I love so much is adding its own heaviness to my days. Tragedies seem to come in waves. In the past few weeks I’ve heard multiple stories of tragedy – parents grieving children, partners grieving partners, long-buried losses demanding their due. And while I love what I do – love being able to help people bear the weight of their grief – there are days the heaviness can make it hard to breathe.

When I say life feels a little stormy right now, all of this is what I mean. At the same time, I’ve got much to dance about. My kids are healthy and happy and each taking giant steps forward in their lives. Despite its weight, I really do love my job. I love what I do and the people with whom I do it. I have life-giving, life-sustaining relationships – some old, some new. I have enough of every single thing I need.

And as for the world, there are reasons to dance here as well. Yesterday millions of Americans and others around the world stood together and said ENOUGH. It is not ok to kidnap our neighbors with no warrants and no due process. It is definitely not ok to shoot them dead for standing up for their neighbors. It is not ok to start war – put our brave military members at risk – without a clear justification or plan to get us out. None of this is acceptable. I didn’t want to miss out so I went by myself (I do a lot of things by myself these days) to the No Kings rallies in both Marietta and Smyrna. I stood shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of my neighbors chanting things like “immigrants are welcome here” and “this is what democracy looks like.” “We the People” showed up all over the country bringing hope to so many of us who are worn slap out from yelling at the top of lungs “This is NOT ok.” did a great job in today’s column expressing what this rally meant to him:

Yesterday won’t magically rewind the clock pre-election and let us have a do-over. It doesn’t suddenly erase the unprecedented damage to our systems and safeguards. It alone can’t bend the arc of the moral universe away from fascism….But No Kings Day was a glorious reminder of how vital joy, hope, diversity, and our collective efforts are in resisting this Renaissance of hatred. (from “No Kings Day Helped Me Find Some Things I’d Lost.”)

So yes, there are reasons for joy, reasons to dance. And as long as I can keep myself in the eye of the storm, I’ll just keep right on dancing. The trick here is to keep my eyes on the sky, not the storm. I need to remember the practices that keep my soul and body as healthy as possible:

…spend time with people who love me, encourage me, make me laugh.

… get enough sleep.

… eat mostly food that is good for me and just enough chocolate to keep me sane.

… spend time in nature.

… spend time in my therapist’s office.

… remember that helping others helps me.

… listen to Holy Spirit when she speaks – make space to pray, read, write, play piano, pay attention.

April will come and go and I will be just fine. I am safe. I am loved. I have everything I need. I live life as a beloved child of the Great God of the Universe. What more could I possibly ask?

Nakupenda Sana my sweet sweet tribe. I pray your April is kind to you. Happy Easter to those who celebrate.

Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah.

Cathy

Peggy’s God – the version of God that my mother knew – is tangible, predictable, reliable.  When my mother prayed she prayed with absolute certainty that her prayers would be heard and answered.  And when the answers came (and they always came) they were often spectacular and miraculous and more than she could imagine.  Her faith in this God was absolute.  If she ever wavered, I didn’t see it. 

The God I know is a little different. My God is less understandable, less predictable.  Like hers, my God loves me and has a good plan for my life.  And, I pray to this version of God all day every day.  Just like Peggy taught me, I memorize scripture passages that speak to me and quote them back to God – as if to remind the Great God of the Universe about the promises I cling to when days are hard. 

The differences between Peggy’s God and mine have to do with unanswerable questions – questions Peggy’s version of faith didn’t have room to ask.  Why pediatric cancer?  What is the difference between evangelism and colonization?  Does it make sense that a loving God sends souls to eternal damnation because they didn’t live in a place where they could hear about Jesus?  Why are some prayers answered “yes” and others answered “no?”   Why did Bruce die while pedophiles get to keep living (the Epstein files are currently on my brain.)  The God to whom I pray is, by definition, a God I cannot understand. 

And in reality, it isn’t so much that Peggy’s God is different as that her faith was different.  At least, the part of her faith that she showed me was simple, concrete, reliable.  My mother was an incredibly intelligent woman who saw her share of heartaches and struggles in life. I suspect there might have been times when her God looked more like mine.  But the phrase “Peggy’s God” has become shorthand for me to describe the kind of faith in which I was raised.  Trust God and all will be well.

So I’ve been more than a little surprised to realize that the God who spent the past 72 hours with me seems more like Peggy’s God than mine.  Friday was a hard day emotionally – no need to get into why.  Let me sum up by saying I sat in my car in a Kroger parking lot sobbing – too sad to turn the car on and drive home.  When I did eventually start driving I got a text message from a far away friend telling me good news about his life and asking me how I was.  I said “if I’m honest, today was a hard day.”  He spent the next 30 minutes asking good questions and offering reassurances I needed about the situation that was breaking my heart. 

As I was pulling into my garage, my Spotify playlist played a song that includes the line “If it’s not good then He’s not done.”[i]   The “he” in that sentence is Peggy’s God.  And He was reminding me that I’m in the middle of the story that is making me sad – not the end. 

Later that night I reached out to a couple of friends who know this part of my story just to say “I’m not ok – I don’t want to talk about it but I could use some prayers.”  That same faraway friend answered and this time had a specific message from God (Peggy’s God) about what this season is teaching me – what I need to learn from the middle part of the story.  In fact, I need to “sit in peace” while the story is still sad. My peace needs to be independent of the circumstances.

Once that conversation ended I decided to watch last week’s worship service from First Baptist Church of Asheville, NC.  I love this church.  As far as churches go, this is the place I feel most at home – most like myself.  So at times when I need a dose of home, I watch the recording of their service online.  As the pastor was preaching about Jesus’ Transfiguration, he included this question:  “What about your future would be transfigured if you can imagine shining on it the light of Christ?”  And then he offered options:

                  The fear of the unknown?

                  The upcoming challenges?

                  The risk that you’ve taken now that has yet to be fully realized?

                  The darkness that you see ahead of you becoming lighter?

                  The courage in you growing?

                  Can you see it coming?[ii]

Peggy’s God could not have been more clear if he’d handed Mack a note and said “make sure you mention these things – Cathy will be listening.”

When the service was over, it was late but I was too wound up to go to bed.  So I did what I do when God is speaking and I’m trying to listen.  I went to the piano.  I played through some hymn arrangements.  I pulled out a notebook with songs I used to sing at churches in the 1980s.  I played until my shoulders ached and I needed to stop.  As I was walking through the house turning off lights and heading to bed, I found myself humming a song I hadn’t played – hadn’t even thought about for years, maybe decades.  I first sang it in youth choir in high school.

