Maundy Thursday Worship
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And the steeple bell rang …
Frank, I really don’t think it’s a good idea to gather at the church. Yes, I know this is the holiest of weeks. You are correct. Easter is coming. Yes, I know you miss your church. Yes, I know you will take precautions. Oh, you have a mask. That’s good. And hand sanitizer? That’s great, but we need to keep our distance. Yes, I know you understand that. Yes, I heard you. I know it’s Holy Week. But to come to the church to ring the bell …
I was about to launch into my public service announcement about the need to stay home, especially as the COVID-19 virus began making itself known to our rural community, but I was interrupted.
“Pastor, I don’t think you understand,” Frank sighed. He sounded as exacerbated as I was with our phone conversation. “I need to hear our church bell ring.”
He was right. I didn’t understand about the bell. What I did understand was the seriousness of the virus coming to our rural community. While the cases being reported were still low in comparison to much more populated areas, they were inching upward. I knew behind the reports of cases would be the reports of deaths.
COVID-19 in rural communities
COVID-19 is just as challenging and deadly in rural America as it is in our cities — something city dwellers escaping to their country homes fail to recognize. Those who live in rural areas contend with the lack of medical care. Many rural hospitals have closed down over the years, leaving the closest medical facility an hour or so away. On top of that, America’s rural population falls in the COVID-19 vulnerable category — 65 and older and many with health concerns.
Frank is one of the vulnerable who is the sole caretaker for someone at home who is even more vulnerable. Yet he needed to ring the bell. What I lacked in understanding, I made up for in hearing, as I heeded the urgency in his voice. No matter how much I was against it, I felt compelled to concede to his wishes.
I made the hour’s drive to unlock the doors of the little church I serve nestled in New York’s Adirondacks on the border of Vermont. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw not just Frank’s car. There were others as well. Word got out that Frank was going to ring the bells and people came to hear. I feared what would happen next. They would get out of their cars intending to keep a safe distance from one another, and we all know how well that goes. Six feet quickly becomes a foot when the joy of seeing another takes hold.
As Frank made his way into the church, I jumped out of my car to control the “crowd.” It’s funny how four people constitutes a crowd these days. I remained as loving and as pastoral as I could as I reminded them to stay by their own cars.
Social gatherings part of rural fabric
For those who think rural America has it easier when it comes to social distancing, think again. Sure, we have wide open fields and mountain trails to roam. Our houses aren’t on top of one another and we can run to the farm up the road that has a fridge filled with goat cheese, fresh eggs and milk for sale.
The problem, though, with social distancing in rural America is not that we lack the physical space to spread out. The problem is that social distancing is not in our vocabulary. Rural America is a place where coming together isn’t an optional activity. It is a necessity. Coming together, being there in person for one another, holding a benefit dinner at the church, a bake sale at the school, a card game at the Grange or a good old-fashioned talent show at the old jailhouse that’s now a community center, is what rural living is all about. We don’t pull down the shade and turn off the lights when someone drops by unexpectedly. We just assume they will give quick tap on the door as they open it and walk in before being officially invited.
We don’t make excuses to get out of a dinner engagement. We find excuses for reasons to gather at the table to eat together.
Change is hard
And church? Church is where most of my tiny, older congregation go to find respite and connect. They are not into Zoom meetings. Some are trying. They are not too keen on Facebook live streaming for worship. I have wanted to try it, but with so few on Facebook, I hesitate. It’s not a great ego booster having two people viewing you when your clergy friends have 150 or more tuning in. I know. God doesn’t like ego and having two people watching me lead worship shouldn’t matter, even if one of them is your mom. Thanks, Mom.
I have to admit a bit of envy when I hear my colleagues having success with digital church, but I still deal with lagging internet here in the sticks. I have to admit I feel a bit of peer pressure to get the cameras rolling to worship — lagging internet or not — not wanting to be left out of this new wave of evangelism that has been long overdue.
And dare I whisper out loud what I think many rural pastors want to say — I feel overlooked by the larger church who yet again doesn’t understand that ministry in rural America is different. I want to hear someone say that it’s okay to snail mail the worship bulletin. I want to read stories about how powerful the antiquated phone tree can be to connect with the congregation.
I just don’t want everyone to assume that rural America is keeping up with how the pandemic is changing church as we know it. Because for my congregation, church at this moment still means finding peace and solace in a sanctuary that has been home for generations. It is familiar. It is comforting. And they deeply miss being able to congregate there. They are grieving in so many ways.
