By the miracle of medicine and grace, my mother woke from the malaise of dementia. For two days, her quick mind was back. She laughed and shared stories. She hugged me and thanked me for taking care of her.
As I held this gift from out of the blue, I could hear my father’s voice clear and kind, how he wished it had been when he was alive. He said, “Everything I did was for Mom and you kids. When I got angry, I was angry at myself.”
What I had wanted to hear my whole life long has always been true. My father loved me. My mother loves me still.
It’s also true that their love was so hidden, so foreign, so unavailable to me, from a very young age that I believed what I feared: I’m not good enough to be loved.
But I don’t have to believe that fear anymore.
The fears that seem to separate me from You shall be transformed and disappear… they shall be gone as in a dream when I Awaken. –Psalm 63:9-11, Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying
Credits and References: Pink flower by Ester Marie Doysabas esterrestrial, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons “Revelation” by Esther Hizsa, 2025. Free parent holding child’s hand image, public domain CC0.
No one can near God unless He has prepared a bed for you. A thousand souls hear His call every second, but most every one then looks into their life’s mirror and says, “I am not worthy to leave this sadness.” –Teresa of Avila
You are worthy to leave this sadness, I hear God say to me in Teresa’s poem.
A cape of sadness slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor. I watch the trapped air dissipate until my sadness is inert.
I think about what makes me sad, who makes me worry, what feels impossible, unfair, losing battles and deep divides. Walk away from all that sadness, you say. You can trust that I will be there no matter what happens.
I try on trust, run my fingers over the smooth burgundy fabric.
I wrap it around me and read the poem again.
You prepare a bed for me . . . a bed in a room, a room in a house. Your house, my home. I live there with you. I have a place at the table. My chair scrapes the floor as I pull it back. I sit down, inch it forward, and see my reflection in my plate. I pick up my fork, my knife, turn it slowly in my hand. There I am again.
I belong. I belong. I belong. I belong. The words chug along like a hundred car train. I watch each car pass. “You belong” is painted on this car, and the next and the next and the next. My head moves back and forth, and back and forth until the words blur into one long ribbon of fact.
I imagine coming home to you, being greeted at the door, sitting on the porch swing, talking about my day. And you tell me every place is home because you are everywhere. Every community is home because you are in each member. I belong to my church, my neighbourhood, my friends, my family, the earth, the sky, and every living thing. I belong here because here is everywhere you call every second.
What do you call out? Come home. You are worthy to leave the sadness of believing you don’t belong.
Imagine living like you belong here. Now step into what you see. Live like you belong here.
It’s time to own your belovedness. –Sarah Kroger, Belovedness
At that time Jesus went through the grain fields on the Sabbath; his disciples were hungry, and they began to pluck heads of grain and to eat. When the Pharisees saw it, they said to him, “Look, your disciples are doing what is not lawful to do on the Sabbath.” He said to them, “Have you not read what David did when he and his companions were hungry? How he entered the house of God, and they ate the bread of the Presence, which it was not lawful for him or his companions to eat, but only for the priests? Or have you not read in the law that on the Sabbath the priests in the temple break the Sabbath and yet are guiltless? I tell you, something greater than the temple is here. But if you had known what this means, ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice,’ you would not have condemned the guiltless. For the Son of Man is lord of the Sabbath.” –Matthew 13:1-8 (NRSVUE)
I was hungry, and the wheat was ripe. So, I began picking and eating the chewy grains until I heard,
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My body seized with shame. I clutched the grains tighter, wishing they would vanish like a magician’s trick: when I opened my hands, the evidence would disappear.
I wished I could disappear.
“How can you call yourself a believer and do that?”
The man would have continued, but Jesus stepped between us, casting a cool shadow of safety over me.
“Haven’t you read….?” Jesus said, defending me. “Haven’t you heard…?” Jesus said, supporting me. “If you had known…” Jesus explained. Guilt and shame flew from my body, white doves flapping their wings and taking flight.
Speechless, my accuser went on his way.
Jesus turned to me. Sunlight bathed us in warmth.
“Open your hands,” he said. I did, revealing a few sweaty seeds. He reached out his hands and poured so many plump grains into my cupped hands, I couldn’t hold them all.
I felt the weight in my hands and the weight of what happened.
Then I knew why I was invited into this story, why I experienced it this way.
“You noticed I was bothered by the conversation I had yesterday, didn’t you.”
“Of course,” He said. “You felt judged and accused. You blew it off as nothing, but I didn’t.”