Lean on me when you have no strength to stand.  When you feel you’re going under, hold tighter to my hand.  Lean on me when your heart begins to bleed.  When you come to the place where I’m all you have then you’ll find I’m all you need.[iii]

And that version of faith – holding tighter to the hand of Jesus when I feel I’m going under – that is what I need in this season.  I need to believe that God is dependable and can be trusted to write the story of my future in a way that is both good for me and good for God’s purpose in the world. 

Saturday was spent sitting with the messages I had received on Friday – doing my best to “sit in peace” while the circumstances continued to be fraught with anxiety.   When I went to bed that night, I had what I needed – peace and hope that, in fact, God’s got me.  No matter how this situation resolves itself, I’m good.  Another song lyric comes to mind – “you’ve been good to me – I am safe to hope.”  [iv]

I woke up early Sunday morning, still on the look-out for messages from Peggy’s God and He did not disappoint.  (I use the male pronoun for God here simply because that’s how she saw God – not because I believe God to be male – a discussion for a different day perhaps.)  I started my day on YouTube worshipping with Good Shepherd Church in NYC.[v] My Anam Cara Kym loves this church and I’ve grown to love it too.  They sang “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.”    

Oh soul are you weary and troubled? … look full in His wonderful face and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace.”

The light of Christ – that sounds familiar.  The pastor said sentences like “Get up.  Do not be afraid.  Before there are answers there is presence.”  And “Hope is not pretending everything will turn out the way we want it to turn out.  Hope is trusting that (what) we see, that reality and the way we experience, it is not the whole story.”  God is still writing my story.  “If it’s not good then He’s not done.” 

As the morning continued the YouTube algorithm played for me a live version of the Mercy Me song “Even If.”[vi]  This particular video starts with Bart Miller, the lead singer and one of the song writers, giving his testimony about the origins of the song.  Here’s the thing about this song – it is a song from the soundtrack of the hardest season of my life – Bruce’s illness and death.  If you don’t know it, I encourage you to stop and listen.  It is really remarkable.  The bottom line is circumstances don’t define my relationship with God. 

I know You’re able and I know you can save through the fire of your mighty hand.  But even if you don’t my hope is You alone.  I know the sorrow and I know the hurt would all go  away if you just say the word.  But even if you don’t, my hope is you alone.  They say it only takes a little faith to move a mountain.  Good thing, a little faith is all I have right now.  But God when you choose to leave mountains unmovable, Oh give me the strength to be able to sing “It is well with my soul.”   You've been faithful, you’ve been good all of my days.

Later that afternoon I went to see “I Can Only Imagine 2” – which just happened to be in theaters and tells the story of the writing of this song and the struggle behind it.  In one scene Tim Timmons (one of the writers) holds out one hand and say “this is my grief” then holds out the other and says “this is my gratitude.”It is a powerful image in a powerful moment.  And it is a gesture and a truth I use all the time in my grief groups.  I found it in the work of therapist Francis Weller.  He teaches about holding grief in one hand and gratitude in the the other – keeping them in balance.  This particular image was life-saving for me during that same incredibly difficult season.  Any time grief threatened to overwhelm me, I tried to balance it with gratitude – gratitude for the life I had, the family we’d built, a job that let me spend time with Bruce in his final days, friends who held me up when I couldn’t stand on my own, laughter, sunshine, a warm safe place to sleep, and on and on and on.  There is so much to be grateful for even on my hardest days.  This, too, is a message from Peggy’s God.  These days are hard, but my life is incredibly good.

As I drove to my own church, Peggy’s God had one more message for me.  Holy Spirit has been using my Spotify playlist pretty regularly lately.  Today was just one more example.  The last song I heard before I parked contained these lines:

I try to pray but the words aren’t coming out the way they used to.  Did I lose my faith?  God do I still trust you?  I try to worship.  But when I lift my hands it all just feels so empty.  Is it the heavy of the world or is it just me?  Though I’ve sung a thousand times You’re perfect and You’ll never leave my side….Can I be honest?  I just wanna know You still got this.[vii]

And there it is.  I just need to know that God has this story in God’s hand.  My anxiety won’t help solve this problem.  I can “sit in peace” and let the Great God of the Universe do what God does. God loves everyone in this story more than I do – and I love them a lot.  God’s plan is always better than mine.  The story God is writing is better than any story I could imagine. 

If you are a person who prays, I would ask that you join me in two prayers:  1) God’s perfect plan will be accomplished (as soon as possible) inside the story God is writing; and 2)  I will be able to “sit in peace” as God does God. 

Dear ones, I will be praying for you as well – that God (whichever God you know) will show up in your days in ways you can recognize and celebrate.  

Bwana Asifiwe (Praise God.)

Nakupenda Sana (I love you very much.)

Selah

Cathy

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[i] “Joy in the Morning” Taren Wells, Elevation Worship, https://youtu.be/uysGt7JVw9U?si=5J_3K3842Kx8ZZDX

[ii] First Baptist Church of Asheville,  www.fbca.net  https://www.youtube.com/live/OE7UUzxmMN8?si=prGEEtYYBkmbt4jl

[iii] Lean on Me. https://youtu.be/ACbK7e3yknc?si=l6MmNvets5vvtoqS

[iv] “The Detour” by Sarah Kroger. https://youtu.be/JVa4aU22AJs?si=q5CQuRPVGaq4SH7w

[v] Good Shepherd, NYC. https://youtu.be/JCAG33GLDw4?si=9kHOvSuxekrOaOnk

[vi] “Even If” by Mercy Me. https://youtu.be/O_WSeZh5mWA?si=bCRKNUyBH4kU88Pb

[vii] “Honest” by Leanna Crawford.  https://youtu.be/BQet3YFT3YQ?si=V9WlBJ9PNetYM-sC

My dad, Rev. Victor James Payne, gave me a Bible in the early 1980’s. It was a New International Version that I used through high school and college and came back to often through the years. There’s an inscription from Daddy, dozens and dozens of notes scribbled inside, verses underlined, scraps of paper from various moments in life. I picked it up today and wandered through the memories contained between its covers. I found this prayer neatly typed and printed on a 1/2 sheet of paper. Best I can tell I wrote it when my girls were in preschool - when I was not feeling particularly like a perfect parent. It made me smile today - so I’m sharing it with you. I believe we need as many smiles as we can get in February 2026 America. And honestly, it is a prayer I need to pray today. Hope you enjoy it.

Holy God, you are our creator, guide, protector, friend, most perfect Parent. Because you love us, we love. Because you teach us, we learn. Because you sing over us, we dance. And so we come together this morning, bringing all that we are and all you have created us to be, to worship you.

May the songs we sing,

the words we speak,

the prayers we pray,

the way we welcome strangers and embrace friends,

even the thoughts we think in the secret places of our hearts

bring Glory and Honor to you and make you proud to call us your children.

Amen.

Why Was He Walking Backwards?

