Unlikely Altars
Where the Sacred Hides in Plain Sight
If potholes jar you and gravel unnerves you, crashes just flat-out take you down. Every cyclist knows that sinking feeling: one second you’re upright, the next you’re tangled in a mess of handlebars, chain grease, and pride. Sometimes you get up with nothing worse than road rash. Other times, you limp away with scars that last a lifetime. I know this one by heart. A few winters ago, the Sunday after the Houston big freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail planning to ride 60 miles before meeting friends for lunch. The pavement looked clear enough, but an innocent-looking patch of slush sent my wheels out from under me. I unclipped but for some reason did it awkwardly, and in a blink my ankle snapped. Just like that, I went from riding free to riding in an ambulance. The 60 miles became 30 miles and the lunch never happened. The aftermath wasn’t pretty. A bunch of screws and plates held my ankle together for a while. My X-rays looked like something from a Home Depot catalog. Eventually, the hardware had to come out because it caused more trouble than it solved. I still keep the X-ray pictures ( the graphics are of my right ankle that was broken ). They’re not pretty, but they preach. Proof that I was broken. Proof that I healed. Proof that sometimes resurrection comes with plates and screws. Today, I carry the memories more than the metal—reminders of both the fragility of the human body and the stubbornness of the human spirit. Life hands us crashes too. The divorce you never saw coming. The diagnosis that stops you in your tracks. The job loss that pulls the rug out from under you. The phone call in the middle of the night that changes everything. Unlike potholes or gravel, these aren’t moments you just “ride through.” They take you down. They hurt. They leave scars. And sometimes they leave you wondering if you’ll ever get back up. Here’s the thing about scars: they don’t lie. They’re honest in a way that words sometimes aren’t. A scar is proof that something hurt you, but it’s also proof that the hurt didn’t win. It tells the whole story—pain and healing, breaking and mending, falling and rising again. Scars are strange that way. They mark the places of our deepest weakness, and at the same time they become signs of our resilience. They whisper both, “This is where you were broken,” and, “This is where you got back up.” My orthopedic surgeon was proud that he’d done the surgeries on my ankle without leaving any visible scars. I told him, half-joking, that I kind of wanted the scars—for the stories, of course. He grinned and said, “Well, I could always draw one on for you.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Then you can just get a tattoo artist to make it permanent.” For a split second, I almost agreed. I can laugh about it now, but the point still stands: scars—real or imagined—carry meaning. They’re proof that you’ve been down, but also proof you got back up. And isn’t that what resurrection really is? Not pretending the crash never happened, but living as proof that it didn’t get the last word. The first ride back after my ankle healed was equal parts joy and terror. My mind kept replaying the fall, reminding me how fragile the body—and confidence—can be. Every turn of the pedal felt risky. Every shadow on the trail looked like another slush patch. But slowly, something shifted. I felt the rhythm again. The tires began to hum. The fear started to fade, replaced by the familiar freedom of the ride. That’s resurrection. Not everything going back to “the way it was,” but the courage to try again after you’ve been broken. Resurrection is about scars that don’t disappear but no longer define you. It’s about grace that meets you in the getting back up. Cyclists trade crash stories the way kids trade baseball cards. Each one carries a mix of pain, pride, and proof of survival. And maybe that’s part of the healing too—learning to laugh at what once felt impossible. I still tell mine with a grin: the slush patch, the screws, the hardware catalog X-rays, and yes—even the surgeon who offered to draw me a scar. Sometimes laughter is its own kind of resurrection. For me, even the crash became an Unlikely Altar. It’s where I was reminded of how breakable we all are—and how much strength we can find in the getting back up. It’s where I learned that scars are more than reminders of pain; they are testimonies of healing. Life’s crashes will come. They’ll hurt. They’ll mark us. But they don’t have the last word. Sometimes they become the very place where resurrection breaks through, where grace shows up, and where we discover that even broken bones—and broken lives—can be made strong again.
