I Didn’t Sit Through the Sermon

I was walking around the church with my son during service.

Our building is set up in a circle,
with the auditorium in the center.

So as I followed him around—
passing by the doors,
catching glimpses of everyone sitting inside—

I had a thought I didn’t expect.

This is hard right now.

Not being able to sit through a full sermon.
Not being in the room the whole time.
Not experiencing church the way I used to.

But it would be so much harder
if this looked different later.

If he were older
and I was trying to convince him to come.

Trying to get him to sit.
Trying to get him to care.

Because right now?

He loves it.

He loves going to church.
He loves going to Bible class.
He wants to be here.

And I realized something in that moment.

Even though I haven’t sat through a full sermon
in quite some time…

I’m still being taught.

Just not in the way I expected.

Not from a stage.
Not from a seat.

But in the middle of following him around,
in the middle of these small, shifting moments—

there’s still something to take in.

And maybe I’m learning just as much as he is.


“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
— Matthew 19:14 (NIV)

The Table Set Before Me

This morning felt like holy chaos.

My sister came with her four little ones,
and I had Beckett.

We spilled across multiple rows in the Father’s house —
passing babies from arm to arm,
slipping in and out of the pews,
quieting cries,
sharing smiles.

It was loud and unpolished,
and yet somehow,
it was perfect.

Because even here —
in the bustle and the noise,
in the interruptions and the laughter —
I could feel it:

“You prepare a table before me.”
— Psalm 23:5

Not a table set with silver and stillness,
but one overflowing with family,
with joy,
with the sacred sound of being together.

This is the feast I didn’t know I was hungry for.
And this is the house where my cup runs over.