Have you ever tried to create something out of nothing?
I usually avoid anything of the sort.
Even with my family, which is perhaps the greatest creation of my life, I cannot say I created them out of nothing. The entire time, I referenced the love and nurture that went into making me.
I remember being a 22-year-old new hire for a campus ministry organization. I resented being placed on a campus where I would have to (re)create something from near nothing. While I met some beautiful people who have enriched my life, the process of it was nearly soul-crushing for me.
Similarly, creating a life in California without any roots here has been a constant struggle. I find myself constantly comparing it to where I was from and the circle that surrounded my life until I left.
Last year, I took a pilgrimage. More than two years into leaving the old, I needed a break from the work of creating from nothing, to rest and make space in my lungs for deep breaths.
On the other side of that pilgrimage I have become something new and I have made something new. Both were processes already unfolding, but the trip was something of a marker.
The last pieces of the old were tearing away and needed to release in order for me to take flight.
When I finished climbing Croagh Patrick, a 4.3-mile ascent and the most challenging part of our journey, I was met with the news that my husband had planned a surprise for me. He gave me the chance to choose a piece of art in a studio near our accommodations in Westport.
This was an especially sweet surprise because he was not on the trip. He had worked from home with multiple accomplices to determine the best time and place on the journey around the Emerald Isle to give me a special souvenir.
On his end, the details were flawless. On our end, as pilgrims, our legs were jello, my sweat was stinky, and I had less than an hour to get to the art studio and choose a piece of art. Still jet-lagged and constantly on the move, I had not yet had the opportunity to really take in Ireland and consider how I wanted to remember it. The limitations forced me to make a quick decision in the moments before the studio closed.
I thought of what Tracey, my leadership coach, had said about other decisions.”Go with your first instinct.” She was reminding me to trust my gut.
It seemed silly, but my instinct was drawn to a woodcut hot-air balloon with the words “Up, up, and away in my beautiful balloon.” Apparently, it is a lyric from The 5th Dimension, a band I had never heard of. It was the colors, the fun and whimsy, and perhaps, subconsciously, this idea of taking flight that caught my eye.
I was ready to take flight, to leave behind the things that we were weighing me down. To launch ahead with my new endeavors unencumbered, embracing the process of creating from nothing.
And thankfully, by God’s grace, it’s not nothing anymore.
You are at the time in your life where you are exploring what you believe, piecing your world together as it expands and grows.
My precious daughter, ever since you were born, we aspired to teach you many things so you could grow into your full, beautiful self as a child of God. In some areas we succeeded and, in others, we missed the mark. I am sorry. I seek your forgiveness and I am trusting God to cover my failures.
I just want you to know while you launch into adulthood at this unstable time in the history of our country, and, by extension, the world, that the choices are not what you think they are. It may look like there are two paths in front of you: one involves sticking with Christianity and buying into things that seem wrong, and the other involves taking the values of Christianity and turning away to do what is right. Even so, there is a somewhat hidden path if you choose to seek it. It is going to be increasingly hard for young women like you to see it and hear it because of the forces obscuring it, but it is the truth that we have most wanted you to know. It is the path of Christ. I understand why you do not want anything to do with what you see around you, but what you see is not who he is.
Since humankind was created, God’s disposition toward his children was not to force them into loving him. We have always had a choice. This tells us something about how God uses his power. He wants relationship and not dictatorship. So when he sent his son Jesus into the world as God in the flesh, it is no wonder that Jesus abided by the same standards. The Bible tells us that Jesus had all the powers of God available to him, but he did not use them to coerce people to follow him, glorify himself through show, or overturn oppressive empire.
Of all the ways that God could choose to come to earth, he sent Jesus as a simple boy born to a no-name family, who grew up to be an offbeat Jewish rabbi with great compassion, supernatural authority, and divine insight. Instead of instigating a bloody revolution or demanding allegiance to himself, he taught the secret of the kingdom, which required people to draw near with openness and curiosity in order to behold that which is hard to see. He preached that happiness came through meekness, peace, righteousness, and suffering for God. He drew from a deep well of truth that was other worldly, but he walked in the nitty gritty of the world, touching untouchable lepers, the bleeding, dead, and demonized people.
Christ’s most powerful action was his unjust death at the cross, which he willingly submitted himself to without a fight. Because of his sacrifice and his resurrection, death in this world is life in the next. None of his followers had to fear death when they were martyred by earthly powers. After Christ, no king could terrify Christ-followers because they lived unto a heavenly kingdom rather than waiting for an earthly one.
You told us the other day you passed someone on campus who was yelling about salvation with big giant signs and you argued with them. You may not be following Jesus yet with your life yet, but you know him. You know the kind of person he is. You can identify fruitless things done in his name and the kinds of things that represent his character.
What concerns me is that culture is splitting things in a way that makes you think you have to choose. You do not need to choose between forceful governmental Christianity and a Christ-less path. You can cling to the true Christ and his ways in the midst of this broken world.
Your dad and I have watched generations of students deconstruct the parts of cultural Christianity that are off track, but it has broken our hearts when they lose their desire to connect with Christ altogether. My prayer for you and all our students and friends is that Christ will not be lost in the midst of this culture war. At least my confidence is in this–even if you lose him, he will not lose you.
What I am trying to say is that the forces making choices today in our world in the name of Christ are not necessarily representing Christ. Christianity means to follow Christ and Christ did not assume a position of controlling the government for greater influence or usurping government powers. Christ led the way for us to follow, despite these systems. His very being goes against all systems of earthly power and control. The greatest resistance to all forms of evil was laying down his life.
So, please, don’t think you have to reject Christ because of the mislabeling happening in society right now. Christian Nationalism is a co-opting of the symbols of Christ for national power and domination, two things Christ had no interest in. Christ is still the most powerful antidote to all the powers of darkness in this world. He disarms them through his refusal to wield power the way institutions and leaders are tempted to.
So Christ is for you, not only because you are a young woman and the gospels show us so many cultural and religious-upset moments where he crossed barriers to give women dignity and honor, but because history will show that the powerful cannot advance Christ’s cause in the way that the meek can. Your instincts are correct. The trick is to resist using earthly powers to counter the ones you face in your generation.
In seminary, I learned some things of particular importance now.
Weak Vessels Can Display Christ’s Power
The way Jesus came into and left the earth is just as important as who he was and what he did. It’s not an accident that he came and left humbly and vulnerably. As a gospel minister I will resist all forms of power that invoke the name of Jesus while acting contrary to his very essence. The Bible is clear that we are made strong in our weakness. Weak or meek vessels are the only vessels that can cooperate with and be filled by the supernatural power of God. There’s a lot of pressure to be a strong woman, but there was nothing wrong with our innate vulnerabilities in the first place. God can use those over and above the strength of men.
Earthly Dominions Contradict Christ’s Power
Every time Christianity is combined with government power it is a disaster for Christianity. When Constantine did this it was called Christendom. It probably looked like a great idea to make an empire Christian, but government power and Christianity are like oil and water. They cannot go together. They do not make sense together. If you put them together, you lose the essence of Christ and his kingdom entirely. You have grown something in the name of Jesus, but you have not allowed the Spirit to grow the Church, which happens through conditions of desperation, persecution, and clinging to Christ in our broken world.
A lot of Christians are afraid of what students like you will learn in university to undo the Christianity we have tried to put inside of you. I know God is bigger than that. I just want to make sure that when you learn these truths about Christianity getting mixed in with power, you do not miss Christ. Christ is there on campus. He loves you and the students there. He invites you to something life-giving, freeing, and true.