The man was bundled up against the cold, carrying a brown paper package (no strings that I could see.) He was walking on the sidewalk next to a busy street – backwards. He was walking backwards. He took 3 or 4 steps, glanced over his shoulder, then took 3 or 4 more. Over and over. Walking backwards but looking (mostly) forward.

I could only see him for 45 seconds or so as I drove past on my way to wherever I was going next. But, this man ignited my curiosity.

Why?

Why would anyone walk backwards?

What was in the bag?

Was someone chasing him so he had to face what was behind (past) instead of what was ahead (future?)

Why?

And what was in that crumpled up brown paper grocery bag?

And why was he walking backwards away from where he had just been?

I just kept thinking about this strange sight.

For most of the week before this, I’ve been pondering “signs and sychronicities” thanks to a substack post by Donna Ashworth. I follow her for her beautiful poetry. Last week she asked her followers to be “open to the magic” – to pay attention to meaning-filled coincidence. That is speaking my language. For the past twelve months, my life has been an exercise in being open to the magic. If you are a regular reader in this space, you know that I am a lover of God, doing my best to love and live in the Way of Jesus. And inside this framework (sometimes just outside the edges of this framework) I’ve seen “signs and synchronicities” swirl around over and over this year. I honestly believe this is the way Holy Spirit gets my attention when there is something I need to hear. A song lyric will jump off my spotify playist into my soul. My pastor will mention a scripture in passing, not knowing this was the one Holy Spirit needed me to hear on that particular day. I find a scrap of paper in a box I’ve been clearing out – a box from my last church office which I left 16 years ago – and on it a scripture passage which speaks to my most pressing prayer today. It has been happening all year – over and over and over. So when Donna asks us to “be open to the magic” I am all in.

I keep a journal nearby to jot down anything the universe throws at me. It is full of things like…

• Nadia Bolz-Weber’s 3 daily questions: What is mine to say? What is mine to do? What is mine to care about – these have been life-savers for me in our crazy world these days.

• The song “The Detour” and its lyrics: “You’ve been good to me, I am safe to hope. I will dare to believe when the way is long and slow . And I am full of doubt but You are kind and close. I will trust the detour is the road.”

• A message from a pagan mystic friend: “You need to slow down, be still. Enjoy the peace. The timing is still Divine.”

• Someone I love recommends a book without knowing the situation in my life for which the book is a direct answer. (If you’re curious, it is “Now and Not Yet” by Ruth Chou Simons.)

• I say out loud “I really wish I could talk to Mom today” and a cardinal appears on my birdfeeder.

And that’s just a few of them. So if this year has taught me anything, it is that I need to pay attention – when something makes me curious, I need to stop, listen and wonder “what is the message?”

So, WHY was this dude walking backwards?

I have absolutely no idea. But I think it might have something to do with looking to the future instead of fixating on the past. Maybe. Who knows.

The practice Donna Ashworth suggests is to open a random book to a random page and see if it speaks to you. Here’s mine for today:

(Have) compassion on our bewildered selves, bumbling our way through a world blooming and buzzing with opportunities to experience the sacred, fumbling toward love and stumbling toward light.” Mary Lane Potter in “The Body Leads the Way: Ritual, Liminality, and Imagination.” Page 85.

As you wander your way into 2026 – a year with much potential both for evil and for good – will you join me (and Donna) in being open to the magic?

One last reminder from another poet:

“Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God, But only he who sees takes off his shoes; The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.” Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Blessing Beloveds. May you have eyes to see the bush that’s on fire right in front of you.

Nakupenda Sana. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah,

Cathy

PS – you can read Donna’s post here:

https://substack.com/@donnaashworth/note/p-184295457?utm_source=notes-share-action&r=45unt

You can read more from Nadia Bolz-Webber here (this one is my favorite so far):

The Corners by Nadia Bolz-Weber

Dear Nadia, How do you grieve without losing your mind?

Dear Nadia…

Read more

2 years ago · 590 likes · 113 comments · Nadia Bolz-Weber

Alone in my king-sized bed in my sweet little house on Downing Lane

Steel squeals as the night train rumbles by just outside my window.

The ceiling fan clicks, the dishwasher pulses, the alarm system assures me that “your house is now secure.”

The light from the bathroom casts a bigfoot-shaped shadow on the ceiling.

Steel squeals as the night train rumbles by just outside my window.

Two furry felines sit perched at the foot of the bed – awake, on guard.

The light from the bathroom casts a bigfoot-shaped shadow on the ceiling.

Time slows, approaching dead stop, as night hums me to sleep.

Two loyal felines sit perched at the foot of the bed – awake, on guard.

I roll over to ease the pain in my hip. I flip the pillow to cool my flushed face.

Time slows, approaching dead stop, as night hums me to sleep.

I wonder where you are this very minute.

I roll over to ease the pain in my hip and flip the pillow to cool my hot face.

The ceiling fan clicks, the dishwasher rumbles, the cat purrs into my ear.

I wonder where you are this very minute.

Alone in my king-sized bed in my sweet little house on Downing Lane one cold January night.

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Dear God,

January has never been my favorite month. It feels a little like Narnia before Aslan – always winter but never Christmas. It can be a whole month of Rainy Days and Mondays – nothing is really wrong….

But this time something IS really wrong. There’s this giant Ask hanging in the air – someone I love who needs an honest to You miracle. He needs rescue. He needs healing. He needs a solution to an unsolvable problem. Until that comes through – until YOU come through – everything else is on hold. And it is breaking my heart, stretching my faith, doing its damnedest to knock me off my pink float out into the middle of the flood. Like the Psalmist, I lie on my bed at night and ask “Where the Hell are You?” (Ok, that’s a paraphrase, but I’m pretty sure they thought it that way.)

I believe in miracles because I’ve seen them with my own eyes. This very week my friend’s daughter will literally rise from her death bed and walk out of the hospital – Alive and whole – able to breathe and swallow and speak and smile – All the things doctors thought impossible just a few weeks ago. I’ve seen broken marriages restored, lost children found, scans come back inexplicably clear.

I’ve also seen broken families stay broken. Good people go bankrupt because of one mistake or one health crisis. Husbands die from cancer that should have been curable. Children die because politicians send bombs to win arguments.

In a world where all those things are true – the wins and the losses – How can I keep my head above the water while I wait for you to answer his prayer?

You know how I spend my days…comforting folks whose miracles didn’t come through. They begged you for help and their person still died.

I know no one gets out alive. And I know that death does not mean you’ve abandoned us. In fact, if I’m honest, you’ve been closer to me the last nineteen months than at any other point in my life. I am not abandoned.

And I know neither is He. But here’s the thing. The river is raging. The water is cold and choppy and frankly, I am scared.

I’m scared you’re going to let him down.