So then, a Sabbath rest still remains for the people of God. –Hebrews 4:9 (NRSVUE)
Credits and References: Disciples plucking grain by Meester van Antwerpen (1485-1491). From Look and Learn, Creative commons . Sabbath Rest by Esther Hizsa, 2025 Hand Through Wild Grass by Lloyd Morgan. Used with permission
Whoever has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them. –Mark 4:25 (NIV)
When I heard this scripture one morning, and thought about our generous God, I didn’t hear the word “even.” I heard, “Whoever does not have what they have will be taken from them.”
How is that possible? I wondered. If they have nothing–no sense of God’s love or light– there’s nothing to be taken away. Maybe what they have is blocking love and light? What if that’s what God wants to take away?
Ease washed over me. I knew it was true.
For weeks, I was trapped in the fear of making the wrong decision and being taken advantage of.
Then, after I risked asking all my questions and wearing thin someone’s patience, I completed my research, weighed my options, and made a decision to put my life in their hands.
When I did, I experienced such kindness, I wanted to cry.
Suddenly, my world got bigger. I saw more people in it. I found other questions to ask, other ways of thinking to explore.
I trusted someone, and I saw them do something beautiful with that trust.
I saw that they love to do beautiful things just like I do.
From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. –John 1:16 (NRSVUE)
My worrier works tirelessly, always watching, bracing for bad news, seeing the possibility of disaster, and pushing the panic button.
This fearful guardian has wearied me for as long as I can remember. But when I discovered, as Dorothy did in The Wizard of Oz, that the one doing all this work was not a formidable figure, my heart went out to her. She was just a little girl.
She stiffened when she heard my footfalls. “It’s only me,” I said softly.
I thanked her for working so hard to keep me safe and asked if she’d like me to take over for a while.
“How would it be if I drew a big circle around you and made sure no bad thing entered without my noticing and dealing with it.”
A stuffed mouse poked its nose out from under her knee. The bear in her hand looked down at the mouse and said, “That sounds wonderful.” Then, the monkey in her other hand swung down from the trees. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said.
“If anything comes to mind to worry about, let me know, and I’ll take care of it,” I said.
“She’ll take care of it,” the bear said to the monkey and the mouse.
“Yes, I’ve learned a lot from you. I will do my best to anticipate and prepare for what scares us. I’ll make a plan. You can offer your thoughts and leave it with me.”
“That would be nice,” agreed the monkey, surveying the circle I’d drawn.
“Okay then,” she said, looking at me.
In her eyes, I saw there was much the mouse, bear and monkey have seen and never told anyone, not even me.
In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety. –Psalm 4:8 (NIV)
Credits and References: Photo of girl from PxHere creative commons. A Circle of Safety by Esther Hizsa,2025. Mouse in a teacup by KR Alliance. Used with permission
The master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom asideand said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.”–John 2:9-10 (NIV)
You have saved the best till now.
In their old age, Sarah and Elizabeth gave birth, finally receiving their heart’s desire. Near the end of their lives, Anna and Simeon held God in their arms, their eyes finally seeing Your salvation.
In the midst of life, as it is with disappointments and losses, I gather the gifts You’ve given me in my old age, placing them around me as I did on Christmas morning when I was a child sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms around my knees.
My heart sings with wonder, delight and gratitude. Each gift tells me I’m loved and cared for.
You have turned my water into wine. You have saved the best till now.
See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. –Isaiah 43:19 (NIV)
Credits and References:: Stained glass, Jesus turns water into wine from Saint James the Greater Catholic Church (Concord, North Carolina) Wikimedia Creative Commons My Heart Sings by Esther Hizsa, 2025. 1 Samuel 1-20, Luke 1:5-25, Luke 2:22-38 Happy by David Robert Bliwas. Used with permission.
I sit down to pray disappointed that I didn’t have a better night’s sleep, frustrated that I still can’t get a handle on this.
Compassion comes out of hiding, slips in beside me, leans her head on my shoulder and strokes my arm.
In the quietness and comfort of her presence, I see the gift in the fears that are only heard at night. They warn me of what could happen or might be happening even now. They want me to do something to prevent this if I can. And, if I can’t, they want me to know that shocks and losses are hard. You don’t get over them easily.
I remember how Jesus slipped through the crowd that threatened to throw him off a cliff, walked right through them as if he parted the sea. But that doesn’t mean he slipped out of the hurt and betrayal without tears and sleepless nights afterwards. The neighbours he grew up with, the friends he played with, the same ones he built furniture for, accompanied in heartache, celebrated weddings and births with would rather kill him than believe he was a good person who was telling the truth.
