by Lori Wilson As I listened to the Gospel one Sunday in April, I recognized myself. I am Thomas, at least some of the time. I question things. How do you know? Show me. Where did you hear that? Asking for more information has never felt like a character flaw to me. It's simply how I'm wired. And I've come to believe that God made me this way on purpose. So when I hear Jesus' response to Thomas, I don't hear rebuke so much as invitation. Come. See. Touch. Know. I have had mom

by Lori Wilson Recently, I descended into Indian Echo Caverns in Pennsylvania—just 100 feet below the surface, yet it felt like entering another world entirely. Our small group moved through narrow passages and vast chambers, our guide's voice echoing off ancient stone. Then, at one point deep in the cave, he turned out the lights. The darkness was absolute. Complete. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. And the silence—it wasn't just the absence of sound but something

by Lori Wilson I'm beginning to notice how certain weather patterns call me into a deeper stillness, into a day of true contemplation. A heavy snowfall invites me into profound quiet. I find myself noticing gifts I might otherwise take for granted - the warmth of radiators humming, coffee steaming in my hands, the weight of a blanket, the companionship of those nearby, the technology that lets me text my children and check in with friends. Snow creates this cocoon of awarenes

by Lori Wilson I've spent this week at the Atlantic Ocean, and I find myself reluctant to leave. I live beside Long Island Sound, and there's something about being near big water that opens me to the sacred. On my kayak, or walking the shoreline, I feel the closeness of God in ways that don't always come as easily in other places. This week, as I walked contemplating the ocean's immensity, six dolphins appeared, swimming in the same direction I was walking. I felt their compa

by Lori Wilson As fall has ended and we approach winter, I’ve noticed even the most stalwart leaves have finally fallen. Looking out my living room window, what was once hidden behind green, then red foliage has given way to a clear view of the Sound. My sight line has been transformed—I can see more now. As I live into this Advent season, I find that thought echoing in my heart: I can see more now. I’m sinking into the gift to the world of Jesus—a model of love I can lean in

by Lori Wilson "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." These words from Ecclesiastes keep echoing in my heart this fall. I live in the northeastern United States, where we have the blessing of four distinct seasons—each beautiful, each different. And yet, if I'm honest, I catch myself complaining. The heat and humidity of summer. The fleeting nature of spring. The bitter cold and ice of winter. And fall? Fall is usually the hardest season