Social distancing in rural America isn’t easy. It’s like herding cats, I mused, as I waited for the bell to chime. I guess I was so absorbed by the thought of herding cats that I didn’t notice what was happening in the parking lot. The chatter among the folks gathered was joyous and when I looked up from my own grim thoughts, I noticed smiles on the faces of those still adhering to my stern “stay by your own car” warning.
And when the bell finally rang … and rang … and rang, the chatter stopped. All eyes looked up to the steeple. With each peal, smiles grew. I swear I saw eyes gaze beyond the weathered steeple, searching the heavens — for what I’m not sure of? An answer from God? A sign all will be well? A cry for help tucked inside a heart that has never been let out till now.
Bells are the voice of the church
For centuries, church bells have played a prominent role in communities serving as timekeepers, marking the hour for work, prayer or for coming together. Hearing church bells can make us stop what we are doing, cease the talking, and lead us into a much-needed space to reflect, to become prayerful.
As Frank rang the bell, a cloud of prayerfulness descended upon the parking lot and for a moment it felt as if we were in this divine group hug — all four of us still standing six feet away from one another.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once wrote that “bells are the voice of the church.”
Could it be that our bell that rang was a voice telling not only us, but our surrounding community, that our church was alive and well? Could it be that the bell was a voice we needed to hear during Holy Week, pealing with hope and promise? Could it be that while our little church wasn’t Zooming or Facebooking or streaming online, we still had the ability to witness to God’s glory through our bell?
The ringing stopped. All that was left was a reverberating in my body. Folks got into their cars. Motors started up and one by one they went back home to shelter in place. I lingered, staring into the sky beyond the steeple. I never thought ringing the church bell could be so healing nor did I ever think that it would be a wonderful way to connect the congregation and the community.
Frank needed to hear the church bell ring. Those in the congregation needed to hear the “voice” of the church chime with its message of life and vitality. Frank was right. I didn’t understand. I do now.
Donna Frischknecht Jackson is editor of Presbyterians Today magazine. A former New York City editor, she now lives in Vermont where she is a part-time pastor of a church in Putnam, New York. When not trying to “herd cats” she shoots devotional videos at her home she calls “Old Stone Well Farm.” This article was featured on the Presbyterians Today’s blog.
No Palms, No Problem
Today is Palm Sunday, and it looks differently and feels differently from any other Palm Sunday I can remember. There will be no traditional palm fronds for me to wave. No congregation to wave them with.
Instead, I walk around the farm searching for something green, something that resembles a palm, so that I could place myself in the narrative of that very first Palm Sunday. So that I could stand in solidarity with my ancient brothers and sisters and greet my Redeemer King who rides into the Holy City of Jerusalem.
Yes, I know that Holy City will be anything but holy as this week progresses. Our fears and insecurities and doubts will do their best to shadow God’s blinding and beautiful hope…but hope will shine on.
I can’t find anything comes close to a palm frond, let alone any green branch to wave. Nature is still slumbering here in Vermont. There are only a few buds on the trees and the seemingly fragile shoot of tulips and daffodils are just now peeking from the ground.
And so, with no palms or branches of any kind in my hand, I stand in my field and search deep down inside for a sweet hosanna to sing.
Hosanna…hosanna…blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna.
The search seems futile. I hear no praises coming forth, just laments. Friends are getting sick. Hospitals are filled to the max. Loved ones are dying. Jobs are being lost.
Hosanna…hosanna…
This Palm Sunday looks differently from others. This Palm Sunday feels differently than others. And that’s a good thing. For this Palm Sunday is truly bringing me into the narrative with my ancient brothers and sisters. And whether we have palm fronds in our hands or not, we do stand in solidarity with those who first greeted the Savior riding in on a humble donkey.
Like them, we stand on the side of a road filled with troubles and turmoils, and we join the ancient cry. “Hosanna!,” which means “save us.”
Yes, save us, God. Save us from this pandemic. Save us from ourselves. Save us from our doubts. Save us from our insecurities. Save us from our greed. Save us from our fears.
Save us from our preference to live in darkness, and bring us into the light of your Son, Christ, our Lord.
With no palms in my palm this Palm Sunday, I lift my hands up to the sky, pleading and praising. And I continue my walk onward.
Worship at Old Stone Well Farm
Have you ever heard yourself say “someday I will …”
Take piano lessons.
Learn how to paint.
Master a new language.