Today I told a patient about John Claypool’s writing in Tracks of a Fellow Struggler. You know the part about the Dead Sea where sometimes all a human can do is raise our hands and lift our sorrows to the sky and hope You will bring something good from it?

That’s where I am. I know you are God. I know I am not. I know the Hopi prophecy about staying in the middle of the swift flowing river because holding onto the shore is simply too dangerous – we will be torn apart.

I know. I know.

So God, there it is. I’ll lace up my life-jacket a little tighter and sit myself down on my pink float – cold, wet and frightened – but still persuaded.

“I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.”

Please.

Please send rescue.

Please answer his prayer.

Please.

In the meantime, we will keep doing our best to live inside Philippians 4:

Worry about nothing.

Pray about everything.

That will get you through anything.

And we will keep on thanking you for all the prayers you’ve already answered. “I’ve got miracles on miracles…A million little miracles.”

Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah.

Cathy

This archaically worded line is from the carol “Once in Royal David’s City.” You know me – I know hymns. This one, however, has escaped me before this year’s Christmas Eve service at our lovely church, Mars Hill Presbyterian in Acworth, Georgia.

If I’m honest, I have to admit that I’ve been dreading Christmas Eve this year. This is our second year without Bruce. For many reasons, this season has been harder for me than last year. Some of the weight has come from other people’s sorrow – a friend’s critically ill daughter, another friend’s waiting on a miracle that has yet to arrive, just the general “weary world-ness” of life on our planet right now. Some of the weight, however, has come because life is moving on without Bruce. Gracie and Tyler are expecting a baby boy in June. Early in the season as I walked into one of Bruce’s favorite store which was all decked out for Christmas, I burst into tears. He wasn’t there to celebrate with Gracie and Tyler. He wasn’t there to decorate the house for Christmas. He wouldn’t be there leading the choir on Christmas Eve. He just wasn’t there. And for the first time in a while, it was more than I could bear.

For the rest of the holiday season, coming home to an empty house became a struggle. I found reasons to be away on the weekends. I stayed out later than I had to just so I’d have less time alone. This was new for me. Up until now, my sweet quiet little house has been a refuge. During this holiday season, however, it became a reminder of all that we lost when we lost Bruce.

“He feeleth for our sadness.” What a statement. I know a lot about grief. 90% of the patient care I provide at work centers on grief and loss. The chaplain in me knows that grief is cumulative. Losing my husband naturally meant that I would re-experience other losses – parents, grandparents, in-laws, friends.

Even though I knew this truth about grief, I was still surprised by the tears streaming down my face as Alabama’s “Christmas in Dixie” played on my Spotify playlist. “From Jackson, Mississippi to Charlotte Caroline” name-drops two of the cities where I celebrated Christmases with my family of origin. Christmas was magical in the Payne house. Mom and Dad have been gone for years and my brother lives more than 800 miles away. One old Alabama song was all it took to toss me right back into the magical days of stockings hung on a cardboard fireplace, watching Rudolph on our black and white TV, and my brother and I trying desperately to stay awake to catch a glimpse of Santa and his reindeer.

Wrapping gifts alone at my dining room table took me back to early morning hours of countless Christmas mornings – assembling toys, helping Santa wrap gifts and fill stockings for adorable little girls deep in dreams upstairs. I have yet to take a night-time drive to look at the lights – I don’t want to go by myself. The truth is, there are dozens of people who would go with me if I asked, but that isn’t the same as sitting in the back seat of my father-in-law’s car driving through the grounds of Bristol Motor Speedway with glee-filled little girls. There is simply some of the magic of Christmas that is gone and will not be back.

The thought that Jesus “feeleth for our sadness” is magnetic for my weary mind this season. As alone as I feel late at night, by myself in my beautiful, quiet little house, I am not ever truly alone. Jesus feels what I am feeling. Jesus knows what it is to miss people I love. Jesus knows the challenge of trusting God to solve problems that are beyond my reach. Jesus can feel the pain of fearing the worst for someone you love.

Back to Christmas Eve – the service continued. I was sitting on the front pew with Gracie and Abby and Scott – the girls were singing again on Christmas Eve, just as they have for the past 15 years – with our friends the Yeates girls. Other wonderful young ladies have joined them through the years but these four have been the core. I already knew it would be beautiful and it would bring me to tears. What I didn’t know was that Gracie would be crying through much of the service. She’d had a rough day at work. She is pregnant. Her dad is dead on Christmas Eve. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. I did, however, see coming how hard the service would be for me. The decorations were lovely, but not how Bruce did them. The choir did great – but Bruce wasn’t up there with them. Neither was I, for that matter. I just can’t bring myself to sing with them anymore. Maybe I will someday. Who knows? Anyway, I knew I’d be crying at some point. I didn’t know it would be as the congregation sang “O Holy Night.” This song usually makes me laugh (for reasons I’ve explained in this space before and won’t take time for now.) But Wednesday night, it brought me to tears. Specifically with the line “His law is love and his gospel is peace.”

As you may remember, the phrase “the laws of love and gravity” has been haunting me for a couple of months now. I have come to understand that Love is a force in the universe that is as irresistible as gravity. This truth sustains me while the holidays have become my own “weary world.” My weary world rejoices because of his law of love and gospel of peace. On the darkest nights, I am reminded that not only does Jesus feel my sadness, Jesus shares in my gladness. And as hard as these days have been, they have indeed been filled with many reasons for joy:

· My friend’s daughter is improving – miraculously improving

· Gracie and Tyler are having a baby boy in June – I can start imagining my life as that little guy’s grandma

· I have a job I love with people I love who treat me like some sort of miracle-worker

· I have a solid body of friends – real anam cara – who sustain me, answer the phone any time of the day or night, welcome me into their homes and families whenever I need refuge.

· This year has been one of the most powerful years in my spiritual life. I’ve learned, grown, changed in ways I couldn’t have imagined this time last year.

· Most of all, I am completely loved and known by the Great God of the Universe. God is more real to me, more present in my day to day living, than at any point in my life. Because this is true, I am filled with hope for my life ahead in the new year.

Next year, I truly believe, there will be new Christmas magic in my life. Until then, I am wrapped up in the comfort of knowing that God knows where I am and what I need. And, honestly, I am sighing from relief to have made it through this season. I am thankful for each of you who helped get me through. Thanks for the cards, the calls, the messages, the invites, the time, the smiles the hugs. You were the presence of Christ to me in very real, concrete ways this year. I couldn’t have made it without you.

Nakupenda Sana, my beloveds. See you next year.

Selah,

Cathy

Ask me what my superpower is and I’ll answer with no hesitation – it is gratitude. I have a rich spiritual life supported by many practices including labyrinth-walking, prayer, scripture memorization, active participation in my faith community, and meditation – especially Loving Kindness meditation. But of all my practices, the one that is most powerful in this season of my life is gratitude.

