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Kaizen, Cravings, and the Grace of Slow Change

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Over the past month or so, my scale has been acting like it’s auditioning for a soap opera. One week I’m down eight pounds and feeling light and hopeful; the next week I’m up five and wrestling with frustration and shame. My mood rises and falls with the digital readout on a little glass rectangle on my bathroom floor. When the number drops, I feel victorious, as though I’ve finally aligned my life. When it rises, an old chorus stirs: You’ve blown it. You’re weak. You’ll never change. I’m learning that my weight-loss journey is not just about food or movement—it’s spiritual. My body is where my beliefs about love, worth, comfort, and control come to the surface. When the scale swings wildly, it doesn’t just stir my plans; it stirs my theology. What kind of story do I believe I’m in? One of constant failure and dramatic comebacks? Or something quieter, more patient, more merciful? As these questions have bubbled up, I’ve noticed how deeply the emotional drama around my weight mirrors so...
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The Alchemy of Gratitude

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I’ve been thinking about gratitude this week—what it really is, what purpose it serves, and how it actually works on the inside of a person. Every November, the word gets pulled out and polished like an old family heirloom. We make lists of blessings. We say what we’re thankful for. We try to muster the right feelings, as if gratitude lives entirely in the realm of warm emotion. And to be fair, sometimes it does. A lot of gratitude is emotional. There’s a natural fondness that rises when we think about the people and experiences that bring us joy—children laughing in the next room, a dog resting its head on our knee, the comfort of a home that holds us. This kind of gratitude is gentle. It’s soft, warm, and uncomplicated. t’s the gratitude that flows easily when life has been kind. But as I’ve sat with the idea more deeply, I’ve realized this emotional fondness—the kind that forms the backbone of most Thanksgiving reflections—is only one small slice of what gratitude really is. Which ...
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When Truth Wounds or Heals: Recovering Jesus’ Way of Offending

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I was sitting a few rows back when the pastor reached the armor of God in Ephesians. He paused at the belt of truth and said something like, “If you’re really living for Christ, you’ll offend sinners. Standing on the Word means the world won’t like you.” Something in me tightened. I don’t want to nitpick a sermon, and I’m not looking to win an argument—but I felt a quiet grief I couldn’t shake. The Jesus I’ve come to know seems to move differently. He doesn’t lead with offense; he leads with presence. He doesn’t draw boundary lines and dare people to cross; he steps over our lines and sits down at our table. I thought of the people who would have been in that room if Jesus were preaching—tax collectors with complicated pasts, women carrying shame, lepers who had learned to avoid human eyes. Would they have stayed if the first move was offense? Or would they have leaned in because they were finally seen, finally safe enough to tell the truth about their lives? I’m not interested in ...
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The Grapes of Generosity

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I was listening to a podcast the other day when someone brought up a story Jesus told—the parable of the vineyard workers. It’s one of those stories that sounds simple on the surface, but the more you sit with it, the more it pokes at you. Here’s the gist: A vineyard owner goes out early in the morning to hire workers for the day. He agrees to pay them the standard daily wage. Later in the day—mid-morning, noon, and even late in the afternoon—he hires more workers, promising them a fair wage as well. When evening comes, he lines everyone up to get paid. But here’s the twist: he gives everyone the same wage, no matter how long they worked. The folks who started at dawn watch the latecomers collect the same amount they did, and naturally, they’re frustrated. “We bore the heat of the day,” they complain. “Shouldn’t we get more?” The vineyard owner replies, “Didn’t you agree to the wage I offered you? I’m not cheating you. I’m simply choosing to be generous with the others. Don’t I have th...
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Remembering the Waves

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"Nothing real is lost; all love returns home.” I’ve been sitting with this line lately, turning it over like a smooth stone in my pocket. For me, it isn’t just a pretty phrase—it’s a kind of lifeline. Because underneath my spiritual searching there’s a very real fear: what happens when this life ends? What happens to me , to the people I love, to the memories and the small tender moments that make up my days? Do they vanish like a dream the moment I wake up? Living with bipolar disorder has given me glimpses into the edges of consciousness, where reality can feel fluid and fragile. During one psychotic break, I was watching The Office , and something shifted suddenly and inexplicably. In a single, surreal moment, I felt as though I wasn’t just watching the show—I was directing it. Every choice, every movement of the characters, every laugh track, was my decision . I had a fleeting sense that this entire world, this life, was something I had helped orchestrate. And then, just as ab...
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My Chains Are Gone, I've Been Set Free

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“Slaves, obey your earthly masters with fear and trembling, in singleness of heart, as you obey Christ.” (Ephesians 6:5) A few weeks the pastor was working through Paul’s letter to the church in Ephesus, and this was the passage under discussion. To be fair, he explained that Paul was addressing something closer to indentured servitude than the brutal slavery of the American South — more like the relationship between an employer and employee. But what caught my attention was how quickly he dismissed the common criticism that verses like this make Christianity look like it represents a God who is authoritarian and abusive. To me, that felt like a missed opportunity. Because the truth is: this verse was used by some Christians to justify treating an entire people group as less than human. Not by all Christians, but enough that the effects still ripple through history. That reality deserves to be named out loud, not brushed aside. What's the Real Problem? The deeper problem, I think,...
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Between Breaths: What Breathwork Taught Me About Dying

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Breathwork has become one of the most grounding practices in my life. It’s something I return to again and again—not just to calm down or de-stress, but to remember who I am beneath the noise. When the world feels too loud, when my thoughts spiral, when I'm disconnected from my body, I turn to my breath. It never fails to bring me home. I usually follow along with guided sessions on YouTube. Some days I reach for the slower, more rhythmic practices—something gentle to quiet my nervous system. Other times I need something more intense and activating, like a holotropic-style session that shakes loose what’s buried under the surface. Whatever the method, there’s always a moment in the practice where something shifts: the mind drops, the body softens, and awareness deepens. Breathwork works because it speaks directly to the nervous system—bypassing the analytical mind and reaching into the deeper, somatic layers where fear, memory, and emotion are stored. It’s a practice of presence, ...
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