Someday …
Today that someday has arrived. If these last few weeks have taught as anything it is the truth that we are not promised forever. So why put off doing the things that give us joy?
I share with you a recent passion of mine that has given me peace and that has provided me with that sacred space for grace that I just couldn’t seem to find.
I have always been fascinated with all things relating to 18th century America — from the architecture of the houses to open hearth cooking techniques to the clothing that was worn.
Recently, I reconnected with my younger self, the self that loved the history of fashion. I began researching what the clothing worn in the 18th century told the world about a person, their status in life, the role they played in society, their ancestral heritage, etc. I also began exploring the fabric available and dyes that were used as well as the actual piecing of the garment, which included stitching techniques I had never heard of before.
And so I began the challenging project of constructing an English round gown (circa 1760-70’s) using a period correct pattern that involves draping the gown on the actual person, and then stitched by hand. Now, being that I am not an expert seamstress, this project has been difficult at times. I have ripped out the stitches of the sleeve four times before finally mastering the right amount of gathering at the shoulder. The gown you see in this video is a prototype. I figured I should to a trial run first.
As you join me for this reflection, I invite you to think about that someday project you thought you didn’t have time for or which might have seemed ridiculous, um, like this gown I am making. I mean, really now, where will I ever wear this 18th century dress?
Still, this project has brought back memories of my mom who, when I pouted because she didn’t buy that Barbie doll wedding dress I wanted because it was too pricey for the flimsy garment that it actually was, gave me a needle, thread and material and encourage me to design my own dress for the doll. It was that moment I felt this amazing sense of accomplishment.
This project has brought me back to the who God made me to be. It has made me realize there is more to this life that we are not living. Isn’t it time to live? To dream again? To create?
I hope you enjoy this time together.
Drop me a note. I would love to hear what someday projects you are making into today projects.
Blessings,
Donna
Worship at Old Stone Well Farm
A message from March 13, 2020.
Our Shakespeare Moment
I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. It wasn’t because I was just so comfortable that I wanted to remain put a bit longer. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to disturb my two cats who found their way upstairs and decided to purr contently in the mess of blankets that I burrowed into more deeply on this chilly spring morning. It wasn’t because I really needed the extra rest. It wasn’t any of this. 
I couldn’t get out of bed this morning because I was scared of the news this day would bring. I was feeling helpless that I couldn’t do anything for others in this time of pandemic, except isolate myself from them. And, I was feeling a deep mourning that I never expected to feel. I was mourning the loss of my creativity.
Since the virus known as COVID-19 entered our lives, I have not been able to concentrate on reading, praying and worst of all, writing. And I feel lost. Words have always been my closet friends — there for me when I grieved, when I rejoiced, when I needed to vent, when I needed to speak up for justice, to get a point across or to comfort others. But now my “friends” have decided to social distance themselves from me.
This should be my moment to shine, shouldn’t it? To be a voice of hope and faith — of certainty in God’s goodness — in this time of uncertainty. It has been said that during times of crisis in history — even plagues— that great literary works have been written and songs composed. Artists were changed by the crisis — moved, touched and ultimately inspired.
Take for example, William Shakespeare.
At the end of the 16th century, a plague forced the closing of all theaters in London, similar to the lights currently going black on New York’s Broadway. Not being able to produce plays, Shakespeare turned to poetry. When theaters reopened, Shakespeare was back to writing his plays. But in the summer of 1606, at the very height of a successful theatrical season that included productions of King Lear and Macbeth, the flag was lowered at the Globe theater. The doors were locked. London was locking down as the plague had returned. It was a devastating time of uncertainty — and of death. Yet, Shakespeare biographers purport that this time shaped the future writings of this great literary genius in amazing ways. The death, the devastation, the darkness deepened his views of the world around him, added richness to his words.
I wonder, is this our time to be changed — to go deeper than we have ever gone before in how we understand the world, humanity, life, love and death? Is this time of social uprooting due to a virus named COVID-19 not just a temporary inconvenience, but a time to plant new roots in richer soil? To not be afraid to change direction and to go from plays to poetry; from traditional Sunday worship to video devotionals; to go from what we thought we should do to what we always dreamt of doing?
Could it be that our change in our daily routines — not being able to go to the office, or the gym or church as we once did — is pointing us to a new life that is less busy and less stressed?
Is this the much needed, and long overdue, moment to have our priorities called into question? Did we get fooled into a sense of security because our financial portfolios were doing well? Did we really understand the problems in our society what were kept in the shadows of our own contentment, our own needs, our own wants?
