Several years ago, l started chasing lightning. Now, I jump in the truck when just the clouds seem magical. Tonight, I watched fog fill valleys, showers fall on distant hills, purple clouds dance above the peaks, and mountains hide wherever the sun has gone to bed.

If you’ve read my books, you’re not surprised that my faith is growing more mystical and mysterious, less formal but still formational. I’m being shaped at the intersection of beauty and adventure, at the crossroads of vulnerability and acceptance, and in the borderlands between silence and music.

I’m hearing soul whispers in books, podcasts, conversations, and the prayers if friends. But I’m also feeling connection to my frailty, humanity, and worth in moments and places that make me feel small: caressed by breezes, serenaded by insects, shushed by creeks, and surrounded by clouds.

For two decades of my life, I was forced to sit through sermons every Sunday night. Loud men in ties tried to convince me that my attention was worship. If only they knew the unforced rhythms of grace and the silhouettes of sunsets! If only I did, too…

I missed out on hundreds of evenings of actual worship. I was decades late to the difference between Sunday naps and soul rest.

I’m not missing out now. Happy Sunday night, y’all!