Today is World Communion Sunday. Which means that somewhere, in every time zone and in every language you can imagine, bread is being broken and a cup is being shared. In a cathedral, a golden chalice gleams in the candlelight. In a village, a clay jug is passed under a mango tree. Somewhere it’s pita, somewhere it’s tortilla, somewhere it’s store-brand sandwich bread stacked on a plate from Dollar General. Somewhere it’s juice poured from a crystal cruet; somewhere else, it’s grape Kool-Aid in a plastic cup. And in every place, somehow, grace shows up. That’s the beauty of this day. We don’t all look the same, worship the same, or sing the same. But somehow, across all that difference, we are one table. And even though I won’t be sitting in a pew today, this day still matters to me. Because communion has never only belonged to the altar rail. It shows up wherever bread is broken and barriers are broken down. In casseroles left on a grieving neighbor’s porch, when words aren’t enough but lasagna might be. In coffee shared with someone you thought you’d never forgive. In the chips and salsa that disappear between two friends who haven’t spoken in years, laughter somehow louder than the silence that came before. In a hospital room where a nurse breaks a graham cracker in half and shares it with a patient who hasn’t eaten in days. At a kitchen table, where grace is passed not with liturgy but with a smile, a story, and another helping. Communion is always more than bread and cup. Always more than a line down the aisle. Always more than church on a calendar day. Communion isn’t just vertical, between me and God. It’s horizontal too. It’s what binds us to one another, even in our doubts, our baggage, and our brokenness. It’s why Paul called us “one body.” One loaf. One world. I think that’s what I need to remember in this season: God’s table stretches wider than the walls of any church. Wide enough for my stubbornness, my questions, my wandering. Wide enough for saints and skeptics, doubters and disciples, those who are sure and those who are just hanging on. And communion always points forward. It’s never just about what’s on the table right now—it’s a foretaste of the feast to come. That banquet where nobody leaves hungry, nobody gets left out, and maybe Jesus even does the dishes. That vision gives me hope. A messy, beautiful, stubborn hope. Because let’s be honest: communion has always been messy. There are crumbs on the carpet and fingerprints on the chalice. There are juice stains on white linens and laughter in the line. But that’s exactly what makes it real. Grace isn’t polished; it’s passed hand to hand, smudged with fingerprints, and still holy. That’s what makes it real. So today, even without a pew, I’ll watch for the Unlikely Altars . I’ll look for them in kitchens and coffee shops, hospital rooms and sidewalks, backyard barbecues and breakrooms. Anywhere bread is broken and barriers are broken down. Anywhere grace slips in through the cracks of ordinary life. Because communion is always more than one table. It’s God’s table, stretching as wide as the world. And somehow—by some mystery greater than I can explain—we all fit. The crumbs, the spills, the stubborn questions? They’re not proof we’ve failed. They’re proof that grace has come near. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the communion I need most right now. Maybe it’s the communion many of us need most right now. Maybe that is the true meaning of communion. Maybe that is what the bread and juice are really saying: You belong at the table, even when you doubt. You are part of the feast, even when you feel empty. Grace will m eet you here, crumbs and all.
If potholes jar you, gravel just unnerves you. Every cyclist knows the feeling. You roll onto a stretch of loose gravel and suddenly your bike has a mind of its own. The tires skitter. The handlebars wobble. You grip tighter, slow down, and pray you can keep your balance. Even the smoothest ride can turn into a nerve-wracking shuffle when the ground beneath you won’t hold. Life has those stretches too - - the seasons when nothing feels steady. When the GPS of your life suddenly says, “Recalculating…” When the bills keep coming but the paycheck doesn’t. When the path you thought was smooth suddenly shifts under your feet. Gravel moments leave you wondering if you can hold it together. When your road bike hits gravel and starts to slip, the key is to stay relaxed. Tensing up and overcorrecting almost guarantees a crash. The trick is to let the bike move slightly under you, maintain your momentum steady, and make subtle shifts in body weight until you regain your balance. Life asks for the same thing. When the ground feels unsteady - - when the diagnosis isn’t clear, when the job is shaky, when the future feels uncertain - - the temptation is to panic, to overcorrect, to grab the bars of life with a white-knuckle grip. But that only makes the wobble worse. What helps is loosening your grip just enough, trusting that balance can come back, and moving through the uncertainty one steady breath at a time. I once hit a patch of gravel on a bayou bike trail - - a trail I thought I knew well. One second, everything felt fine, the