Perhaps this is our Shakespeare moment in which we have been invited to finally see the world for what it is — broken, hurting and unjust for many. Perhaps this is our Shakespeare moment not necessarily to have our creativity soar to new heights so that our words and ideas take centerstage for worldly accolades, but to step back and allow death, devastation and darkness the opportunity to deepen our worldview, our faith, our lives — no matter how painful or uncomfortable that will be.
Perhaps this is our Shakespeare moment in which when this crisis passes — and it will — a new richness will bless our lives. Richness beyond material things. Richness of resiliency. Richness of rest. Richness of rejoicing. Richness that comes when we lean fearlessly into the words spoken at the start of the Lenten season that from dust we come and to dust we return.
I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. I was feeling overwhelmed. My inner Shakespeare just didn’t want to pick up the quill to write. And that’s okay. This is not a time to shine. This is a time to ponder, a time to pray, a time to prepare for the great works that are to come from a crisis that is changing my heart — and yours.
Donna Frischknecht is editor of Presbyterians Today magazine. She is also a part-time rural pastor serving a congregation in upstate New York on the border of Vermont.
Snow for Sofie
Even though I walk through the darkest valley … you are with me. — Psalm 23
It is Lent and I have found myself walking in one of the darkest valleys one can walk — the valley of death.
My journey started three days before Ash Wednesday, that day on the calendar in which ashes made from last year’s palms, burnt and crushed, are smudged into the shape of a cross on the foreheads of the faithful as the words “from dust we come, to dust we return” are spoken.
As a pastor, I have noticed Ash Wednesday worship attendance tends to be low. Perhaps it’s because of the somber message that life isn’t infinite that keeps people from packing the pews. I mean, really, who wants to hear such news?
I believe, though, that we need to be reminded that there is an expiration date so that we can live our days, hopefully, in a better way. Live our days filled with more grace, more love and more patience. But especially filled with what I call “one mores.”
One more hug. One more kiss. One more “I love you.” One more of all the good things that bring joy into the world.
In the case of my 10-year-old bumbling Bernese Mountain dog, Sofie, those “one mores” were one more scoop of vanilla ice cream, one more tummy rub on her chubby, jiggly belly, and one more snuggle on the wonky quilt I made years ago that would become her favorite blanket.
One more …
“God give me the strength to get through tonight.”
That was my fervent prayer to God as I tried to remain compose as I smudged blob-like ash crosses and talked about returning to dust to those who came for Ash Wednesday worship at the little country church I serve. But each time my thumb dipped into the ashes, I thought of the insidious lump that appeared suddenly on Sofie’s hind leg. I could hear the vet’s grim diagnosis. Cancer. Aggressive. 
“How much time will I have with her?” I asked. The vet couldn’t say.
And so, it began. The walk through the darkest of valleys, with me by Sofie’s side filling her limited days with “one mores.”
Her days were filled with vanilla ice cream. Lots of it. My husband worried it was too much, which sounded foreign to me. Is there such a thing as too much ice cream?
There were plenty of tummy rubs as well, and snuggles on the quilt. There was, however, one more “one more” I wanted for Sofie.
“Please God, one more snowfall.” She was a mountain dog, after all, tracing her lineage back to the Swiss Alps. (And no, I did not do a DNA test on her, even though, there are now ancestry kits for pets.)
Three weeks into her diagnosis, on the first day of spring, I looked into Sofie’s gentle brown eyes. I had to break the news to her that it looked like she wasn’t going to get another snowfall.
“Sof,” as I often called her, “we’ll have to deal with mud season. Sorry, pup.”
She stared back at me. Her gentle brown eyes were sorrowful. I held her tightly and cried. She wasn’t bothered by the lack of snow. She was telling me it was time for her to go.
One more scoop of ice cream. One more rub of the tummy. One more snuggle on the quilt before packing it — and Sofie — into to the car and on to the vet.
“I am not surprised to see Sofie,” the vet said as she came into the exam room. Her eyes welled up with tears. “I had a dream about her last night.”
Any doubt or hesitation that I was doing the right thing for Sofie evaporated and was replaced with a sense of peace. The vet’s dream was to me a God moment, that holy split second when you suddenly become so aware of God’s presence that you crumple on your knees in awe and humble praise. And with that, I crumpled onto the floor by Sofie who was already curled up on her quilt.