He will find you.
*A letter to my daughter coming of age in our culture wars. Written in early 2025 during her freshman year.
One Friday in mid-December, I spent an afternoon in Manhattan Beach while waiting for my daughter to land at LAX for her three-week semester break. Just a few days prior, my new spiritual director had encouraged me to squeeze in a half-day of quiet retreat. I designated this waiting time as such, bringing along a book, my Bible, and a journal, and planting myself for a couple of hours at a cozy cafe.
During my time in the cafe, three separate Gen Z employees paused an extra minute while waiting on my table and asked me about the Bible in front of me. I found it noteworthy. (Especially so because I had already paid the tip at the counter, so there is no chance they were trying to butter me up.)
Late that afternoon, I picked up my daughter, and the app we were using mapped us on a two-hour drive through side streets, avoiding accidents and backups on the freeways. My daughter was, understandably, in decompression mode. She processed aloud about her stressful week — finals, packing, and traveling through one of America’s worst airports.
As we slowly made our way through neighborhoods, making small talk, I mentioned my unusual encounter in the day — people her age asking me about the Bible in Manhattan Beach. “Well, isn’t that pretty close to Trump country?” she asked. (The answer is not quite – only 33% voted for him. Her impression likely comes from further down the coast, toward Orange County, where the wealthy “Beach Cities” are notoriously Republican, particularly Huntington Beach. Several megachurches and ministry movements exist there, and it’s not uncommon to see beach rallies for Jesus as well as MAGA flags and MAGA hats, not necessarily sponsored by the same organizations.)
“Mom,” she said, about to provide a humbling contrast, “at my school, no one goes up to talk to the Christian club table.” I was not surprised. My husband and I have been lifelong campus ministers between us. I am familiar with the religious context of the Pacific Northwest, where she attends school. It is described by sociologists of religion as the most secular and post-Christian region in the US. Beyond that, I have many experiences of sitting at such a table. It’s not unusual to spend a day receiving minimal interest.
I admitted to her that being approached in the cafe in Manhattan Beach felt a bit like traveling back in time, perhaps to the late 90s when I was a student on campus. We chuckled a bit, acknowledging how times change and the distance between our experiences.
But the truth is, both ends of the spectrum represented by our two anecdotes seem to be true at once. Some Gen Z folks are adopting expressions of faith that closely reflect my experience in the 90s (Bible study, church groups, worship nights, camps/conferences). There is a resurgence that is still small, but significant. At the same time, the more broadly known trend of disengagement and disinterest in institutional faith still exists, particularly for those tracking politics or trends of abuse.
What unfolded in our car conversation is at the very heart of what can be seen among young people in the United States in 2026.
Developing Integration
With no better prospects for conversation on this long car ride, my daughter sat back and, with all the confidence of a 19-year-old who just received tens of thousands of dollars of public university education, used an inquisitive but strong voice. “Ok, Mom, what I don’t get is how some people think that Christianity is a justification for doing all kinds of bad things.” In her question, which has been asked by generations of students, she means racism, sexism, bigotry, homophobia, xenophobia, authoritarianism, colonialism, genocide, and more.
My specific answer is refined by over two decades of experience with young adults in such conversations. “Well,” I said. “They take a seed of an idea from Christianity and use it to have power over others.”
I relished her openness to discuss this with me. After all those years of working with students, having hard conversations together, mine was finally letting me use my hard-earned skills instead of dismissing me as the annoying, irrelevant parent.
“Ok, that actually makes sense,” she said.
(Gasp!)……
We were having our first grown-up conversation. She was integrating her upbringing with her current self and it was satisfying to behold. I can’t tell you how often I doubted this day would ever come.
I felt permission in the pause between us, so I continued.
“You know, Jesus is the exact opposite of all that…”
“…Jesus did not use force or that kind of power, but instead came as a baby. Many expressions of Christianity may mess this up, but this aspect of Jesus is why I would choose to follow him every time.”
She gave a subtle nod.
“Mom,” she added with a perfect blend of respect and sass, “don’t let this go to your head…”
(I paused, held my breath. Kept my focus on the road.)
“…you and Dad already prepared me for school, and the types of conversations we have there.”
When she elaborated about learning to be a critical thinker, I was pleased. I might have expected her to mention all our deep ethical conversations on morning commutes or around the dinner table. Instead, she led with, “All those audiobooks you used to play for your book club when I was in middle school…they exposed me to thinking about things.”
What she is describing surprised me a little. This was a book club of public school moms who shared an interest in fiction and memoirs that touched on family, identity, and culture. When I played Trevor Noah’s Born a Crime in our minivan while driving to art lessons, basketball practice, and the orthodontist, I did not expect this to come back to me as my first parental appreciation moment. Nonetheless, I can see how these storytellers and their stories introduced new worlds and concepts in an accessible way. After all, we discovered in early elementary school that she’s a very strong audio learner.
The conversation continued. It was going so well, I couldn’t resist.
“You know, that’s why your dad and I liked our college fellowship and made a career out of it,” I replied. “Because it was a place to grow in your faith while also doing critical thinking as a college student. The two were not at odds.”
“That makes sense,” she affirmed.
She seemed to be getting a glimpse of who we are and how we raised her while she said it.
What a gift.
Two Trends at Once
In the bigger picture of the United States, there is a reported resurgence of church attendance among Gen Z. I believe it because I have former colleagues I trust who have firsthand witness to it. Some say it’s the first spiritual swell since COVID, filling campus ministry Fall Conferences. Still, the overwhelming majority of kids raised in the pews are more like the university students my daughter described, averse to organized religion and not wanting to approach the Christian club table. Two-thirds raised in church don’t stick. How do we explain the stark contrast she and I discussed in the car that day?
In 2019, I attended a summit where we heard predictions about Gen Z. We anticipated they might feel drawn to spirituality in a structured form. Our guest speaker, who video-called in from Australia, cited Benedictine rhythms, such as the “rule of life,” as a possible draw. Predictions are only predictions, and none of us anticipated a worldwide pandemic within the year. But, perhaps the surge of faith is somewhat affected by this prediction about structure — to be in formal groups with meaning, as well as to adopt some comforts of a bygone era. Rapid change in society always carries with it a resurgence of something that feels more traditional, a subgroup’s attempt to keep things as they were.
Pop culture is also having a 90s-nostalgia phase. It shows up in fashion and television (current shows set in the 90s, as well as those filmed in the 90s, streaming with a new cult following). This past holiday season, I even saw multiple social media posts proclaiming, “All I really want is a 90s Christmas.”
It’s an era that harkens back to a simpler time. No internet or cell phones. The last remnants of an analogue life. Gen Z’s 90s throwback culture was my generation’s 1950s. They stream Gilmore Girls on their devices via Netflix; we gathered in the living room as a family to watch black-and-white classic TV programs on Nick at Nite.
Gen Z faith observers did not go as far as the Benedictine rule, but perhaps joining a third space, like the church, which has historically been a major part of American life, has a comforting and grounding appeal. The impulse to recapture something lost will always attract a percentage of society, including young people in the faith space.
The “Nostalgia” Trend
The “Post-Church” Trend
Drawn to 90s-style Bible studies & camps.
Wary of “Institutional” religion & politics.
Seeking “Third Spaces” and analogue life.
Values cultural engagement and social advocacy.
Resurgence of traditional structures.
Lack of appeal to the “Christian Subculture.”
