God

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Hope in Dangerous Days

This devotion was written at the request of the president of the organization for which I work. I was able to share it at our board meeting on February 6th, 2026. It is in response to national and global events.

Last week most of our chaplains gathered in Chicago. During our time together, our chaplains from our Minnesota campus shared about the emotional state of their staff and residents in light of the ICE presence in Minneapolis and recent violent and deadly clashes on their streets. That time increased our sense of burden for our people. We gained a greater awareness of the vulnerability that many are feeling. And there was a pressing urge to speak out or to do something that mattered. We ended that time with lament and prayer. 

Maybe your neighborhoods are quiet and calm. Maybe your home is peaceful and distanced from upheaval. Maybe you feel secure and safe in your daily life. If that is the case for you, praise God for that! Truly.

But did you know that right now, across the world there are 11 civil wars being fought? There are 19 countries dealing with terrorist insurgencies. There are two major interstate wars. There are armed gangs that control life in Haiti, and this daily reality has a real impact on many of my coworkers. There are people like my brother-in-law Fernando, and Andres—the guy who sold me a car last weekend—who are here in the US with legal documentation, but they live everyday with a heightened sense of risk. When they leave their homes and families to go to work or to get groceries, they know it’s possible that they may not return.

There are times and places where life feels stable and safe, and there are times and places where life quakes with vulnerability. The distance between these two existences can be paper-thin. So what do we do when the world around us seems unrecognizable? When the headlines fill us with uncertainty or angst. When we have friends or loved ones who are at risk? How do we keep on doing everyday things like board meetings or focus on things like customer service in all this madness? 

In the autumn of 1939, C.S. Lewis was not yet famous. He was 41 years old and a tutor and fellow at Oxford University. He studied and taught and published two books that year, but that year was anything but normal. Germany and the Soviet Union had invaded Poland. France and England responded with a declaration of war in September, and WWII began. 

With war as his daily backdrop, Lewis was invited to preach at a local church. He titled his sermon “Learning in War Time.” At the pulpit Lewis argued that if we postpone things like the search for knowledge or the pursuit of beauty until all of life is secure for everyone, the search would never begin. He reminded his audience that there has never been a time without crises of all kinds. As he put it, “human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice.” 

Lewis asked the same question that many of us are asking in light of what’s going on in our world today. In his words: “how can we continue to take an interest in placid occupations when the lives of our friends and the [freedom of nations*] are in the balance? Is it not like fiddling while Rome burns?” 

I’ll put it another way—is there value in continuing ordinary things when there are life and death battles being fought? Lewis answered yes, and I agree. He and I share a world view as children of God. We believe that every ordinary task has value when it is offered to God, even if the world is falling to pieces. In his sermon, Lewis urged his listeners to heed St. Paul’s instructions to the Corinthian church, “whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God” (1 Cor 10:31). 

We may be living on the edge of a precipice, but daily life does not stop. Ordinary things must happen in extraordinary times. We still need people focused on making food, fixing roofs, delivering medicine, washing floors, welcoming visitors, and yes, even participating in long board meetings. We can do all of this with deep purpose and satisfaction, knowing that through them we honor God.

But in war time, we should be even more focused on doing little things with great love. In his letter to the Corinthians, Paul also said, “No one should seek their own good, but the good of others” (1 Cor. 10:24). In these words I hear an advancement of the second greatest commandment: “love your neighbor as yourself” (see Matt 22:36-39).

For those of us whose streets are safe and lives are stable, our sacred work is to listen well and hear the voice of all those crying out to God for mercy. To see our neighbors and their needs and to be moved to serve, care, or advocate as we are able. As Micah 6:8 says, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”  

Following Jesus is a costly choice. This ‘loving others as yourself’ is usually uncomfortable because it stretches our empathy. It may even lead to personal sacrifices. Jesus warned his disciples that their future would hold ridicule, rejection, false imprisonment, persecution, and for some, even death. He did not insulate them from the worst that the world would bring them. But he did offer them hope. 

Some of my favorite words of Jesus are found in John chapter 16. Jesus has laid out all the calamities coming for his followers. They were likely stunned into silence and shivering with fear. And then he said, “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (v. 33).

Hope in dangerous days is found in a savior who endured suffering, defeated death, broke the power of sin, and rose from the grave so he could bring abundant life to others. As God’s people, our daily action plan for life on the precipice is to do likewise: to love others generously and to do even ordinary tasks as sacred acts of worship. The ominous headlines of the world cannot lead our hearts or actions astray! We must stay rooted in the enduring hope that only God provides.

I will close by reading a poem by a little-known pastor, professor, and poet, named Dr. Gerhard Frost. I encourage you to receive it as a prayer.


If I am asked
what are my grounds for hope,
this is my answer.
Light is lord over darkness,
truth is lord over falsehood,
life is lord over death.
Of all the facts I daily live with
there is none more comforting
than this: If I have two rooms,
one dark, the other light,
and I open the door between them,
the dark room becomes lighter
without the light room
becoming darker. I know
this is no headline,
but it’s a marvelous footnote.
And God comforts me in that.

Lewis’ “Learning in Wartime” can be read here: https://www.christendom.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/02/Learning-In-Wartime-C.S.-Lewis-1939.pdf. *This change is mine.

The poem cited above by Dr. Gerhard E. Frost is widely attributed to him online, but no one cites it’s original publication source. As his books are out of print, I cannot confirm authorship or source.