One more stretch of road to walk on in this dark valley with my dear friend. Only this time, I would have to part with her. I would have to trust God, let go of her paw and allow her to journey on to her forever home.
One more hug. One more kiss. One last “I love you.”
What would life be like if we lived each day showering those we love with “one mores”? What would happen if we stopped worrying about one more deadline, one project, one more bill to pay? How brighter would our days be if we made “one mores” a priority? One more meal with friends. One more phone call to aging parents.
One more.
It’s snowing today — in spring. Not unusual for Vermont. But still. It’s snowing on what is the first day I face without my bumbling Bernese Mountain dog by my side. 
I prayed for snow, and here it is. A day late.
Or is it?
It is one more snowfall coming from the heavens. It is Sofie’s “one more” gift to me, letting me know she’s happy. She’s whole. She’s dancing with the angels in the snow I had wanted for her. And each wet flake falling on my face is her lick of love, wiping away my tears.
May these days in Lent — and beyond — be filled with many “one mores” and then some.
After Sunday Thought… I See Failure; God Sees Success
Have you ever failed at something? Made a mistake? Messed up a project?
Of course you have. You’re only human. That’s why I loved yesterday’s scripture from Mark where Jesus returns to his hometown to preach only to find that he isn’t warmly welcomed. On the surface you can say that he was a big flop.
Soon after the synagogue debacle, though, we don’t see Jesus rethinking his life’s call, giving up on the mission of radical love and welcome. Rather, we see him move forward. This time, sending out his friends, two by two, to go to the towns and stay in homes to share the good news. And knowing that sometimes life brings rejection, he tells his friends, don’t let it get you down. You have something to offer. You have been called to do a job. You are part of God’s bigger plan. Just shake off the dust from your sandals and move on. There’s no time to waste; there are others to reach.
There really isn’t time to waste wallowing in our failure or rejection, for when something doesn’t go the way we had hoped or we don’t the results of our labor, it isn’t the end of the world. In fact, it could be God’s way of redirecting us — for example, those in the synagogue won’t receive you, then go out to those in the streets.
I have a chicken coop I’ve been trying to build for a year now. My father began the project last summer, but it was put on hold in the fall because of my indecisiveness as to how to side the walls. I wanted weathered barn boards, but they are wicked expensive to buy and I haven’t come across any old barns that have fallen down lately.
During this time of searching for siding alternatives, two major windstorms blew the coop over. By the second storm, I felt crushed thinking I would probably have to give up on the dream of having chickens. I really thought about dismantling the structure, but something urged me on. Once again, I cajoled my husband into helping me hoist the sad looking coop upright. And there it sits.
Somedays I stare out the kitchen window at this “failure” and I get down about it. Other days, though, I see these delays in finishing the coop as blessings because the reality is I don’t have time to tend to chickens. The failed chicken coop is starting to look more like a rustic shed for my garden tools.
I have always joked in my life that if Plan A doesn’t work, I am okay because there was a Plan B, a Plan C, a Plan D. I vowed I would never fret until I got to Plan Z. Why? Because I have learned that God has a beautiful way of guiding us. All the times I thought I have failed, I actually found myself stepping onto a new and better path.
And here’s the other thing with “failure.” It really isn’t what it seems to be because God sees things differently. God, who is a redemptive God, can take a mess and bless it.
I overheard a conversation on a shuttle bus to the airport recently. A woman asked a man sitting next to her what he did for a living. He led Christian retreats at a conference center. The woman was excited because she had attended that center years ago. She then went on to tell how one speaker she heard changed her life forever. It led her to give her life to Christ, to go into Christian publishing to spread the good news and, subsequently, because of the path she was now on, her sister was so inspired that she became a missionary. The woman was quiet after sharing the story and then said, “Now that I think about it, that retreat saved me.”
I was startled when I saw the man getting teary-eyed and wondered what was going on? I soon found out as he replied, “I led that retreat and I thought it was the biggest failure of my life. I was so depressed afterwards and found myself rethinking everything.”
A failure isn’t a failure — with God. Just take a look at Jesus. It seemed to everyone — even his friends — that his ministry failed that day he was nailed to the cross. But it didn’t. It was just starting.
So the next time you think you really screwed up or feel you are a hopeless cause or start believing you have no worth at all in this world, think again. God sees things differently. God sees blessings in messes. God brings holy successes out of our human failures.
Now, shake off the dust. You have a beautiful life to live — and I have a chicken coop, um, I mean garden shed, to finish.
