Friday Tidings

This week I caught the bus with a young woman who was making an unscheduled trip to a business meeting in Portland —via Seattle . She and her boyfriend had taken a day trip to Port Angeles to visit the Olympic National Park , specifically Hurricane Ridge —the majestic 5,200-foot mountain you can drive all the way to the top.  Scott, who had walked her to the bus stop, introduced himself and explained his truck’s brakes failed on the way down the mountain. Brake failure has happened to others before—not always with a good ending. But they made it safely to bottom, got to a hotel, and now his girlfriend, Toonah (like the fish, she said) had to catch this bus to get to Seattle, to make a flight to Portland for an important work event. Scott wanted to take the bus with her and get her to Seattle safely, but I offered to help her figure out the ferry instead. Toonah  sat across from me, and spent much of the ride making phone calls in her native language —it sounded eloquent ...

  I was a rambunctious, mischievous young child—especially when left alone in the garage. That’s where I found the can of black paint.  I had watched my dad open it with a screwdriver. So I did the same, all by myself.  With brush in hand, I painted the porch posts as high as my five-year-old arm could reach. Then I painted the garage door. I was just heading towards the fireplace bricks when I got caught. Most of my mischief was high energy. I ran through the house, knocked things over, spilled my milk across the dinner table, and sent houseplants tumbling as I threw balls inside. Everywhere I went, I left a trail of messes for someone to clean up. Getting in trouble was routine. I was scolded, and yes, spanked—and sent to my room to sort out my little life. I had lots of time alone in my room. But when my punishment was over, I had to do three things: apologize, say thank you to Mom or Dad for cleaning up my mess, and then put on a nice smile. Those early years were tou...

I watched as Francis Chan held up two candles—one tall and new, the other one nearly spent, what I’d call a stub.  He said as an older person, he’s like the candle stub. It still gives light, but it doesn’t have nearly as much time left as the tall candle. Then he spoke about the choice before us. As our candles grow shorter, we can try and place ourselves higher and higher so our light can be seen. Or, we can take what remains of our flame and use it to light more young candles. As 2026 arrives, rather than placing my lower-burning stub on a higher hill to be noticed, I’m looking for young candles to light—with love, encouragement, and hope. May we all shine the light we have and pass it on, bringing more light into our homes, communities, nation, and world.  Happy New Year!  

My husband, Tom, always walks me to my bus stop. That morning, a homeless man was sitting on the covered bench. A couple of bags held his personal belongings, and a thick blanket shielded him from the cold. The three of us were the only ones waiting in the darkness. Across the street, Christmas lights twinkled in the store windows —bright reminders of comfort and celebration. Tom wandered over and gently asked the man how he was doing. “I’m homeless,” he replied,—as if stating the obvious. He didn’t ask for money. He didn’t ask for pity. He didn’t even ask for conversation. He didn’t know my husband. But Tom introduced himself anyway. The man’s name was Steven, a Navy veteran who had served our country during the Vietnam War on a nuclear submarine. He might not have a place to live now, but he had once lived a life of sacrifice and service.  Steven explained that alcohol had played a large role in his struggles. He had lost hope. I watched as Tom sat down beside him. Steven...

  Uncle Art, our family historian, always had stories to tell—and the blizzard before Christmas and the Davis Road Church was one he especially loved. When Art was a young boy, horses and wagons took parishioners to church. It was nearly an all-day affair, with the women bringing a hearty meal to share at noon-time.  Mid-December brought frigid temperatures, and extra wool blankets in the wagon did little to ward off the cold. Then a blizzard came. Snowdrifts higher than wagon wheels halted travel. The Davis Road Church was isolated in the storm. The pastor and his family lived in the two rooms in the back of the church, but relied on the church families for weekly provisions. Now they were snowed in. The storm only worsened, and the wind whipped the snow drifts into impossible ice-mounds. But the church families knew they needed to reach the pastor and his family.  Uncle Art said our cousins down the road were a wild bunch. But they always cleaned up and went to church. ...

I managed to sneak in a beach walk just ahead of sunset, in between one of this week’s tremendous king tides. Massive driftwood logs were scattered across the shore as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. But now, everything was still. Not a single wave reached the shore. The final full moon of the year—the Cold Moon—brightened as the sun lowered in the sky. I knew I’d need to turn back soon, but I kept walking. I had names to speak aloud on that beach. There’s Wyatt—enduring brutal but lifesaving cancer treatment, but he should be celebrating new freedom from his recent high school graduation. And Cherie—who just lost her husband, Jim. Unexpectedly. Devastatingly. A loss that echos through her whole family. A heart torn open. There were so many other names. Every few steps, another came to mind. I prayed aloud for healing, for help, and for wholeness to return. This season brings long months of darkness, yet also twinkling lights—made all the more beautiful becaus...