next, I was wobbling like a circus clown. My instinct was to clamp down on the bars until my knuckles hurt. Somehow, I stayed upright. Looking back, I must have looked ridiculous - - half praying, half growling, all nerves. But I made it through. Slowly. Carefully. One shaky pedal stroke at a time. And here’s the thing: gravel often shows up in the most unexpected places. A shoulder you thought was smooth, a bike lane that looked clear - - suddenly it’s loose, unstable, sketchy. One second you’re cruising, the next you’re praying you don’t slide out. Life feels the same way. The uncertainty sneaks up when you least expect it. I’ve felt that same wobble in life. When I was first diagnosed with Sjögren’s Disease, it was like the pavement turned to gravel overnight. The routines I counted on didn’t work the same way. Energy came and went unpredictably. Plans had to be adjusted or abandoned. My instinct was to muscle through. But the harder I pushed, the shakier I felt. And the truth is, it doesn’t matter which part of your life hits the gravel - - your health, your career, your relationships, or your finances. The wisdom is the same: slow down, breathe, and do whatever you can to stay upright. That’s also why I’m writing this. On group rides, gravel isn’t just your problem. If you see it up ahead, the right thing to do is point it out so the riders behind you don’t get caught off guard. A quick finger to the ground, a small gesture - - it’s a way of saying, “Heads up, this could take you down if you’re not ready.” Ride enough shoulders and bike lanes and you learn quickly: loose gravel is everywhere. Calling it out isn’t about being polite - - it’s about keeping people safe. Life works the same way. When you’ve been through uncertain seasons - - health scares, job shifts, grief, or change - - you can point them out for the people coming behind you. Not to scare them, but to say, “You’re not crazy. This road is rough. Slow down. Keep your balance. You’ll get through.” That simple act of looking out for each other? That’s its own kind of grace. Gravel also exposes our illusion of control. On solid asphalt, I can trick myself into thinking I’m in charge. On gravel, I’m reminded just how fragile balance really is. Life’s uncertainties do the same thing. They peel back the illusion and force me to admit: I never had as much control as I thought. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s the place where trust grows - - not on smooth pavement, but in the loose stones where I learn to lean on something bigger than myself. The good news? Gravel doesn’t last forever . Eventually, the road smooths out. You breathe a little easier. The tires hum again. And when you get there, you don’t take it for granted. You savor it. Life’s uncertainties are like that too. They teach us to slow down, to pay attention, to trust that the uneven stretch won’t last forever. And when stability comes back, we see it as the gift it is. For me, even gravel becomes an Unlikely Altar . It’s where I learn to loosen my grip, to slow down, to breathe. It’s where my prayers sound less like sermons and more like whispers: “God, just get me through this stretch.” And often, that’s enough. The road may still feel shaky, but grace shows up in the very act of staying upright.
I magine standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands. Ten days of fasting, soul-searching, and prayer have led to this moment. All eyes turn to one man—the High Priest—who disappears behind a curtain to stand before God on behalf of the people. It’s Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Jewish year. A day of forgiveness, humility, and a fresh start. But here’s something easy to miss: before the High Priest can carry the sins of the people, he has to reckon with his own. He begins not with the sins of the nation, but with the sins of his own heart. He offers a bull as a sacrifice for himself. He admits his own failures. Even the holiest person in Israel isn’t holy enough to walk into the presence of God without first acknowledging his humanity. And then comes a second striking detail. On this one day, the High Priest takes off his elaborate, jewel-covered vestments—the outfit that signals his status, his sacred role, his authority—and dresses down in plain white linen. Simple clothes. Humble clothes. Human clothes. Can you imagine the scene? After days of fasting and prayer, the crowd holds its breath. The High Priest—no longer dazzling in gold or gemstones, but ordinary, like everyone else—steps into the Holy of Holies. The message is clear: before God, no one comes dressed in status. Only humility. Only honesty. Only as we really are. That moment—the stripping away of status, the exchanging of gold for linen—became its own altar. An unlikely altar. Not the stone altar in the Temple courts, but the altar of humility, honesty, and humanity. That was where the sacred met the ordinary: in the plain clothes of a man admitting he was just like everyone else. And maybe that’s the point. We spend so much of our lives dressing ourselves up—not just with clothes, but with titles, résumés, curated social media feeds, even the smiles we wear when our hearts are breaking. We signal