Failures aren’t what they seem. Take for instance, my chicken coop. Blown over by high winds twice and still not finished, the delays have made me realize, I really don’t have time to raise chickens. I do, though, need a place to store my garden tools.
After Sunday Thought…
As a pastor, I find myself pondering yesterday’s sermon on what is supposed to be my sabbath — Monday. The sabbath rest never seems to come as there’s always something needing to be done, among them, planning for next Sunday’s worship.
But before I can even be opened to what God is preparing me to say, I need to stop replaying yesterday’s sermon in my head. Yes, I do that.
I have a pastor friend who once told me after said she preaches, it is completely out of her mind. She doesn’t fixate on the perfect quote she wanted to share that she left out. She doesn’t harp on the words she tripped over or the moment she lost her train of thought. She doesn’t even replay the rare and glorious moment when the most heavenly prose comes from her mouth. She prepares. She prays. She proclaims. And when it’s over, she proceeds to her much-need Sunday afternoon nap. By Monday, she is ready to move on.
Ah, to be like her. But I am not. So I invite you to join me for today’s “after Sunday” thought that has been on my mind. Here it is:
While preaching on the woman who pushed through the crowds to touch the hem of Jesus’ robe in order to be made whole, I got to thinking.
We are all that woman in the crowd, aren’t we? We all want to be healed of something, be it physical or emotional. We want to have hope for tomorrow. We want to stop feeling defeated, left out or unloved.
Yes, I’m in the crowd trying to hold on to a faith that urges me on with a beautiful realization that even if I am able to touch just a thread of Jesus’ hem, that would sufficient. I don’t need the whole hem.
I’m in the crowd. You’re in the crowd. So are your friends. And the one you love to hate. She’s next to the one who betrayed you.
The immigrant is there, too, holding the hand of a child who is crying. Both are scared. It’s an uncertain future, who wouldn’t be crying? Yet, there is a thread of a holy hem to touch. It’s so close. Reach. Stretch. Do whatever you can to get to it, but please don’t give up.
The person who doesn’t look like you, yep, he is standing right next to you in the crowd. Don’t sigh and get annoyed. He has every right to be there. The one who doesn’t speak English is pressing in as well. The gay, the lesbian, the transgender — they are all there with that woman Scripture tells us about. The woman society deems not worthy of being called by name. The woman Jesus sees as worthy and, as such, claims her name. “Daughter.”
So since we are all in that crowd reaching for the holy hem, let us not trip one another up. Let us not shove one another aside because we think them not worthy. Let us not elbow the other out of the way, because we want Jesus all to ourselves.
Rather, let us lock arms with one another and push toward a better life — a beloved community — together. For there is enough grace, love, help, support, healing — there’s enough Jesus — for all.
I come to the garden…just one of the many places on Old Stone Well Farm where I can be still and ponder my many ‘after Sunday’ thoughts.
Chalk Drawings in the Rain
Life has been busy for this Accidental Country Pastor. Preaching and pastoring at the “little white church” in a rural upstate New York village — and now, in addition to that church, moderating and preaching once a month in a little country church in Poultney, Vermont.
But I have been missing you — and everyday I think of you and so badly want to reconnect and share with you the adventures of being surprised by those beautiful God moments that happen each and everyday. Beautiful God moments that I see in the setting sun over Sofie’s Hill here in my home in Vermont. Beautiful God moments in the song of praise that reaches my ear in the way of my neighbor’s cows mooing. Beautiful God moments I experience in the fears and tears — and joys and hope — in congregations that are small in number but great in Spirit. God moments I treasure as I work in the church at large as editor of my denomination’s magazine, realizing that while we tend to complain a lot about things not being what they once were, God is indeed leading us to the what can be. God moments like the one I just had at a writer’s conference I was speaking at in New Jersey at New Brunswick Theological Seminary, where I was reminded once again that the gifts God gives to us need to be used. And so, I’ve missed you and I’ve missed sharing God with you through my writings.
So for now, as I work on this Sunday’s sermon and edit stories for the magazine (not to mention the weeds that need pulling in my little 18th century-inspired herb and flower garden and the chicken coop that still needs to be finished!), I share with you my recent editorial that ran in Presbyterians Today magazine.
Simply click here:
Until the next God moment…remember to take a look around and see the beauty of God that is right before you. For God is always there with you. Always.
Blessings,
Donna
accidental country pastor 