In the light of day, with compassion beside me, I realize that sometimes the calm I feel in the daytime isn’t trust, it’s amnesia. I am at ease because I believe no big bad thing is happening to me right now and life will carry on this way.
Night fears awaken me to the reality that losses and shocks are coming. I am living, and my body is preparing to die.
“It’s true,” says compassion, squeezing my hand. “But, lo, I am with you always even unto the end of the world.”
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God. You are precious in my sight and honoured and I love you. –Isaiah 43: 2-4, adapted (NRSVUE)
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, left the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness,where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. –Luke 4:1,2 (NIV)
Three mornings in a row, I wake from vivid dreams of what I fear most.
Three mornings in a row, I close my eyes, still my body, and meet these ghostly fears in the wilderness with Jesus.
As we listen to the tempters, we notice a three-year-old behind them who has her back to us. She’s singing and playing in the sand. As we approach, she braces herself for an attack.
But when Jesus calls her name, she recognizes his voice. It’s his song she sings. He’s the invisible friend she plays with. She turns and runs into his arms.
This young part of me survived by turning stones into bread, bowing down to hate, and throwing herself off a cliff again and again.
He holds her. Tears stream down their cheeks. “I got lost,” she says. “Yes, and I found you,” he answers, stroking her delicate hair. “Would you like to come home with me?”
She feels her body soften.
“What’s your home like?” she asks as we walk.
“In my home, you can make mistakes, and don’t have to hide. When your sandcastle gets smashed, we build a better one, and if someone hates you, you don’t have to hate yourself. We laugh, sing, play and cry a lot.”
“Crybaby,” she says and pokes him.
“Uh-huh. I’m a crybaby, too.”
He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart. –Isaiah 40:11 (NIV)
Credits and References: Image of wilderness from PxHere Creative Commons. Cry Baby by Esther Hizsa, 2025 Painting of Jesus carrying a little girl by Christian Asuh
I’m more than a little nervous of what this new year might hold– so many uncertainties.
There’s no safety found in settling into what I can lose– my things, my body, my mind, my loves– though I won’t stop trying, and they need tending.
It’s good to know I can’t lose You. I can’t even lose me because I’m in You.
And so, while I still have a comfortable place to live, a functional body, a somewhat reliable mind, people to love, and work to do,
let me choose to begin each day in the quiet with You where I am seen, held, loved, secure and reassured that whatever happens, Your door is open and I don’t have to leave any part of myself outside.
Though we are beset with many fears that cause illness and troubles, The Beloved is ever ready to comfort us in our sorrows, To strengthen us on our soul’s journey to wholeness, The Beloved renews the life of all who surrender to Love. –Psalm 34:19-22, paraphrase by Nan C. Merrill, Psalms for Praying: An Invitation to Wholeness
Credits and References: Cardinal by Janet H. Used with permission. As a New Year Begins by Esther Hizsa,2025. Image of door by Arman Dzaferagic. Used with permission.
So many wonders I treasure in my heart. My soul magnifies the Lord. He has scattered the proud and lifted up the lowly!
I still find it hard to believe I was chosen to give birth to God-With-Us. The wonder of wonders I wake up to each day is that the Christ Child I hold, change and feed is here for a while.
The angel, Elizabeth, the shepherds, Simeon, Anna, and the Magi, all called me blessed. But when Herod’s men brought down their swords no one called me blessed, not now.
So many hardships came with my blessing– the noisy, scratchy, cold, stinky stable, Simeon’s pointed prediction that a sword would pierce my soul too. And it did, as we fled in the night, carrying the grief of the coming massacre, staving off guilt and responsibility on that slow, precarious journey to Egypt, arriving exhausted, alone and unknown, finding a home with words that met blank faces and ways that offend. We took any job, worked long and hard, only to be uprooted again and return to a place that doesn’t believe us.
I keep waiting for the suffering to end and fear the wonder will fade, but both are here for a while–
wonder and hardship my daily bread,
praise and lament my daily prayers.
Love is the root of all joy and sorrow. –Meister Eckhart (c. 1260 – c. 1328)
Credits and References: Virgin Mary with Jesus by Ignacy Gierdziejewski, National Museum in Warsaw from Creazilla Creative Commons Here for a While by E.Hizsa, 2024 The Flight into Egypt by James Tissot from the Brooklyn Museum Creative Commons.
An Everyday Pilgrim 