Frances Weller, a therapist who deals primarily with grief, wrote that “the work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them.” I first heard him speak about this just a few weeks before my husband of 32 years was diagnosed with the cancer that would quickly take him from us. This image of balancing grief and gratitude carried me through that horrific season. Anytime grief threatened to overwhelm me, I stopped and began to name all the reasons I had for gratitude in that moment:

• friends who loved me and showed up day after day,

• good insurance,

• doctors I knew, loved and trusted from nearly 15 years at Kaiser Permanente of Georgia,

• enough time and money and resources to be present with Bruce every day during that journey.

There was (and is) so much to be thankful for. It wasn’t that I replaced my grief with gratitude. Instead, I added gratitude to the mix – let it keep my soul in balance during the most difficult season of my life.

Those of you who have known me for a while know that I’ve had a life-long struggle with clinical depression and anxiety. My problem is physiological, not just emotional. My body doesn’t process anxiety appropriately – if I fall into a full-blown anxiety event, chemicals in my body create a cascading process that is not easily interrupted. With years of therapy, the right medication and a whole lot of spiritual practice, my mental health is pretty good most of the time. So now, when anxiety presents itself in my day to day life, I take what I learned from that season of grief and wrap my arms and my heart around some gratitude. I am stunned at the power that simple choice can have on my health.

The power of gratitude to change my situation is outlined in a scripture passage I memorized as a young child, Philippians 4:6-7.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

When I talk to patients about this gratitude practice, I tell them about this verse from my faith tradition - I tell them about peace that makes no sense in a given situation, but comes nonetheless and does, indeed, guard my heart.

Recently I’ve been praying with and for a friend who needs God to intervene to solve a problem that is too big for him to solve alone. Yesterday I found myself praying all day “please please please please help him.”

My theology of prayer is complicated, to say the least. I don’t believe God is a big-ole vending machine – insert 2 prayers, push a button and out comes the prize. I do, however, believe that scripture is true. So when scripture tells me “Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying pray” (Phil 4:6 from The Message)– well, that is what I should be doing. I also believe that God speaks in inexplicable ways. So when I saw this message in an old journal I was reading yesterday, I took it to heart:

I decided my prayer needed to change from PLEASE to THANKS. So today, each time the word “please” starts to come out of my mouth – I stop and change it to “thanks.” Thanks that God is already ahead of us in this problem. Thanks for the solution that is on the way. Thanks that God loves my friend more than I do and has a good plan for him. Thanks that the Great God of the Universe cares enough to listen whenever I pray – with or without gratitude – with or without anxiety.

This leads me to the truth that Gratitude beats Anxiety every time. There’s a quote by Ann Voskamp that I love:

Amen and Amen and Amen. Beloveds, will you join me in praying prayers of thanks today for all the ways God is taking care of each of us? The world is still on fire. Violence and hatred are still all around us. Life is still scary. But God is still God and I believe that in the end, God will matter more than all the rest. Let’s keep bringing all the light we can to all the dark corners we can find. And let’s do it with gratitude in our hearts and on our lips. God has us. Always has. Always will.

Nakupenda Sana. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah.

Cathy

I am in an unfamiliar season in my life – words are escaping me. I am surrounded by stories – some mine, some other people’s – and I can’t seem to grab hold of any of them long enough to write them down. This, my friends, is not how my life works. Words have always been my allies, my shelters in the storms life would throw at me. If I can write about it, I can survive it. In fact, long-time readers know that in previous seasons, if I wasn’t writing that was a diagnostic symptom – something in my emotional or spiritual life was off and I needed to pay attention. This is not that.

Lately my life has been filled to the brim with stories, highs and lows, so many topics that, in a different time, would be captured on these pages. But for now, there is no writing. I keep hearing lines from an old song playing on repeat in my head:

“2 AM and I’m still awake writing a song. If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me, Threatening the life it belongs to.”

I turn the stories over and over in my hands, in my head and heart. Some of them simply aren’t mine to tell – like the friend whose daughter is fighting for her life in an ICU. Fear and hope and grief and gratitude swirl all around that hospital waiting room. But none of it is mine – well, except for the love and grief I feel for my beloved friend.

Other stories are mine, but don’t belong on these pages. They are too personal, too weighty. They have the potential to upset apple carts that don’t belong to me – It’s not all about me. These stories, however, are still mine to sort through. I’m having to learn new tools for managing them. Or, more accurately, I’m having to learn to trust OTHER tools for managing them: prayer, conversations with trusted friends, messages from the Great God of the Universe sent through unconventional channels. Some days I must simply surrender to the story – sit in it, feel it, pay attention to all the colors and textures and emotions that each chapter brings. Some days all I can do is sit and see.

All of this is to say, Holy Spirit is on overdrive in my life right now. I’ve lived long enough to know that Holy Spirit’s moving is always, always good for me. It is not always simple or comfortable or easy to follow – but always for my good. And certain patterns are emerging – what I’ve been thinking of as “the Laws of Love and Gravity.” That phrase has been haunting me ever since my trip to Albuquerque and the ReVision conference in October. One of the speakers stated simply that the shape of the universe, the fabric of reality itself, is love. And like gravity, it can’t be ignored. Whether we intend to follow the rules of gravity or not, we are all bound by them. He said love is like that. We will all eventually move toward love. So, what are these themes that keep appearing?

• “You have to look backwards to be able to move forward.” The past is not simple and never exactly as we remember it. Recently I came across a box filled with old journals – some of them going back as far as 1989. This led to a new project of collecting and reading all the journals I could find – 22 to be exact. On those pages are days I remember and days I’ve completely forgotten. But there were repeating story-lines. This feels important. Some are stories I hope never to repeat again. Some are foundational to my spiritual health and wellness, not to mention happiness. I need to sort through them and decide which are which. I need to understand how those stories can guide my steps forward.

• God is faithful. Every. Single. Time. There’s a beautiful song that I’ve referenced here before – The Detour by Faithful. “You’ve been good to me. I am safe to hope….I am full of doubt, but you are kind and close.” This has been my experience of God in every season of my life. With every passing year, the evidence mounts that my life rests in God’s hands and that is the safest place in existence.

• Loving is seldom simple. Loving friends, loving children, loving vocation, loving a partner – all of these have ups and downs and rewards and pitfalls. That being said, I believe with every cell in my body that love is always worth the effort and the risk.

So friends, once again, I’m sending out the word that even though these missives are few and far between, I am ok – really I’m thriving in a way I couldn’t have imagined 18 months ago. Some day the stories may settle down and let me write about them. Until then, know that I am loving you, praying for you, and hoping that the laws of love and gravity work to your advantage and that you will have eyes to see. If nothing else on this pages stays with you, I hope you will remember this: You are loved beyond measure by the Great God of the Universe. If you look around and pay attention, you will see evidence of this truth all around you.

