I am sitting on the deck in the morning, with a stillness here that feels familiar in a different way than it did before I left. As I sit here, I realize that the feeling I have right now—this quiet sense of appreciation for where I am, for this space, for this moment—feels very similar to what I felt lying on the grass in Taizé, France near the pond. There is something about that connection that I do not want to lose. It feels like a bracket around the entire trip, from the morning I left to this morning now, and it tells me that something carried through, not just something I experienced there.

The morning before I left comes back clearly. Sitting out here with the fire pit going, watching the birds come alive one at a time, I remember being aware of my thoughts in a way that felt different. The anxiety was present—there was plenty to be thinking about with the house, the window, the HVAC, leaving everything behind—but it did not take over. I could see it without being pulled into it. That awareness stayed with me as I traveled, even through the stress of getting through DFW and making the connection. It rose and settled without escalating, and by the time I arrived in Paris, I was already in a different place internally than I usually am when I travel.

Paris itself met me differently than I expected. It was not a smooth, romantic entry into the city. It was crowded, complex, and at times disorienting. There were moments that slowed down—walking, sitting, being present—but much of it required attention, navigation, adjustment. And in that, I could see how quickly I move into trying to manage everything around me.

The moment in the Church of Saint-Séverin in the Latin Quarter was the first of several clear revelations for me. When I saw the stained glass window depicting the crucifixion, I found myself focusing on the people who either would not or could not help Jesus in that moment. The disciples who betrayed him and denied him through short-sightedness and fear, and the women who watched powerlessly as he died. It struck me that I was every one of those at one point or another in my life, yet Jesus shared the Passover and the Eucharist with them knowing they would betray, abandon, or stand powerless in the end. Yet he did that for them, proving that God’s love is for all.

I retired early from serving as a pastor because of a lifetime of trying to do what is right, yet I carried a similar weight with me most of my life. After retiring from that role in ministry, I began to realize how I was being driven by self-sacrifice in the church, and I needed to care for myself first and do what is right not to prove how good I am, but to care for myself in the same way Jesus cared for his disciples. To love myself for who I am. At that moment, I felt the love of my family free from my accomplishments or work. I am loved. And I realized that God’s love for me is even greater still.

The day in the Latin Quarter brought everything into sharper focus. It had been building throughout the day—moving through the city, trying to get to places that were closed, the yarn store, the walking, the shifts in my blood sugar, trying to keep things moving—and then it came to a point where I could see something in myself that I have probably been carrying for a long time.

I could see how quickly I tend to move into managing any experience. I try to anticipate, adjust, hold things together, and somewhere in that I begin to equate that effort with love. Naming that I have been merging responsibility with love landed with a clarity that I could not ignore. It was not theoretical. It was happening in real time.

What stands out just as much is what happened after that. When Kelley stepped in and took over, when I let go of trying to manage and allowed her to lead us through the rest of the day—to the yarn store, through Luxembourg Gardens, into a different rhythm—the entire feel of the day shifted. It did not become perfect, but it became different in a way that I could feel. There was more space, less pressure, more presence. That contrast is something I want to hold onto, because it shows me two very different ways of being in the same relationship and the same moment.

Writing in Paris opened up quickly once I stopped trying to control it. Sitting in the café, then in the garden, and later in that sunroom, I found myself leaning into a kind of morning pages approach—just writing freely, emptying out my thoughts without trying to shape them. That created momentum almost immediately. Ideas started connecting, themes started forming, and the act of writing itself felt lighter and more natural. Finishing the LifeNet article there, in that space, felt significant—not just because it was done, but because of how it came together. It was not forced.

On the journey from Paris to Taize, I finished a new book by Jim Collins entitled, What to Make of a Life.  I bought it the day it was released, and it helped tremendously as I moved from my incredible time with Kelley in Paris to my experience with my colleagues in Taize.  His book explores the “encoding” that each person has–like a combination of my understanding of passion, spiritual gifts, talents, and flow – those times I can get totally lost in my work, often when I’m reading and writing.  I was curious about his approach, and it drew me in.  The question at the center of that book—how to measure a life, what actually matters when everything is said and done—met me in that moment when I was already stripped of most of the usual noise and structure. It was not about achievement or output. It was about alignment—what I am choosing to give my life to, and whether my actions actually reflect that. It hit me at that moment that I wasn’t trying to reinvent myself, but find myself.