Formation vs. Indoctrination
Gen Z’s backdrop is one of the most culturally and politically divided times in our country’s history. One of the areas where this division wreaks havoc the most is in the area of education, an area demonized by particular streams of faith in America. This is unfortunate because secular education is the space where the majority of young people in our country spend the majority of their time.
While I don’t deny that there can be valid concerns about forms of indoctrination in public education, those concerns have too often been coupled with a fear of exposure to ideas and critical thinking altogether. This fear keeps our culture war raging. It has become so absurd that even Biola University, a notoriously conservative Christian college, has come under attack by some ultra-conservative circles for being too “liberal.”
In the implied view of these critics, education in a Christian university is meant to be a direct transfer of truths and worldview from teachers and administrators to students. There is hardly any room in this view to enlarge their exposure or expressions. The claim is that Biola has gone too “woke,” even though I know multiple former professors who left the institution claiming the exact opposite.
These controversies and the ensuing battles do not seem concerned with appropriate young adult development — the need to experience the world guided by trustworthy adults and teachers while trying things out and making mistakes. Instead, it sounds as though we must protect, control, and win arguments around truth, ensuring that young people receive the version we find the purest.
I do believe in 2 Timothy 1:14 and the charge to “guard the good deposit,” entrusting it to trustworthy people who will entrust it to other trustworthy people (2 Tim 2:2). But there is a difference between training up Bible teachers, theologians, and seminarians who are called to do just that and controlling the process of faith development for emerging young adults. We can’t reduce human development, which includes spiritual development, to a simple input-and-output process.
The truth for young people, whether educated in a secular or Christian environment is this:
If you can’t question Christianity, you can’t become a Christian. If you cannot explore what a faithful response is, you cannot have a response that comes from faith.
If you don’t have the freedom to engage books that question or even challenge the Bible and see if they have any merit, then you can’t willingly choose the word of God and find it to be a lamp unto your feet. If you cannot encounter a Christian who expresses their faith differently from you, then you cannot discern a faithful response. No one is born a Christian believer or inducted into it. Neither is any new convert immediately a person of discernment.
The Spirit opens our eyes, enlivens our hearts, and allows us to see the truth of Jesus amidst the falsehoods of the world, including the Christian subculture. This does not come by strict avoidance of the whole world to make a Christian. Jesus is not afraid to go to Samaria or send his disciples to the Gentiles, so why are we so narrow and suspicious in our practices? Jesus demonstrates that he can both adhere to the truth of who God is and go to places that do not fully understand it.
This means my daughter can go to college in the Northwest with the foundation she received from us and begin to expand her horizons. Christ is there. This means students at a Christian university can comfortably expand their horizons as well. Every exploration does not have equal merit, but it does not require us to belittle and fret about exploration all together.
Letting Them Drive
There are obvious forms of control and groupthink that require submission because “we said so.” There are also more subtle forms of control that most of us dance around within our day-to-day lives. As a parent, it’s easier to set strict parameters and information sources so my maturing kid has no choice but to align with my standards.
My husband will tell you that in his years as a college pastor at a church, the families who took the hardest line had the kids who secretly had no alignment with the parents. But I confess, it’s hard not to employ these tactics even subtly. I have the power to manipulate, infuse fear, and create narratives to gain more submission from my kids to my ideals. I’ve been tempted, and at times I have succumbed.
As a child, I had an unusual arrangement: I rode the public school bus to my private faith-based K-8 school. This required first stopping at the local public elementary school, where almost everyone got off the bus. Then 2-3 of us headed to our own private drop-off.
“The public-school kids” had foul mouths, with expressions I had never heard. To my young mind, they represented bad things and bad kids. Unfortunately, this kind of thinking can become a deeply entrenched form of othering. It’s easy to live in a bubble rather than engage the world with the love of Christ. It can nurture hostility toward people outside the bubble, exchanging a faithful, loving, mission for our sense of group safety.
There’s no right answer here, but this is why we chose to put our kids in public schools. However, I admit that after having my daughter in an arts high school outside LA post-COVID, I felt like we’re living at the bottom of a cultural cesspool. I deeply regretted our choice for a season, but only because we were midway in a longer trajectory of her life. Some things came at us out of nowhere, with little time to prepare, especially given the fracture of moving from middle school remote learning to engaging with new peers at a new age and stage.
The truth is, you must get out of the driver’s seat altogether and let your emerging adult drive if you want them to become a capable driver. Faith formation is like driver’s ed. They must begin by learning the rules of the road, practice with you and other teachers, and then, ultimately, drive alone. Eventually, they will be a full-fledged adult with a car, title, and insurance.
Kids need a lot of formation at a young age, and it’s right that we work hard at it. But you can’t feed them Cheerios or Sunday School lessons forever. Adults must experience the world and find that Jesus is still the best news in it.
The more we fear that process, the more our fear brings about bad news for the culture and this generation. I’m excited that Gen Z kids in Manhattan Beach want to talk about the Bible like it’s 1999 all over again, but I am not going back to 1999. I also have to hold space for kids in the Pacific Northwest who want to study what is out there and engage in complex conversations, because they are living in a new space where the Spirit is doing a new thing (even if they don’t know it yet).
The Holy Spirit, I’m convinced, does both a new thing and brings us back to ancient, forever true things. Renewal is the meeting of the new and the old, the future and the past. It’s not making the past the future. It’s not making all new things. It’s renewing all things. A perfect ring of continuity of the One Truth.
The worst thing we can do is create a false equivalency that being a faith-filled person requires adherence to a certain bygone era or political reality. Gen Z has lived through more change and trauma in their formative years than some generations in a lifetime. Some of them will find comfort in something that feels old and traditional. Others will go on a journey to a new place.
Jesus welcomes their questions, has mercy for their mistakes, engages their curious minds, and loves them wholeheartedly.
I celebrate the resurgence of faith for some, while still waiting for the new thing the Spirit is doing, so that those on the outside can know Jesus. In the end, I believe we will see it as two points of one circle, where faith is renewed by God in every generation and time.
[I wrote this in September after Kirk’s death, but I’m posting two months later because it did not seem wise to add more commentary at the time. Looking back, I still feel we’re missing something.]
Buckle up. I might offend everyone with this post.
It was not long ago that I had just finished serving on a church search committee that left me bubbling with hope for revival. I will not be able to share the whole story so let me share the Cliffs Notes.
I served on a committee of roughly 15 people including and not limited to: mostly Boomers, two African American men, three Asian Americans, one of whom was a toddler during Japanese internment, two Armenian men of different generations, an immigrant from Guatemala, a former rock musician, a psychologist, a professor, and a formerly incarcerated person. Most, but not all, were conservative.
We struggled together over the course of three years to choose a senior pastor. We were not helped by COVID or the political divisiveness of those years.
In the end, we chose an Indian immigrant by way of Canada and the Middle East. At the time, the choice represented to me something of a third way (an alternative to two extremes, an outside perspective).
I cannot speak to all the mechanisms that moved behind the scenes without the consent of the members at large, but for our part we experienced a miraculous unification as we covenanted with one another through prayer to discern our decision.
Shortly after, while still buzzing with the Holy Spirit about what I had learned through my transformation in that community of prayer and discernment, I was giving a seminar for ministry colleagues. I called it, “Can These Bones Live?” and I explained the components that made for a sort of revival among the committee members.