Nakupenda sana my Beloveds. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah.

Cathy

Let me start with “Friends, don’t worry, I’m fine.” I know it’s been too long since I’ve written. Life has been swirling by at such a pace that I can hardly keep up, much less reflect and write about it. Not an excuse, just a description. Much has happened since you last heard from me – almost all of it good:

1. I spent an amazing weekend in Albuquerque, NM with the Center for Action and Contemplation and their conference “ReVision: What do we do with Christianity?” The experience was energizing, inspiring, life-changing, more than I could capture on paper. I have a journal full of notes and thoughts and images that will, I’m sure, eventually make their way onto these pages. For just a glimpse, let me say these things:

a. Albuquerque and Sante Fe are holy ground for me. I spent two summers working at Glorieta Baptist Conference Center and fell in love with the geography, the history, the people, the food, all of it. So spending time there is always a sacred thin place. One of my best moments was the hour spent in Glorieta’s prayer garden - more than 30 years after the first hour I spent there.

b. My last trip to Albuquerque and Santa Fe was a 30^th Wedding Anniversary celebration. Thusly I was overcome with nostalgia and grief as I walked through the Albuquerque airport – the last time I was there, Bruce was holding my hand.

c. Saints were everywhere at this conference and all willing to share their wisdom – Richard Rohr, Carmen Acevedo Butcher, Mirabai Starr, Diana Butler Bass, Randy Woodley, James Finley, Brian McClaren, Jacqui Lewis, and on and on and on. Constantly awash in the movement of Holy Spirit, I left encouraged, challenged, and hopeful in ways I didn’t imagine were possible.

2. Gracie and Tyler are expecting a baby next June. Those of you who have walked so closely with us through the last year and a half know that Gracie had a miscarriage just days after Bruce was diagnosed with the cancer that would quickly end his life. It was a horrible season. This baby brings with it hope and joy. We could not be more thrilled. That being said, we will take all the prayers we can get for the health and safety of mother and baby. I can’t wait to meet this kid! (Peggy had a sign on her refrigerator that said “Grandchildren are God’s reward for not killing your kids.” I see that.)

3. Abby and Scott are busy planning their wedding that will happen next April. It will be a small affair so don’t be offended if you’re not invited. She can’t invite everyone we love and fit you all into the space. We hope to throw a big party at the church for everyone to celebrate with us. More to come about that later.

4. Work is good – I continue to enjoy my new life in Behavioral Health and to advocate for expanded chaplaincy in our region. I’ve got work to do before I retire (in 6 or 7 years) so I’m getting busy.

5. I had hoped to be in Kenya next summer, but the baby’s arrival means I will be staying home. Nonetheless, a chunk of my heart lives in Chuka, Meru, Kenya (and I suppose always will.) I continue to pray daily for God’s work there at Kenya Connection Kids (KCK).

6. Lately, Holy Spirit has been working through my Spotify playlist with some regularity. One example is my hearing the song “The Detour” by a group of artists collectively known as “Faithful.”

The lyrics speak powerfully to my life in the past 18 months.

“You love has held me warmly through the night. I have seen your faithfulness with my own eyes. You’ve been good to me. I am safe to hope. I will dare to believe when the way is long and slow. I am full of doubt, but You are kind and close. I will trust the detour is the road.”

In summary, God is at work in my life. New things are happening that aren’t ready to be written yet. I’ve been diligently staying on my pink float, working to keep myself between the shores of the River of God’s work in the world. Sometimes the pace is slow – like a lazy river – easy to enjoy the scenery and no stress at all. Sometimes the river runs wild and I struggle to stay afloat – moving at a pace I couldn’t have imagined a year ago. Regardless, God is faithful and trustworthy and I’m excited to see what is around the next bend.

Nakupenda Sana, my beloveds. I know the times are crazy, but don’t lose heart. The Great God of the Universe is on the move. I’m excited to see what God’s got up God’s sleeves next.

Selah,

Cathy

Saturday, October 18, 2025 was an important day in many ways. Millions of people across the country and around the world stood together and spoke in one voice – democracy matters, tyranny must be defeated, love is stronger than hate. Ordinarily I would have been out in the streets of metro-Atlanta with the marchers, but I wasn’t.

Instead, I was in a beautiful hall in the Cathedral of St. Philip on Peachtree Road in Buckhead. With hundreds of others and my Soul Friend Kym, I participated in a Spirituality Conference called “Poetry, Prayer and Place” led by the Irish poet Padriag O’Tuama. This amazing day was filled with poetry and laughter and writing prompts and good, deep, soulful conversation. The day overflowed with truths that bored into my soul – called out questions and assumptions and joys and worries – and helped me capture them in the pages of my journal. Rather than trying and failing to summarize it all here, I’m just going to list some of the quotes from those pages:

· It is not given to me to believe – it is given to me to yearn.

· Our primary place is our body – that thing that evokes other people’s prejudice.

· The spiritual world is in a place and that place is you.

· Spirituality – comes from a word that means “breathing.” The opposite of spirituality is not doubt – it is suffocation.

· I missed my wanting – I missed the yearning – nostalgia for the lack.

· The yearning has a strange sweetness that can never be met by the thing.

· Your writing always knows more than you do. Don’t be surprised by that.

· Never try to make your writing mean anything – just write and let it happen.

· We make the art we make and then it makes us back.

· We have no proof of the existence of God. We have absolute proof of the yearning to pray.

· I’m writing as if nobody is ever going to read this.

· We need safe creative containers that won’t hurt others but can contain some of our brokenness.

And the best part of the whole experience was the chance to write using prompts given by the poet. One was to write something in the form of “The Song of Amergin” – an ancient Gaelic poem, considered one of the oldest in Irish mythology. It is a powerful description of the poet’s connection to his (or her – we don’t know) connection to the place – Ireland. Padriag challenged us to write 17 lines describing our place in the world.

So, here is the Song of Catherine – in Kennesaw.

I am the snuggling cat under the covers before the alarm.

I am the gurgling water fountain.

I am the coffee dripping into the NPR mug.

I am the door cracked open to the porch.

I am the “ding” signaling the good-morning message from far away.

I am the not quite risen sunlight.

I am the doe and the fawn in the dewy grass

I am the red light dawdling before turning green.

I am the frozen coke.

I am the heartache that keeps the radio silent.

I am the worry that accompanies the news.

I am the best parking spot.

I am the welcoming smile on the cleaner’s face.

I am the broken lamp switch.

I am the broken-hearted griever.

I am the chair and the tired back-side resting on it.

I am the created one.