The question shifted while I was at Taize.  I treasured the time to read and write each afternoon, but my phone battery was degrading and soon I went old-school and returned to paper and pen. I found myself using some of Julia Cameron’s techniques in her “Morning Pages” – just letting my writing become a flow of consciousness.  I used to do it a lot more and it can look like a jumbled mess.  Words, pictures, lines, squiggles covered the little journal I purchased, and it opened the floodgates of my mind.  It moved away from trying to figure out what I am supposed to do and toward something more direct: am I willing to organize my life around what I already know is true, and am I willing to act on that without continuing to refine it indefinitely. That feels like a different kind of question, one that requires a different kind of response.

Taizé was full of surprises. An intentional community of Catholic and Protestant monks, thousands of visitors from around the world, and a way of living that was not dependent on donations alone but on shared work—pottery, crafts, and in-kind contributions that supported the life of the community. It was the most diverse community I have been part of, not just in who was there, but in how intentionally it was structured to include people across languages, cultures, ages, and traditions.

Worship there reflected that same level of intentionality. Multiple languages, contemplative songs, long periods of silence, and a rhythm that required patience, release, and participation. Sharing communion in that space, with Catholics and Protestants from a wide range of interpretations, felt significant in a way that is hard to fully capture. It was a visible expression of unity that did not erase differences but held them together in something larger.

The group I traveled with added another layer to that experience. We were not all the same. In fact, we were very different—backgrounds, personalities, ways of thinking.  We were different enough that moving together required something from each of us.  Learning how to support each other, how to navigate differences, how to travel together in a way that required flexibility and grace. And in that, we were experiencing in a smaller way what Taizé was demonstrating on a much larger scale.

Then, there was a particular moment in worship in which Brother Matthew, the prior of the Taize Community, took questions from the community.  When Brother Matthew stood to take questions, someone asked what most of us carry quietly: how do I know what God wants me to do with my life? His answer stopped me before he even finished the response. He began by saying that first and foremost, we must learn that we are loved!  I remember having to listen carefully because of the simultaneous translations from his French into German and English, but internally, that sentence was clear and overwhelming to me.

As I have gone back to that moment, it has continued to open up. If the “one thing” — the meaning of life, the starting point, the foundation –  is simply to know that I am fully and unconditionally loved, then that changes the order of everything.  It does not disappear, but it shifts into place.

It took me back to Joe Simco, a church member and friend at Harmon, who years ago said that Christianity came down to one single thing:  “love, love, love.”  I remember chuckling that he said it three times, but all of the sudden it now lands with a different kind of weight. It feels more true than much of what I have learned through graduate school, preaching, and years of study. If I actually live from the place of knowing that I am loved—not proving it, not earning it, not reinforcing it, but simply knowing it—then everything else would flow from that in a way that is far more natural than what I try to construct.

That moment did not answer every question. It changed the order of the questions.

When I returned to Paris before flying home, I went out for a run and did not come back the same way I left. I ran and walked for nine miles through streets I did not fully know, without a plan for pace or distance, and when I was done I felt nothing but alive. No consequences the next day, no recovery debt, no physical body telling me I had asked too much. I believe that was because I didn’t run to hit a goal, although I did really want to run the Avenue des Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe (and I did, but it wasn’t nearly what I thought it would be when I planned it!). I just ran because I could, and even though I was using my GPS to find my way around, I eventually put it away and decided just to follow my heart.  I ran past the Eiffel Tower three times because it’s what I wanted to do.  I ran down the river Seine because Kelley and I had walked there the week before. I ran until I recognized something and found my way back to the hotel tired but stronger than when I left. It was the single most enjoyable run of my life. 

Now, sitting back on the deck, I can feel how all of these pieces connect without needing to force them into a single conclusion. I went to Taizé to write, run, and sing. Nothing is new, but everything is new.  As I sit here in the same place I started, there is a quiet sense that what I felt lying in the grass at Taizé did not stay there. It came back with me, and it is present here now in a way that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

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