Spiritual Belly

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 ...

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 ...

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...

"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...