We wrote many more pieces. Collects that became prayers. A Japanese form called a Pantoum – You write 8 lines responding to individual prompts. And the arrange the lines in this order: 1234 2546 5768 7381. It was fascinating. The prompts were to write about something we wanted at some point in our life – some desire. Here is mine:

I wanted to be a wife and a mom and the center of the wheel.

During the US2 years it felt impossible – college was over.

I thought it would give me belonging – a home beyond place.

Do your best. Your best is enough and all you can ask of yourself.

During the US 2 years it felt impossible – college was over.

Most days I wake up and reach for the phone.

Do my best. My best is enough and all I can ask of myself.

In my dream Gracie said we were out of coffee.

Most days I wake up and reach for the phone.

Safety lives in love – in family.

In my dream Gracie said we were out of coffee.

On my way here I saw breakfast and those beautiful women.

Safety lives in love – in family.

I thought it would give me belonging – a home beyond place.

On my way here I saw breakfast and those beautiful women.

I wanted to be a wife and a mom and the center of the wheel.

It was a remarkable experience of a remarkable day. All that listening and searching and writing did, in fact, help me remember a promise I sometimes forget. God is always at work in the world. This world belongs to someone bigger, wiser, stronger than any of the chaos that is swirling around us – in my heart, in our country, across the planet. God has not – will not – abandon us. “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.” “God is love.” God has my life in God’s hands and I don’t have to fret.

So Beloveds, that was my day. I am grateful for the millions who showed up and marched. I’m grateful for the Cathedral and their many ministries that reach our community and reached me yesterday. Most of all, I am grateful for the Great God of the Universe – for the peace and safety and purpose and love that comes from being in relationship with that God. My prayers are with all of you that you, too, will live your days filled with peace, safety, purpose and love.

Nakupenda Sana my people.

Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah.

Cathy

For the past few months I’ve been framing my spiritual life, really my spiritual health, with a specific image: I am floating down the river of God’s work in the world on a bright pink float - the float for me is that is presence of God. Why a river? Why a float? Why bright pink? All valid questions.

The river image comes from a long conversation with my Anam Cara Kym. “Cathy, you’ve got to stop trying to push the river and just let it go where it’s going.” Stop trying to push the river.

For a girl who grew up in Mississippi and North Carolina and who lives in north Georgia, the word “river” carries vivid images and profound meaning. I know the Mighty Mississippi. I’ve seen how long and wide and powerful it is at every turn. I have spent countless sweltering summer days splashing in frigid mountain streams, being mesmerized by cascading waterfalls, or simply floating down placid north Georgia rivers only to be surprised by white water waiting just around the bend. I know rivers. And I know one thing with absolute certainty - rivers are going to go where they go and do what they do. (A scene from “Out of Africa” comes to mind - that water lives in Mombasa.”)

So the thought that I was trying to “push the river”stopped me in my tracks. Kym meant that I was trying to rush forward into a future where I am healed from the pain of last year. She worried that I wouldn’t take the time and space I needed to work through what had to be worked through - deal with my past - before I can truly embrace the future God has for me.

The remedy, then, is to perch myself on the float that is the presence of God in my life. I needed to spend time listening, praying, reading, paying attention to the moments that sparkle - a dragonfly swooping toward me in traffic, a line in a poem or lyric in a song that grabs my attention, a dream that wakes me up and reminds me to pray for a friend I haven’t seen in a while.

Why a float and not a boat? Because a float has no controls. It goes where the river takes it. My only task is to stay balanced and not fall off. Sometimes the current is gentle and staying between the shores is easy. Other times the current is wild and I end up crashing onto a shore of heartbreak, hitting my head on a low hanging branch of confusion, or getting stuck in the mud of anxiety. When that happens, the only thing to do is refocus on the float - push back out into the middle of the river of God’s Work in the World and hop back up onto the bright pink float of God’s presence.

Why bright pink? I have no idea. That’s just how the image formed in my head. So now I have flamingo pink fingernails to remind me every moment - stay on the float. God is God and I am not. Float. Trust. Breathe. Rest assured that the safest place in the universe is in the presence of the God who created me, loves me, and has a good plan for my life.

So I’m floating. Some days are easier than others. The most turbulent white water I’ve encountered during this season came early in September- ironically in the same North Carolina mountains where I’ve spent so much time in actual rivers.

The plan was to spend four days at my cousins’ cabin in Brevard with my Chattanooga family John and Roberta Echols. We were going to cook and play games and hike to waterfalls (rivers) and enjoy being together. Covid had other plans. They couldn’t come.

I had gone a day before them to set up. I was already there when we realized they couldn’t come. I was alone in a house that holds decades of family memories. The rooms are filled with the best kind of ghosts - memories of Mom and Dad, summer days when the girls were little, amazing meals cooked by Aunt Nell, walks to the lake with cousins, watching football with Uncle Jack and on and on and on. One of my favorite photos of Mom and her sisters was taken on the back porch swing of this cabin.

So there I was, all alone and surrounded by memories of people who loved me most in a place where Bruce and I had spent so many many happy days and nights.

I decided to stay. I had a task I’d been avoiding. I spent the next three days collecting all the essays I had written from the day the first doctor said “cancer” to us all the way through the one titled “A Million Pieces All in One.” I knew when I wrote that one it was the epilogue to this collection I’d been writing. I needed them all to be in one place so I could begin to see what they might become - maybe a book about grieving without losing your mind or your faith or your joy. Who knows.

So, for hours and hours and hours I time-traveled through the most painful season of my life. As I re-read the words I re-lived the emotions - shock, anger, fear, hope, grief and ultimately gratitude. Gratitude for 32 years with that amazing man - the life we lived, the family we built, the faith I grew into through the joys and tears. Together there are 147 single-spaced pages. It is a lot. And it is complete. I don’t mean I’m done grieving or living or learning. I just mean that particular season of writing is complete. And I am grateful.

I’m also hopeful about the future God is creating for me. There is a lot of joy ahead - Abby’s wedding, progress at work, good times with good friends, maybe even grandchildren and retirement at some point. And all the while, you can find me on my float - purposefully focused on the presence of God - whatever that means -each moment of each day of each year.

Wednesday I came home to find an unexpected Amazon package at my door. It was a gift from Kym - a package of four pool floats, one of which was hot pink - with this note:

“ Somehow I can just see the pink float inflated in some corner of your house as a reminder. I don’t know what you do with the other 3!!! I love you. Just a reminder to float.”

So, there it is - my spiritual life - floating on the hot pink float of God’s presence down the river of God’s work in this crazy world. If you’d like to join me I’ve got 3 extra floats. Come on in - the water is amazing.

Nakupenda Sana my Beloveds.