I depicted the conditions that created a pathway for the Holy Spirit:
•Confession and repentance
•Humility and letting go of control
•Releasing fear and performance concerns
•Prophetic actions of reconciliation that crossed barriers
•Meeting together for prayer
•Fasting
•Dependence on God and surrendering our personal wills for the sake of what God might be directing us toward as a whole
I made it clear to those attending the seminar that the spiritual transformation we found as a group with one another came from these spiritual practices and conditions above and that there was something extremely important about all the forms of diversity on that committee. These were not forms of diversity determined by an ideology that dictates what types need to be checked off. This is our God-given diversity of story and experience and personality, and God’s unique way of using that to show us that we needed one another. The quickest way to decide something is if everyone agrees, but the best way to discern something for a collective is to wrestle through our diversity and difference. This is why God gives us community, so we can reflect the infiniteness of God more than a singular person or perspective can.
Out of my own sense of anticipation, I began to formulate five Rs of revival: reversal, repentance, renunciation, reconciliation, and restoration. Looking back, our church made it through the first two of these five. We never quite took off for the rest while I was still around to see it.
To my great sadness, once we moved through the phase of choosing the pastor, the commitment to diverse perspectives flew out the window and a group of people decided that they “won” the outcome. Those winners got to determine the direction of the church to some extent. Without the task of needing to choose a pastor across differences, the regular machinations came back into play.
What does this have to do with Charlie Kirk?
It has to do with a commitment to try to understand arguments from within. There is nothing more frustrating than to see people talk past one another, for groups to shout accusations at one another that reflect group think.
We now tell ourselves that because we deem an ideology toxic or sinful we do not have to try to understand it from within the perspectives of the people who are drawn to it. This, I believe, is a mistake. Without this practice we have little hope of ever moving past where we are right now and we will continue to get sicker as a society.
Did I agree with Charlie Kirk? No. Can I put myself in the shoes of some of my friends and family and try to understand what they liked about him? Not at first glance. It requires drawing from a very deep well. It requires a kind of integrity to debate or argumentation where you see it through the eyes of the other person. Does that mean I cannot have a final opinion on whether there are problems with the idea or person? No. But, it does require for me not to play the game of name-calling and dehumanizing.
When I was on that committee, I was with people who probably upheld Charlie Kirk as a saint with great insights and those who would not. It was only in our proximity to one another that we began to question whether each person, as an individual participating in a larger movement and dialogue, was inherently evil for doing so. The answer in the case of the members of our committee was no. I certainly believe that there are truly evil individuals across a spectrum of ideologies. But most of us are everyday citizens and, in this case, Christians, trying to live out what we have been taught and shaped by. There is a good amount of malformation to contend with, and certainly there are evil systems, but that does not make individuals caught up in a system evil.
I can reject everything I do not agree with wholesale. That is a choice which is currently most popular across the political spectrum. But, I’ll be honest, I am too hungry for transformation. I do not do well in a society with a 50/50 split of hatred everyday and I see no hope in wondering when the other 50 percent will get to our side. This is going to take a very different kind of work with tools that are not being honed in the public eye.
If you unfriend everyone who says something opposite of what you hold dear, I cannot blame you for doing so out of repulsion. That is where we are at, we are dealing deeply in the emotion of disgust and that is a normal response to such a strong emotion. But, what I suggest instead is to silence it for a time and consider whether proximity to one another might allow you to find other redeemable qualities that help you stay open to the possibility of love and care for one another.
I get it. In the ears of every person on the left I am asking you to stay close to Serena Waterford. In the ears of every person on the right I am asking you compromise by hanging out with sinners.
The problem, Christians, is that Jesus did both.
None of us have to do this. We can choose to do it if we are empowered by the Spirit to do so.
That’s the big miss, our lack of appetite for the type of proximity that acknowledges the humanity in others. Once we begin to see and experience it, the Spirit flows freely and Satan has no where to hide. On the other hand, if our picture of revival is our group getting its way, we’re all going to be sorely disappointed in the end.
Yesterday, my therapist let me know that I had been seeing her for two years. It was time to reevaluate what was needed as we moved ahead. My gigantic insurance reimbursement spreadsheet shows that we met weekly for 9 months and have been meeting every other week since then, for a total of 24.
20 years ago, when I was a newlywed beginning my career, I was referred to a therapist who saw me for the duration of my pregnancy with Emma. We worked on some key things that helped me adjust to adulthood with a better awareness of myself and my emotions. That was a great foundation for my adult life.
But then I entered a different season: the second half of life.
When the Old Tools Stop Working
Around age 40, the familiar strategies that once worked for me became ineffective. Changes in my work, home, and lifestyle intensified by the pandemic made it clear that I needed new approaches.
Unprocessed trauma surprised me and seeking help turned out to be a complex journey, not a quick fix.
2022: The First Attempts
Still COVID-cautious in this part of the country, I found an in-network licensed social worker to meet on Zoom. She taught me how to do box breathing for anxiety, but also told me to “just talk” to family members if things were stressful. It was like I had a piece of the puzzle (breath work) but not the other piece (actual strategies for my situations).
I don’t think she’s ever lived in a home with neurodivergent people, much less trapped during a pandemic in the same four walls together.
I asked Jeff to find a couples therapist with me to work on the new dynamics around raising teenagers. I didn’t care that this licensed marriage and family therapist wasn’t in-network. I just found the nearest Asian American available right away, hoping that would cover any cross-cultural nuances. We met with her for 18 months, nearly every week.
If I were to describe these 18 months, it would be like every member of our family was drowning. One domino would go down and the others would follow. It became clear that perhaps trauma was making each of our lives harder. We never got past showing up every week in survival mode to learn any strategies or repair anything.
2023: The Breaking Point
During that time, I started meeting with a new personal therapist. She worked with me on Zoom, asking me what I was feeling and where I felt it in my body. I felt no emotion in my body. I could name simple emotions like sadness, frustration, and stress.
I told her it felt like we were pummeled by relentless hardships with no time to catch our breaths. If one more giant wave hit, I felt I would go under.
Shortly after, I hit my lowest point when I was blindsided by a decision that did not work out in my favor. At the time, we were waiting for a favorable decision that would give us a new season and alleviate many of the stressors in our lives.
One day, desperate for relief, I took a walk, but was barely able to move. Despite regular exercise, I felt 80 years old. I stopped and lay down under a shady tree, staring at the sky. Despair caused my muscles and joints to move like old machinery, barely able to turn on.
Photo by Tom Fisk
Late 2023: A Realization
After 18 months with the same couples therapist, we left to find a neurodiverse couples specialist. Looking back, it seems odd we stayed as long as we did despite the cost and minimal progress, but we clung to any support we could find while the issues accumulated. We felt surprised that we had worked with so many people in crisis, but could not find the right kind of help for our own collapse.
If only my plan had worked 6 years before when I asked if we could do couples therapy while things were going well, to work off the habits of the PhD we had pushed through. The only problem was our insurance approved 8 sessions with a therapist WHO FELL ASLEEP during the sessions.
When my personal therapist moved, I reevaluated. I realized traditional talk therapy was not working for me.
I talk for a living. I do conflict resolution much of the time. I manage high-level situations. Jeff and I were not the type of people who have no self-reflection or people skills, and then get the opportunity to finally tend to it in therapy. I realized the disconnect was happening in my body.
During the pandemic, I read a book that focused on healing the body from experiences of racial trauma and violence. In the process, it introduced me to the concept of somatic (body) therapy. At the same time, the algorithms guided me, populating my social media feed with information about why some people don’t heal with talk therapy alone.
