Last Sunday morning we were on time to church for probably the first time in a year. 

Possibly because the day before, I was the third to shower within 25 minutes and consequently, my shower was cold.

So on Sunday morning, I woke up early to beat the rush. With six bodies needing to be washed—our four, plus Thomas, plus a friend who’d slept over—there was no time to dawdle.

We arrived just early enough that we were asked to serve communion, and then Mike didn’t come into service. Instead, he was busy talking to a staff member as part of his new part-time church job. 

Margaret took his place, distributing bread while I held out the wine.

People of all ages, shapes, and sizes came to the feast. And what a feast it was. I’m not sure anyone has ever seen such large pieces of communion bread. They were two, maybe three biters at best, some the size of small dinner rolls. This unbridled generosity required us to replenish Margaret’s communion supply with the other half of the loaf, the one left on the plate after breaking bread.

In Margaret’s defense, HOPE’s communion bread is very, very good. 

“The body of Christ,” she repeated, filling palm after open palm.

“The blood of Christ,” I followed, my focus wandering at times from the person in front of me to the girl at my side. 

I marveled at Margaret then, as she passed huge heaps of fluffy white dough to one parishioner after another. Margaret, my often shy daughter, who takes her time to warm up to new places and new people, and for whom change is…well, the worst. Here, she was joyfully trying something new.

“Who is this girl?” I thought. 

It’s a question I’ve often posed over the years.

I remember when Margaret was born—she came quickly after labor so fast I didn’t have time to think about what would come next. 

We didn’t know if she would be a boy or a girl, and in the end, it was just Margaret, filling out our family and bringing a spirit all her own to our home. 

Margaret was a curious baby, always taking in the world around her, much quieter than her brother and yet more fiery, too. 

I see so much of Mike in her—the sly smile, the perfectly timed joke, the intense independence. They both share a rebellious streak. Ask them to do something, anything, and they’ll drag their heels. Give them space and suddenly you’ll come home to a completely organized garage, or other times, you’ll find that part of the house has been demoed. 

Over the years I’ve sometimes wished to change my spouse or to make my children more compliant. I’ve cajoled and dropped countless less-than-subtle hints. But my family members each march to the beat of their own drums, Margaret most of all.

And it’s not because she doesn’t care; Margaret cares fiercely for those she loves. She is thoughtful and kind and brave. And in the same breath she seems to know exactly who she is and what she wants. Margaret simply doesn’t entertain the idea that things might not go her way.

I have a little of that persistence in me too. I don’t give up easily when I want something badly enough. And Mike, he may be as stubborn as they come. 

What I haven’t always gracefully accepted, though, is that I can’t approach people in the same way I approach my goals. I haven’t always acknowledged that I can’t mold others’ lives to fit some ideal image. 

While I can see so clearly the future I want, I can’t orchestrate who others become, or how long the becoming takes.

For example, if you would have told me years ago that the man I married would someday work at a church, and that me, a double pastor’s kid who sometimes hated church, would be fine with it…well, I’m not sure I would have gone along with that story. But then again, HOPE isn’t any ordinary church, and Mike isn’t any ordinary husband. Still, it makes me laugh sometimes to think about how the guy who refused to sit anywhere but in the very back, the spot he affectionately dubbed, “Sinners’ Row,” now voluntarily attends service, and is on staff to boot. I suppose stranger things have happened.

And who is my firstborn, whom I spied last night reading his new Bible before bed. 

“I want to read a chapter every time I pick it up,” he told me, his tone serious. 

It was yet another motherhood moment where I had to play it very cool, lest I kill the vibe. 

“That sounds like a good plan,” I replied evenly, not one shred of emotion playing out on my face. 

And so we read from Genesis, about the great flood that happened when Noah was 600-some-years old, at least according to that translation. Graydon had by then already covered the earth’s creation. He’d already read about all that God had made. He knew how God gazed upon it and called it good. 

Just like Margaret serving communion, and Mike at church, and Gray with his Bible reading that I most certainly did not encourage, people have the tendency to surprise you. That is, when you allow them to rise to the occasion. Or rather, when you move your little body out of their way, sometimes forcibly, if you’re me.

I’m working on that last part—transitioning from the orchestra conductor to an audience member who gets to enjoy the music. No longer directing but instead, allowing the ending to unfold around me however it will, my emotions along for the ride.

After communion on Sunday we selected a Star Word, which pastor Jennie explained was less horoscope, more meditation aid.

The use of star words, also called “star gifts,” is a prayer practice connected to Epiphany and the new year that has been growing in popularity in Protestant churches for nearly a decade now. The idea is that a list of intention words, or guiding words, are written or printed on paper stars. These paper stars are then arranged, most commonly face down, on the Communion Table or in a large basket. At some point during your Epiphany service, individuals are invited to draw a word from the basket or off the Table, and to use that word as a guiding word throughout the year. Typically, participants are encouraged to trust the word they have drawn, and not to replace the word. Individuals are often encouraged to place their star word somewhere they will see it regularly throughout the year to allow consistent reflection on how God has moved through, around, or in connection to that word. Source. 

Out of the basket I pulled the word Goodness. 

Goodness, as in integrity, the dictionary told me. As in conduct that conforms to an accepted standard of right and wrong.

You can imagine that definition didn’t sit quite well with me. Me, as in, double pastor’s kid. Or, better yet, as in, surrounded by family members each marching to different rhythms.

As I meditated on the word, I began to wonder if goodness is less about a strict boundary between right and wrong, less about being of unimpaired or perfect condition. 

Perhaps the real definition of goodness is seeing the good in what’s been created and is still being created, with or without our meddling. 

So much of the new year is dedicated to making plans—plans to change our very core, to emerge anew. We do cleanses and create workout schedules, we revisit financial spreadsheets, crunch numbers, and wonder where we may end up come December. 

And at the end of every year, I find myself having mostly stayed on the path I’ve always followed. My investments may rise or fall, my waistline may expand or contract, and yet despite it all I’m still becoming who I am. The people around me are becoming who they are, too, with or without my influence.

I still have goals, yes, and knowing me, I will still approach them with determination. But maybe this year, I can rest in the goodness of what is. Perhaps if I stop trying to control every outcome, I can float in the current at times, allowing the waves to take me where I was always meant to go.

Because regardless of any effort on my part, there is goodness all around me. 

This is good, I thought on Sunday, watching my teal-haired daughter serve communion to each and every person, to her proud uncle, and finally, to me. 

This is good, I thought, spying through the crack in Gray’s door, watching him read from the Bible.

This is good, I thought, looking at myself in the mirror, still the same person I’ve always been.

This year, I hope we can all let life unfold as it will, allowing abundance to find us waiting with open palms, delighted when we receive a Margaret-sized portion.

And when this year comes to an end, I hope we can gaze upon what’s been created, and call it good.