Selah,

Cathy

“Something Gracie said sent me searching backwards for the last time Bruce spoke to me. It was the night we brought him home with hospice. It was just him and me in the house and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the task at hand - I couldn’t do this by myself. I sat in the chair next to his bed, face in my hands, sobbing. He touched my arm and quietly asked ‘Are you okay?’”

This moment - sharing this memory with my anam cara Kym at the end of Monday, September 15, 2025 (the first anniversary of Bruce’s death) - was just one in a string of profound ways God wrapped me and my girls up in love and prayers that day. My phone dinged all day with text notifications and facebook messages. A beloved neighbor sent an edible arrangement. Another beloved neighbor took time to hug me, look in my eyes and ask “no, really - how are you?” Friends far and wide shared memories of what an amazing human our husband and father was - really still is as he continues to live on in our hearts.

This date - September 15, 2025 - has been a goal I’ve had in my gaze for a good long time now. Arriving at September 15, 2025 means we have survived an entire year after Bruce left. We lived through birthdays and anniversaries and Father’s Day and Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s Eve with no-one to kiss for the first time in more than 3 decades. We’ve celebrated Abby’s engagement and Tyler’s recovery from the car crash and the simple victories that came from getting up and getting dressed and functioning in a world without Bruce in it. It has been a long year. Against all odds it has been a good year. I’ve learned much about myself, my spiritual life, and remarkably the future ahead that can still be filled with joy and love - even though grief will remain a constant companion.

So when the sun came up on Tuesday, September 16, 2025, it felt like a new season was beginning. I’m off on Tuesdays, so I could spend it however I liked. I got my nails done (flamingo pink with chrome if you’re interested.) I had lunch with a trusted friend who also happened to be our pastor for the past 15 years. I had my annual mammogram, went home for left-over dinner while I talked to another friend, and ended the evening playing Mahjong with a lovely group of ladies who have adopted me even though I don’t live in their senior living community. It was a really good day.

And that matters, because really good days add up and turn into really good weeks, really good months, really good years. So often a loss like the one we had a year ago can overshadow the rest of one’s life. It can color every aspect - dim the light to the point that it easy to miss the good that remains. I decided early on in this particular grief journey that I would not take that path. I will always love Bruce Anderson. I will always miss Bruce Anderson. But I did not die when he did. I’ve still got life left to live. If he could talk to me now, he would be telling me I need to get busy living it because life is shorter than we know. And besides that, Bruce’s favorite way to spend a day was by making me happy. He didn’t really care what it took. Drive 300 miles in search of geocaches? Sure. Spend hours in a used bookstore. Okay - if that’s what you want. Paint a room? Get side by side pedicures? Watch a sappy movie. Whatever would make me happy, that was what he wanted to do that day. Because I know this, I am absolutely persuaded that he still wants me to find a way to be happy - even happy without him here.

“That is such a beautiful picture of who you were to each other - that his last words would be ‘Are You Okay?’” Kym was right. It is a beautiful picture of the amazing man that I got to grow up with, raise babies with, dream dreams and watch them come true with. His thoughts were always on me and his girls. He dedicated his life to making sure we had all we needed and most of what we wanted. He was a good man and we miss him every day. And even without him, this is a good life. I’m going to keep on living it with as much light and joy and laughter as I can.

Nakupenda Sana, Beloveds. Hug your people. Don’t let a day go by without telling someone what they mean to you. Life is short. God is good.

Selah,

Cathy

My world starts to make sense when I can capture it on paper – this has been true about me my entire life. I am a writer. I don’t really know what is true and what isn’t until I sort it out through words on a page. My inner circle knows that there is no need to worry about me as long as I am writing. It is when I stop that they should reach out and check on me.

So, the fact that I haven’t written a word in more than a week would ordinarily raise a red flag and cause me to scan my mental/spiritual health. Not this time. This time I am so busy experiencing Holy Spirit’s moving that I can’t capture it in words. It is the difference between taking pictures of a beautiful sunset and sitting enraptured as the light changes second by second. In reflecting on the scene that overwhelms my senses and leaves me awe-struck, I must shift from photographer to painter. I try to capture the magic with media that is simply inadequate.

To say the last 15 months have been life-changing is a woefully inadequate statement. 15 months ago Bruce wasn’t feeling well – but we didn’t yet know about the cancer that would invade our world and change it forever. I was enjoying a renaissance in my professional life shifting from Palliative Care to Behavioral Health – creating a new role for myself – one that is life-giving and filled with joy and satisfaction. The girls were happy and moving forward in their relationships and careers. Bruce was making plans to retire after just one more school year.

And then came summer – Bruce’s diagnosis, Gracie’s lost pregnancy, Tyler’s accident, and ultimately Bruce’s death all within 4 months. Our tribe of friends and family have traveled this road with us through all of those things and their aftermath. You’ve loved us, prayed for us, brought us food, road-tripped with us, played games, made us laugh. You have been the presence of Christ in our lives in very real ways and I am eternally grateful.

Some of the journey, however, can’t be shared. Some of it is internal – just between me and the Great God of the Universe who loves me and around whom my life is organized. We’ve been doing a great deal of hard work – mending my heart, re-drawing my future, sorting through old baggage and old wounds. This work has ebbed and flowed through the year. Recently – really ever since the trip to Greece in April – there has been much more flow than ebb. Some of it has shown up on these pages. Much more has not.

Today feels like a good day to reflect on some of the things Holy Spirit has taught me in the last few months. The list may not be meaningful to anyone but me, but here are the top 5:

1. Bruce is dead. I am not. I must live as if both of these things are true.

2. God has loved me through every moment of my existence. There’s no need to worry that this will ever change.

3. Pay attention to the songs that play unbidden in my head – Spirit is trying to get my attention about something and it’s usually in the lyrics.

4. God is beyond my understanding and always will be. Also, not every truth about God is contained within my own tradition – I can learn from others as well.

5. The days ahead of me can be every bit as wonderful as the days behind – maybe even more wonderful.

I have rejoined the beautiful Art After Loss group at the High after I had to drop out midway through the last time. Last week’s theme was identity and held a particularly powerful lesson for me. We explored the art of Howard Finster, preacher turned folk artist from the North Georgia Mountains. The leader asked us to walk through the exhibit and find a piece that particularly spoke to us. Here was mine:

“I took the pieces you threw away and put them together by night and day Washed by rain, Dried by sun, A million pieces all in one.” As I stood staring at the quote, the leader came up to ask me what I saw in it. It was the part about broken pieces being put together into something new – something that is washed by the rain and dried by the sun. “So, it is as if you and God are co-creating your new life.” Wow. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I am standing at the threshold of whatever is next in my life – body, mind and spirit all being transformed by God’s redeeming work – bringing new life to old bones. I am so incredibly thankful.

Nakupenda Sana, my beloveds. Bwana Asifiwe.

Selah,

Cathy