This sounded like me. I decided to Google “somatic therapists” and found one. She called me and I jumped in. She is the therapist I have been meeting with for 2 years. I am thankful for the way she integrates all kinds of therapies into trauma-informed care.
2024 Learning to Feel Again
In our very first few meetings, she validated my experiences and said most of her patients were experiencing a flood of post-COVID anxieties or trauma, especially those who had parented in difficult situations. She diagnosed me with chronic PTSD, and over time, we began to find safety in my body, even as I continue to live amidst a number of unresolved issues day-to-day.
One day, I attended a training on Zoom to learn about a new ministry program. It was the first time I had been in an all-day online meeting in five months. My body got exhausted and I felt myself slightly shaking. I had to turn off my camera and lie in bed. I realized I was experiencing some sort of PTSD from working day and night on Zoom during a prolonged crisis.
I brought this insight to my therapist and recalled to her the distracting and disturbing noises in the house that I experienced when I would try to work in the office during our pandemic year. I noted chewing, slamming, crying, barking, laughing, doorbells, and my family rustling as they searched for food. She helped me understand why these noises were so distressing to me.
I was present to a camera, showing active listening to others elsewhere, while inwardly suppressing what I felt and worried about in my home.
I had no idea I had been affected this way.
I began to learn the language of healing a nervous system. Did you know that when you go into fight, flight, fawn, freeze, or flop as a trauma response, your nervous system is either getting activated into hyper-arousal (like the fight mode) or hypo-arousal (flop or exhaustion)? You either can’t calm down or you crash out.
As difficult situations continued to unfold, I went through over a year of terrible symptoms of hyper-arousal such as shaking uncontrollably from the time I woke up. I could only exert myself for a short period of time each day and then I would go into hypo-arousal of needing to lie down.
Couples Therapy Rounds 2 & 3
We tried an online neurodiverse couples therapist. Despite his gentle efforts, he was moving slowly and progress was minimal. Then he went on a leave of absence indefinitely due to a house remodel.
Exhausted by being let down, we stopped seeking couples therapy and continued with our individual therapists for a while.
Then, a church we had been quietly attending for a few months announced that they were going to give 150 couples 12 free sessions of marriage therapy. I signed us up. Jeff agreed. It gave us the boost we needed. My husband chose a therapist from their generous list of approved facilities. It was finally a fit. We continue to meet with her every other week, even as we have switched to out-of-pocket payment.
Thank God. It took three years, but I have two good therapists.
Healing in the Second Half of Life
I am learning, for the first time, to cry a little in the moment instead of becoming dysregulated months later, when things compound. I am learning how to feel a wider range of feelings than sad, frustrated, or stressed. I am teaching myself that I am safe right now, even if my brain is telling me I am not. I am learning that I can go for a walk or go to Trader Joe’s when I am getting flooded with a bodily sensation that feels traumatic. (A trick for teaching yourself that you are not trapped in a cycle like your brain may be telling you).
I am trying to teach my brain that just because a family member is having a bad day does not mean they hate me, don’t love me, or that I am going to wither up and die. I am learning not to be hypervigilant to control or manage others around me, but to manage myself and the sensations that come with moving through discomfort.
My body and brain demanded that I take care of myself this way when everything got to be too much. It has felt at times like I am dying on my way to a resurrection, but when I look back with my therapist at all that I have accomplished, I know that deep healing has begun to take root.
Many of us probably come from cultures and places that assume you only go to therapy if you have an out-of-the-ordinary type of problem. But since I have been working with people for over 25 years, I know the truth is that all humans have problems and need help navigating them. Everyone should go to therapy, and there should be no stigma for needing couples, individual, or family therapy. I work with parents every day who tell me about their grief, frustration, bodily overwhelm, dread, and confusion. We all need help.
I hope my story helps you stay on the road to healing in whatever way you need.
Summer ended in the blink of an eye, and my 10-day trip to Ireland feels like a mirage. Before I forget the details, I believe it is time I introduce you to my new friend from the journey, Brigid.
Brigid has fiery red hair and a personality to match. Rejecting her culture’s customs, she refused to be married, costing her important father a slew of cattle, weapons, and land. Instead, she took up vows to God. I wonder if her father saw it coming. After all, as a child she did give his sword to a beggar. No wonder she developed the controversial habit of taking from the wealthy for the poor.
Her cloaks, in sapphire and emerald tones, are alluring. Mysterious and majestic, they convey warrior meets wizard, while her pursuits are all peaceful and scholarly. A leader for all, she established monasteries in Kildare for both men and women, known not only for prayer and learning, but also for hospitality to any person in need. As if the mystique of channeling Robin Hood, Mother Teresa, and Disney’s Merida, were not enough, she is also known for her discerning ability to settle disputes, like King Solomon.
Brigid is a new friend of mine, but she’s not my contemporary. She lived in the mid-400s to early 500s. Some might say she colored outside the lines. I would say she lived beyond the confines of family, culture, and the religious establishment in her time. Her story shows that God was with her “out there.” For example, she boldly asked the King of Leinster for property for her monastery, of which he offered her “whatever her cloak would cover.” It sounds like he expected to give her a piece of land the size of my local community garden plot, but he was about to learn the mystery of abundance. Brigid and her companions unrolled her cloak over the acres that would become the borders for her new monasteries. Like David, she could say her boundary lines fell in pleasant places (Ps. 16:6).
Greater yet is the mystery of her ordination. As a woman, Brigid was restricted to particular vows for religious life, but during her ceremony, the priest “accidentally” read her the vows for a bishop. Some called it a mistake that stuck, while others said it was the work of the Holy Spirit. Either way, it was another example of abundance. The containers created by humanity put the world in categories that keep things orderly and clear for us, but the Spirit of God operates freely (Jn 3:8). Bishop Brigid was given a wide open space (Ps. 18:19) both physically with land and spiritually with her unconventional title as a woman. Out of this, she lived a faithfully expansive mission, reflecting God’s expansive world, without knowing it would earn her a seat as a patron saint of Ireland.
Beyond Domination
Initially, I perceived Brigid was something of a maternal guide for men and women alike. But, there was something about her leadership that begged for a wider lens. Hers is not only a story about female leadership in patriarchal times. These categories alone shrink the picture of Brigid among the sweeping green fields of Kildare. The way she carried her Holy Spirit-entrusted authority into her expressions of peace, hospitality, and care for the poor and creation invited us all to do the same. She is more of a model than a reformer, a be-er instead of a fixer. For no other goal, she existed from her God-given authority, extending God’s goodness and love in her space.
Like Christ, Brigid brings a non-dominating leadership and spiritual authority in a world stuck on tools of domination. Perhaps what draws us to Brigid is as simple as that–Christ in her essence and ways. She was born under the protection of the sword, but sold that sword to a beggar. She should have been wed in exchange for land, but instead received her land at the hand of God. Her womb was to be a future king-maker, but she was made a bishop and given children of all kinds. She did not use tools of domination, nor worry about their forces. She walked differently, in the opposite direction of systems of domination, and the Lord provided.
While our impulse is often to reject the vulnerability encompassed in following Christ’s non-dominating example, when I meet a friend like Brigid, I become reacquainted with our soul’s deep desire to live in a space like hers. Containers of identity try to lay claim on me, but in the endless expanse, I am free to delight in God’s creation from a posture of sharing and flourishing. There is nothing to hoard in this space. This was humanity’s first relationship with creation in the Garden of Eden.