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Home

Where are you from? Where’s home? Everyone answers these questions at some point, but some of us answer more succinctly than others. The older I get and the more I move around the country, the more trouble I have telling people where I’m from.

If home was just about place, about where we are born and grow up, I could simply say that I’m from Columbus, Ohio. I grew up in a sprawling, suburban neighborhood where most of the streets are quaintly named after local trees and terrain – Circle on the Green, Oakbourne Court, Beechlake Drive. I lived on Hickory Ridge Lane. As a child, when I gave directions to our home, I always said the same thing: it’s the third house on the right, a white, two-story colonial with black shutters and a red door. I had no idea what “colonial” meant, but my parents always used that word, so I did too. Over the 18 years that I lived on Hickory Ridge, a few extra descriptors popped up – a basketball hoop, a wide-planked, white fence that ran along the path to the front door, and the red Mercury Tracer my brothers parked in the driveway after school hours. Our home was easy to find.

1328 Hickory Ridge

This is a recent picture of the Hickory house from the internet. The landscaping has changed a bit since I left for college in the 90’s. The bushes flanking the front door are different. The fence and basketball hoop are gone and so is the beautiful red maple that stood in the center of the front yard. The maple wasn’t planted deeply enough, so the roots that knotted and spread just below the grass caused many twisted ankles and made mowing the lawn into straight lines nearly impossible. For all its shade in the summer and the kaleidoscope of its leaves in the fall, the new owners were wise to remove that tree. So things have changed a bit at the Hickory house, but overall the picture is so similar to the one imprinted in my mind, that when I saw it I flushed with happy memories.

I have such nostalgia for my childhood home. I associate so many wonderful memories with that house and the life our family of five had there. To my great dismay, my parents sold the Hickory house during my freshman year of college and built a new home several towns over. Since they moved while I was away in California, I didn’t help pack or get to say goodbye to the life I had there. Maybe I was overly sentimental at 19, but I was really sad. I grieved the loss of that house like some people grieve the loss of a beloved pet. I realized that I’d never get to go home for the holidays and reminisce with my brothers when we saw our height measurements etched into the basement door. I’d never again have to wear thick socks on winter nights to protect my feet from those crazy cold hardwood floors. I’d never again earn five dollars a bucket or stain my hands black as I chucked rotting walnuts out of our backyard into the farmer’s field. I’d never again be woken by the chattering of the raccoon family that lived atop the chimney outside my bedroom window. My life on Hickory Ridge Lane was suddenly closed like the cardboard boxes my parents packed and sealed. Nevertheless, it would remain the home of my heart for many years.

For all the stability of place I’d know the first 18 years of my life, I’ve since learned that home is an adaptable concept. I’ve now lived in 5 more states and in Canada. While the idea of moving this much is foreign to baby boomers, those of us from Gen X and Gen Y see it as the way things are. Few of us expect to work 10 years for the same company in the same location, let alone 30+. If I can be my own judge, I think it’s fair to say that I’m rockin’ the modern-American-nomad thing. Some people have heard my story or looked at my resume and wondered if I’m flighty, lack commitment, or if I’m a lost soul. None of those are true. I do have an adventurous spirit. I love to explore, learn new cultures and meet new people. And I follow where God leads me. Sure, I’ve lived a lot of places, but that doesn’t mean I’m a hippie, aimless or running from something. When I land some place new, I dig in. My top priority – more important than finding the best grocery store, a reliable mechanic, or my new doctor’s office – is to cultivate relationships.

I’ve discovered in adulthood that I can’t call a place home until I there’s someone I can call and invite to a movie, someone to share rich conversation over good coffee, people who I can call friends. As I’ve moved around, I’ve learned that home is not bound by a sense of place or limited to a physical structure. It’s just too big a thing to be bound by earth, drywall and shingles. Home, for me, is a spiritual thing. It’s about planting yourself deeply in a community of souls. It’s about knowing and loving yourself and standing confident in that, but then deeply intertwining your soul with others’ and growing together.

Now when I think of home, I think of visiting my friend Karen during frigid Boston winters and laughing at ourselves as we ran out at night for pints of ice cream. I think of sharing a sunny park bench with Stephanie as we watched her daughters play. More sister than friend, Stephanie and I talked all day for four days when I visited this May. After I left, her oldest, Seraphina, observed this about her usually introverted mother, “You and Auntie Coco sure do like to talk a lot.” Home is the warm feeling that spreads from my chest to my fingertips when I snuggle with a new baby nephew or niece. It’s the joy I felt officiating Emily and Matthew’s wedding and standing up as the maid of honor for Holly and Dave. Home is realizing how much I am loved as cards and kind words piled up after my recent ordination. It’s the few days every year when I get together with my college roommates Elizabeth, Monica and Brooke. We laugh (or giggle in Liz’s case), eat really good pub food, and share totally real conversation about what’s happing in our lives and souls.

For this nomad, home is a spiritual thing. It’s about knowing and being known, loving and being loved. It’s got everything to do with my ability to see and acknowledge God’s presence in my life and very little to do with where I live. It’s more about gardening than using a GPS.

This is exactly why I feel settled and at home no matter where I live. It’s why I feel no fear, only excitement, knowing that I will be moving from Hawaii to California and starting all over again in January. But it’s also why I have such a hard time answering questions like, “Where are you from?” No one expects me to wax poetic about things like trees and friendship and God, but that is the best, most real answer I have. Don’t worry though. I usually have mercy on unsuspecting victims and simply say, “Columbus, Ohio.”

And then, maybe, I add a few sentences about life on Hickory Ridge Lane.