Read: Mark 6:30–32 Recently, while helping organize ministry work, I felt overwhelmed by how much there was to do. There were responsibilities to clarify, people to support, and plans to put on paper. Each conversation revealed more that needed attention. The work mattered, and it would take time. That experience brings me back to a question at the heart of Come to the Table: Lord, what have You actually entrusted to me? It is a question worth asking before our hands are full

Bread for the Journey Read: Matthew 6:25–34 Some mornings, tomorrow arrives before we have finished today’s coffee. We think about the conversation we need to have, the person we cannot fix, the decision we cannot yet make. Before the day has begun, we are already carrying what might happen next week. In Matthew 6, Jesus directs our attention to the birds and the flowers. He reminds us that our Father knows what we need. Then He calls us back to today. There are responsibilit

Why I Started Writing to God There's a particular quiet in a hospital hallway at 2 a.m. I spent enough years in them — first as a nurse, later walking those same halls as an executive with a badge that opened more doors but somehow made me feel less useful — to know that quiet well. It's not peaceful. It's the kind of quiet that presses in on you until you have to say something, to someone, even if you're not sure anyone's listening. That's where my first letter to God happen

I used to think joy was something you earned. That if you prayed hard enough, served enough people, said yes to enough needs, eventually God would hand you joy the way you'd hand a patient their discharge papers — a reward for having done everything right. It never did. What followed was exhaustion wearing the mask of faithfulness. It took a long time, and a fair amount of God gently taking things out of my hands, to understand what I'd gotten backward. Joy wasn't waiting at

My father used to say that faithfulness wasn't loud. He'd know. He left a small village in the Sfakia region of Crete with almost nothing — no money, no promises, more grief behind him than most people carry in a lifetime — and he never once told his story as though it were dramatic. He just kept showing up. Every day, for the rest of his life. That was his whole theology, really, though he never would have called it that: you show up, and you trust God with the rest. I didn'