Domination, on the other hand, is a human tool for wielding power and control. It is a product of the fall, giving rise to all sorts of evil. While it’s true that God gave humanity a part in God’s shared authority over the garden, sometimes referred to as shared dominion, our human capacity for keeping this sort of stewardship pure is quite limited. This is seen in the trajectory of dominion theology (or dominionism) whereby the ends justify the means and human domination over earth, animals, and people is permitted. Deep down, while our flesh wants to control someone else, our spirit wants to live in a space where we are neither dominated nor dominating others. Our innate programming from our Creator points to this desire.
Bishop Brigid invited all of us weary journeyers in Kildare to a world more real than the one her clan members shed blood over. She invited us into “earth as it is in heaven.” She did not need the title of bishop, saint, or chieftain’s daughter to do it. Rather, she lived according to God’s ways, without striving for those other systems to give her approval.
Confidence in my Own Calling
Brigid reminds me that God is not only with us in contained spaces where we can see and define everything. Our calling is not ultimately informed by the titles and accolades bestowed upon us by institutions. God is present there, but God is equally present in the expansive outside world–spaces too vast for us to hold in our minds, let alone our hands.
How else should we understand the hidden places of God’s creation? In the Kildare oak grove, we learned that below the surface, root systems communicate with one another, reflecting God’s artistry and order. Why do we try to dominate something so beyond us? Lord, have mercy on us for our pride that causes us to believe you have called us to lead things so that we can build something great. Our never-ending vocation is to worship you, not ourselves and our creations.
In contrast, I like the way Brigid followed her desire to live a life for God and let God take care of the rest. After all, we now know the Holy Spirit unfolds cloaks to cover acres, illuminates words to bless and commission. Those who would otherwise be overlooked, passed over, or forbidden are welcome and provided for at both God’s table and Saint Brigid’s monastery.
And, wouldn’t you know it? On the day we arrived in Kildare to learn about Brigid, there had been a miscommunication. Twelve of us arrived just in time for lunch to two sisters who had no idea what time we were coming and no lunch. In keeping with the tradition of their patron saint, they did not bat one eyelash of condemnation or inconvenience and kindly left to purchase lunch, bringing it back to feed us.
And so, in the spirit of my new friend, I say, “Weary travelers, have a seat.”
exhaustion, bruised with hesitation, one step at a time.
Breathe.
I’m okay here—
sailing the dark Atlantic, fasting at isolating heights.
It’s rocky, misty, and dim—
but allemansrätten lies
beneath her cloak,
widening to share, heal, and live.
In another village—
melodious bells of old
contrast Elisa’s tiny cries,
which pierced the night.
La ruota degli esposti— the brink,
cold, fragile, but safe—
to nestle nurse for milk.
this wheel is
like the oaks, exchanging
signals root to root.
I lay my ear to the ground
they whisper:
“dúchas“
while the bell chimes
She’s here.
______________________________
allemansrätten – A unique Swedish principle, literally “every man’s right,” referring to the freedom to roam and access nature regardless of land ownership.
la ruota degli esposti – Italian for “the wheel of the exposed,” a rotating mechanism in church walls used to anonymously leave infants in 18th–19th century Italy, while alerting a priest with a bell.
dúchas– Irish, refers to an instinctual, spiritual sense of belonging to the land where a person is from, including inherited traits from the people and culture.
A spiritual director is someone trained to come alongside you as a listening companion in your relationship with God. It is an old tradition, gaining wider traction in the last couple of decades. Nearly sixteen years ago, when I moved to California, I knew that I eventually wanted to find a spiritual director.
I had occasionally met with a spiritual director in Chicago. However, at the time, her schedule was becoming complicated with caring for an ill family member. I had limited time that overlapped with her in Evanston, where we would meet. When I arrived in California, I knew I probably needed a consistent person who was very accessible to me.
Finding a Spiritual Director
While several of my colleagues practice spiritual direction, I sought out someone from outside our work environment on Google. What emerged was an eclectic list of names, ranging from New Age to Christian. I started with the most practical option, contacting a church with a reputable name down the street. I was referred to two women, the first was Julie. Since our first meeting, Julie and have met every month for fourteen years, until this last week.
Julie knows that almost nothing in my journey to California and my life here has been natural or easy. It has been uncomfortable for us at every turn. Meeting her and fitting naturally with her was an exception. She was easy. She came into my life without any trouble or barrier. Living less than two miles away, she invited me to meet at the retreat center in the next town over. She was always there, waiting for me attentively. Whether we met in the pergola, the alcove, or inside the building, she was always seated, praying for me when I pulled up, then stood to greet and hug me.
A Sacred Relationship
My relationship with Julie made up almost 1/3 of my life and nearly the entirety of my sixteen years in California. Last month, Julie left us rather suddenly. I am grieving, and so are my friends who I shared her with along the way. While she did not say that she was terminally ill at our April appointment, I had begun to reflect for the first time on how one day Julie would die. I should start to prepare myself for that day, I thought. I did not know her death had already begun until a month later when she called me to her home for our final meeting.
Julie knew what it was to suffer–to navigate call amid broken systems, deal with people who break your heart, and all the absolute junk of life. She knew how to remain a faithful wife and mom to complicated humans, including after one son had gone to be with Jesus. She grandparented with dedication. Everything she did was purposeful and a bit stubborn.
I used to feel bad that my deeply discounted 60-minute sessions rarely finished within 90 minutes and sometimes went on to two hours. Now, I’m so grateful for Julie’s generosity of time. I understand that time was limited. Like the alabaster perfume, it was so precious it deserved to be spent rather than saved. Our rhythm continued like clockwork, but it would not continue forever.
A Sudden Goodbye
Just over a month ago, Julie texted me to see if I would take my last appointment at her house, indicating that it would likely be the last time we would meet. She offered to contact a mutual friend who had been meeting with Julie for almost as long. My friend made adjustments to come to town from the west side, and the two of us met with Julie before spending the day together. It was an emotional morning. We cried, we prayed, we laughed. We got to see the dynamics of Julie expanded beyond our one-on-ones by including one another and seeing her in her home.
When we began to pray, the thing that immediately touched me and stood out the most was the gift of rhythm. Julie is a gift, but it was also the context of our meetings, a beautiful place that perfectly represented the space of spiritual direction, pulling us away to be still with God. In that space, we always began with a spontaneous appreciation of the grounds and the day, taking in the natural beauty and its contrast from the pavements where we lived just below. The grass was always green. The sky was usually cobalt blue. The deer frolicked, and the mountain and its vegetation offered a seasonal variety of orange, yellow, and purple hues. We saw bunnies, lizards, and birds. We were even there the morning of the Eaton fire before the winds began. The fire encircled the property later that evening. I am thankful that it survived.
Just an ordinaryday at the retreat center where we met.
Learning Surrender
I learned so much from Julie. In many ways, All Gen Movement, the little non-profit I’ve been building in the air, is a reflection of her presence in my life. It is about approaching the needs of the church and the generations from a posture of surrender to Jesus rather than from a position of control. Surrender is the very essence of the contemplative life learned through spiritual direction.
Julie saw me through five job changes, a three-year stint on a church search committee, and a painful rejection of my calling that led me into a season of stumbling through the darkness. She taught me so much. Her voice prepared me for my current path when she told me “you hear from God.” She knows that every day since I heard from God has been somewhat painful and confusing. Still, she has told me every session, “You are on the right track. Keep going.”
Following the Cross
Whenever I complained about pain, rejection, and the lack of alignment with the kingdom happening around me, she would confront me with a hint of sarcasm. “Ya think?” she would ask me when I told her about the parts of ministry that seemed downright idiotic, idolatrous, or disobedient at times. “How do you think Jesus felt?” she would add.
She welcomed me to the way of the cross countless times. She might add, “I hate to tell you this, but it doesn’t get better…” or “Yay, you get to be in the club of following Jesus unto death.” Julie had a way of encouraging me to continue while holding the truth that it was hard and that few would follow.
I know she died in the fellowship of Jesus and the cross, which she had followed, often alone, with her internal clarity and Christ keeping her secure along the way. I bet it felt good to lay it down now and not have to bear it. She can experience the other side, the victorious resurrection of Christ.
She always told me to write everything down. I planned to, one day. For now, I am just surviving, but I should have listened to her. I wish I had written down every appointment I had with her. Instead, it has become integrated into my life. I’ll have to do some work to excavate it.
A Pilgrimage
A couple days ago, I returned from a pilgrimage in Ireland. It was a spontaneous trip for me after receiving an invitation from a friend. I told Julie about it that last day at her house. She was so excited, offering me to look through her book collection on the topics of Celtic Christianity. I promised to send pictures, but she passed away 17 days before I got on the plane.
Dear Julie,
The pilgrimage was pretty similar to everything you’ve lived through. I visited thin spaces, walked ancient pathways, and climbed impossible mountains. Sometimes I heard the quiet voice of God. I thought of you.
I left this story hanging in July, right before things began to take off. You may remember that all I had was a picture of a tunnel with some light at the end. Step by step, I hoped I might get out of the darkness and into the light.
A few weeks after I posted that story, everything changed.
Within two days, I had a 501(c)(3), a firstborn to launch, and I picked up a contract. I had to laugh, but I wanted to cry. I felt frustrated by everything happening simultaneously instead of bit by bit when I had ample time.
Thus began the project of building the plane in the air.
First, let me back up.
Shortly after I sensed that I needed to take steps toward the light, I met with a small team of friends who were praying for my next steps. At that point, it was clear to me that turning in resumes for jobs as a method of discernment was not working.
My heart knew what I needed to do. I just really wanted to find someone to pay me to do it.
The discernment team asked me if I felt ready to start my own ministry organization. With reluctant clarity, I said yes. I was hesitant because I still did not like the idea. I was clear because I had to admit the fruitlessness of the four months prior. The best I could do was to take one step at a time and see if there was confirmation down this road.
Slowly but surely, there was. It would be hard to recall all the steps in detail now. In short, I spent early 2024 consulting with a few churches, leading local prayer groups for parents, speaking at retreats, and gradually filling out paperwork for a non-profit in the cheapest way possible. (Because the nearly $1000 of upfront costs to start the ministry were $1000 I did not have at the time.)
Still, I felt unsure of precisely what I was building. Was it a prayer movement for the next generation? Was it a consulting ministry for healthy churches? (Why would churches pay me to help make them healthy?) Was it a ministry to families? Would I be speaking and teaching? As it turns out, it’s a little of all those things. I am trying to find all the appropriate words to describe this succinctly on a forthcoming website. That feels vulnerable too.
It seems obvious, but I had no idea that following Jesus’ call to ministry in a renewed sense of vulnerable dependence would require building every piece like I got a new Lego set with a step-by-step manual. In other words, none of the who, how, or what would come primarily from my strategic gifts, which I had relied on my whole career. Instead, it would be a process of following directions, even being willing to experiment with ministry ahead of knowing everything I wanted to do.
So many of the concerns I had been expressing in my prior senior ministry management role were obsolete when I considered created something new. The choice was mine to do ministry more organically and trust the Lord to provide.
I have a big vision for this little airplane called All Gen Movement. We are living in a time when one could easily say that God’s promises do not seem to be true for our kids, the Church, or the future. But I believe the Spirit has been doing a work of renewal before the crumbling even began. Like the twelve getting sent out with the bare minimum, I feel like I am on a journey to share Jesus’s healing ministry.
This healing is what we need.
Falling off a cliff with no one to catch me was painful. Getting scraped off the pavement was not much better.
But as these stories go, the longer the time passes, eventually, we get a broader perspective of why it had to be this way.
My work requires freedom to operate away from systems that do harm.
Outside the constraints of a management job.
I am used to being a loyal employee who tries to bring up concerns in the context of values.
Now, I am creating with the Creator.
Being an employee was much easier.
But right now, for me, this feels much more sacred.
And, yes, on most days, the whole process feels a bit insane too.
Photo taken after speaking at my last work conference, flying home into the unknown.
In Part 1, I explained the Los Angeles landscape and our specific geography, the San Gabriel Valley, to help those watching from afar understand more about the Eaton Fire. Today, I will explain another potentially foreign concept: Santa Ana winds.
Santa Ana winds are strong, warm winds originating inland (deriving their name from a large canyon) and blowing toward the coast in Southern California and Baja California, Mexico. They usually arrive in autumn, our region’s hottest time. While a breeze may sound nice in the scorching temps of late August and early September, this phenomenon creates dangerous weather conditions of low humidity and forceful, dry winds over parched land. Typically ranging from 10-25 miles an hour and lasting 1-3 days, they contribute to dangerous fire conditions, known to blow fires far and wide through dry vegetation.
Even in the absence of fire, these winds can cause a great deal of damage. The most memorable to our family was in December 2011, when the strongest Santa Ana winds on record hit our town. Gusts of up to 167 miles per hour uprooted large trees from the ground, including our town’s Christmas tree in Library Park.
I no longer recall whether it was from my phone, the public school, or Alexa. Still, I was aware of the wind advisory that was in effect from January 7-8. I knew the gusts could be stronger than usual. However, I woke up expecting that this first post-new year week was moving toward a routine.
We had a friend staying with us, in town to meet with her doctoral cohort. I was surprised when I learned that Fuller Seminary had preemptively canceled its classes early the morning of the 7th. It did not appear they had experienced a downed power line, so it seemed overly cautious compared to my previous experiences with Santa Ana winds.
9:00 am-1:00 pm
I dropped our guest in Arcadia at 9:15 a.m. and headed to Sierra Madre for a meeting at Mater Dolorosa retreat center without concern about the winds. I went back to Monrovia and logged onto Zoom for an 11:30 a.m. meeting, during which I shared how puzzling it seemed that Fuller Seminary closed its campus for two days.
1:00 pm-5:00 pm
I asked my husband if we could work on an expense report from 2024 before the day got away from us then took a break on the couch. As soon as I did, a call came in from Atlanta. My former boss read aloud to me snippets from a NYTimes article about a fire breaking out in Pacific Palisades and San Gabriel Valley among the areas that could be affected by the wind event. I hadn’t heard about the Palisades and was not concerned about the SGV.
As our conversation continued, by about 2:00 pm I could hear wind whirling all around our home. After I hung up, I decided to finish my errands. I took a video of myself walking through the gusts. Before I could enter the post office, everyone exited, saying the power was out.
When I came home, the power was out at our house, too. Jeff and I celebrated when it came back on shortly after, but we gathered up candles and battery-operated lights. Sure enough, it went off again and remained off for around 27 hours total. (A relatively short amount of time compared to those going on 9 days with no utilities).
Monrovia friends were texting about who lost power and trying to figure out if sports practice was continuing at our high school. The kids had not yet returned from Christmas break, but sports had just resumed the day before.
5:00 pm-10:00 pm
The high school had power. Just before 5:00 pm, I drove our son to basketball practice, planning to return in two hours for the game. On the way there, we were at a four-way stop with a flashing red (normally a four way light with protected lefts). We could see a train approaching the intersection and the guardrails had not properly gone down. A car turned left over the train track, noticed the train was coming, and then reversed into traffic, nearly hitting the next car coming through. Our son, who studying to get his driver’s permit, noted how chaotic the scene was.
At 6:16 pm, my son called to say the game was canceled because pieces of the gym roof were flying around. I drove back, cognizant of the traffic light problems and the old Colorado Blvd trees bending toward the street as if to pray, penitently, while I headed westward. I played a mental game of Frogger. As one tree would bend, I would slow down, wait for it to pop back up, and pass by. I called Jeff to let him know how bad it looked.
A dust storm kicked up and pushed against our son as he struggled to get in our car. Departing the gym lot, I did not want to turn left and head back down the tree-lined streets, passing the train at multiple intersections. Nor did I want to go along Foothill, which seemed primed for a collision at the many pitch-black intersections.
For better or worse, I chose to go down Myrtle, the center of our cute little downtown, hoping to encounter fewer vehicles. Still, with debris swirling from all the storefronts, my son and I were eager to get home safely.
Back home around 6:50 pm, my friend and neighbor’s parents needed access to her spare key to enter the house during the power outage. I handed it into their car window in front of my home and texted her to confirm the transfer of the keys, noting that driving was becoming unsafe.
At that moment, as I paused out front, I saw something catch fire in the distance. While looking across the street between tall trees in the cemetery and buildings in the background, I called Jeff to come out. He hobbled on his crutches from a recent surgery with our son behind him. At first, I thought it may have been an explosion at a nearby industrial building, but Jeff knew it was the mountain.
I sent a quick text to the same friend before I went back in and said, “The mountain just caught on fire.”
“By us? Or Palisades?” she asked.
“Pasadena?” I replied and sent this picture.
Not a sunset, but a quick photo I snapped of the fire the moment it lit up
I quickly learned that Eaton Canyon had just caught fire 8 miles west and a little north of my home. Before this moment, I would not have believed you could see Eaton Canyon while facing my front door. We now know the fire started around 6:15 pm. It was visible from my front door at 6:55 pm.
The last person to arrive safely was our guest, who was out with her class eating dinner, unaware of the full extent of what was happening outside. It took us some time for us to connect and figure out how she would get home. As soon as she did, friends evacuating Altadena near the canyon began to call.
One friend asked if her family could evacuate to us. Ever the recovering perfectionist, I told her, “Yes, but we have no power, no floors, and we have an out-of-town guest. You’re welcome, but I want you to know.” I did not even mention that my husband was on crutches from surgery a few days ago. She texted back that they would stay in a Target underground parking lot and I kicked myself for saying anything more than “Yes!”
Later, I texted her back, apologizing and telling her I should not have mentioned anything. “Just come,” I said. At that moment, another friend called. She lives directly across from Eaton Canyon, and they left their home with embers all over their yard (see link for a video from her neighbor two doors down). They had secured a hotel in Monrovia, but it had no power. It was after 7 o’clock, and they had been driving around with two of their teenage sons, unable to find a place to get food. I said we would throw something together.
Jeff and our guest quickly lit the gas stove to boil water for noodles and pan-fried leftover chicken katsu. The first friend called back, saying she was on her way after all. My executive function was overwhelmed. Our daughter had just gone back to college after a month at home. Her room was a mess. Our dear friend and guest began helping me strip the bed in the dark, piling the dirty stuff to the side if this family needed to sleep there. (This guest is the same friend who once helped me wipe toddler vomit off a Pack ‘n Play into a bathtub. I was having flashbacks, but she assured me the messy teen room was not nearly as bad as the toddler vomit).
While stripping and making the bed, my friend walked in downstairs, saw our mutual friends who had since arrived, and burst into tears. I came down the steps and hugged her, still stupidly apologizing about our house. In the end, she and her family found a better place to stay with electricity. Note to self: continue to work on not needing ducks in a row to serve and help. Before she left, I walked her to the car. Her husband came out, and I hugged him, knowing full well they could lose their house that night, and they were terrified. I waved to their daughter in the backseat, my son’s former classmate, whom we’d known since she was two years old with the big sisters in kindergarten. She was sitting like a little kid going to a sleepover with pillows and blankets surrounding her. I imagine their cat was in there somewhere too. I wondered if she would have anything left for her after the night was over.
My friend Ellie, back in Michigan, was nursing her newborn in the middle of the night when she texted me about the baby monitor I purchased for them. I told her our circumstances briefly, and she put it so well. “You’re like the innkeeper with no more room. Who would have thought that a ripped-up house used as a surgery recovery area would also become an evacuee refuge?”
Before the second family left our home, we gathered in our living room for a quick prayer for the safety and protection of the community and homes. We knew embers had been landing in their yard two hours before.
Already exhausted before this week had begun, we retired to bed early without power. Jeff made his way up our long staircase in the dark, still hobbling, five days after surgery. Once in our room, he opened the blinds so we could keep one eye on the fire all night.
Sleeping Under a Burning Mountain
For those unfamiliar with living near California wildfires, you make ask, “Why didn’t you evacuate along with your friends? Why would you go to bed under a fire?” It is an odd truth, but there are times living here when we go to bed under a wildfire in our local mountains that could, potentially, spread. It is not because we did not understand the gravity of the greater situation.
Of course, you can leave immediately and early if you have a place you prefer to be, but if the fire does not spread in your direction, chances are you will have school and work in the morning. You may also want to stay and keep your property safe from the winds, or God forbid, hose it down one last time, as we saw in many videos. It is unusual to leave the area completely before you are even in an evacuation zone unless you have particular health needs. Instead, you check the evacuation map and set your, hopefully, fully-charged phone right by your ear for notifications.
For midwestern friends, the closest comparison I can think of is if you grew up, like I did, where heavy snow is frequent and salt trucks are at work around the clock. Still, every once in a while, there is a dangerous winter storm, with winds and ice, that knocks down power lines or creates black ice on the roads. Not every fire is going to come down from the mountains and burn houses. Not every ice storm is going to result in school getting canceled due to widespread treacherous conditions. Even so, I admit, fire is probably more dangerous than ice since it leaves nothing but ashes. (Or, maybe there is a better comparison to be had with lightening storms, something I have found Angelenos to be inexperience with and fearful of).
Regardless, as you wait, you will not sleep. With every loud buzz of real-time info you lift your head, direct your bleary eyes to the blue light of your phone, and squint while zooming back over the evacuation map to clarify whether the alert was for you. If you are in the red zone, you go right away. If you are in the yellow zone, you might leave as a precaution rather than risk yellow turning to red. For us, that night, we were neither and the safest thing was to stay off the roads. People were largely evacuating to our town, not away from it, except for those homes at the highest elevation.
We could hear the winds whirling around us like a tornado all night, palm branches brushing hard against the side of the house and our window. I could not get a good stretch of sleep. I thought of my friends who had stopped by and so many others posting on Facebook, their pain and fear of what might happen.
I knew there would be debris strewn about the city in the morning. We did not know for sure that so many of our friends’ homes and an entire community were engulfed under a literal firestorm carried by nearly 90-mile-an-hour winds. Unable to sleep, I just prayed and begged God for mercy for our friends and community, that they would not have a total, unthinkable loss.
Mater Dolorosa Retreat Center, presumably within 24 hours after I left. Image from their Facebook page