to the world: “I’ve got it together. I’m fine. I’m in control.” But forgiveness and healing rarely come when we’re dressed up. They come when we dress down. When we admit we’ve messed up. When we show up with nothing to hide. When we strip away the roles and the armor and stand there, vulnerable, waiting for grace. I see this again and again in my work. At funerals, grief strips people bare. No one cares about résumés or bank accounts in that moment. What matters are the words left unsaid, the love given—or withheld—and the memories that linger. The sacred comes rushing in, not when we’re polished, but when we’re painfully real. I’ve seen it at weddings too. Beneath the formal clothes and pretty settings, the most powerful moments aren’t scripted. They happen when someone tears up, when a nervous laugh escapes, when the couple realizes this is bigger than their plans. It’s holy, precisely because it’s human. Yom Kippur reminds us that God doesn’t meet us in our perfection. God meets us in our honesty. In our need. In our humility. Tomorrow, Jewish communities around the world will mark the Day of Atonement by fasting, praying, and asking forgiveness—from God, from one another, and maybe even from themselves. For many, it will be a day of deep seriousness. For others, a day of relief, of release, of starting over. But even if you’re not Jewish, the pattern holds: forgiveness, humility, fresh starts. We all need those. We all need moments when we stop pretending we’re fine and admit we’re human. We all need the grace of beginning again. Maybe holiness isn’t found in dressing up, but in dressing down. Not in pretending to be more than we are, but in owning exactly who we are. Because that’s where the unlikely altar waits: not on a stage or in a temple, but in the ordinary, vulnerable moments when we finally get honest enough to let grace in.
If you ride long enough, you’ll eventually meet a pothole. Sometimes you see it too late and hit it head-on. Sometimes you try to swerve and still clip the edge. Either way, the result is the same: a jolt that rattles your teeth, jars your confidence, and makes you wonder if your wheels are still true. On a bike, potholes are a given. Roads crack. Asphalt crumbles. Weather wears things down. Even the best-maintained streets have weak spots. And the thing about potholes? You almost never hit them when you’re expecting to. They sneak up on you, hiding in the shadows, waiting just past the last curve. Life has its own potholes. The job loss you didn’t see coming. The diagnosis that drops in out of nowhere. The phone call that changes everything. Setbacks jar us the same way a pothole does. They shake our sense of control. They remind us how fragile things can be. And if we’re not careful, they can throw us completely off balance. I remember one ride in EaDo when I let my mind wander. I was in the zone, legs spinning, enjoying the day—and then wham. My front wheel found a crater I hadn’t seen. The jolt nearly knocked me over. I pulled to the side, heart pounding, and checked my bike. The wheel held, but the hit had me rattled the rest of the ride. That’s the thing about setbacks—they echo. After you’ve been jarred, even small bumps make you flinch. It takes time to trust the road again. And I’ve felt that same echo in life. I’ve been blindsided before—times when everything seemed smooth and then suddenly, the bottom dropped out. Ministry shifts I didn’t expect. Friendships that cracked. Health challenges that made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit. Just like on the bike, those potholes left me cautious, hesitant, scanning the horizon for the next crack in the road. When I hit a pothole on the road, my first reaction is usually not very holy. I grumble about the city workers who should’ve filled it. And if the jolt is especially bad, well… let’s just say a few words come out that you won’t find in the hymnal. But the truth is, we do the same thing in life. Something knocks us off balance, and our first instinct is to point a finger. Sometimes we turn it on ourselves, replaying the “ what ifs ” and “ should haves ” until we’re dizzy. Sometimes we turn it on others, blaming people who hurt us, failed us, or just happened to be standing too close when things fell apart. And sometimes—if I’m honest—we even point it at God, wondering why the road wasn’t made smoother in the first place. Here’s the problem: blame never fills the hole. It doesn’t fix the wheel. It just keeps us stuck, staring at the crack in the road instead of finding a way forward. Blame feels satisfying for about five minutes, but it doesn’t heal anything. What actually helps is taking a deep breath, naming the hurt, learning what we can—and then pedaling on. Here’s something every cyclist figures out sooner or later: if you lock your eyes on the pothole, you’re probably gonna hit the pothole. It’s like your bike reads your mind and says, “Oh, that’s where you’re looking? Great, let’s go there.” And worse, if you stare too long at what you’re trying to avoid, you might miss the car, the curb, or the rider right in front of you. Suddenly, the pothole isn’t your biggest problem anymore. Life works the same way. If all I can see is the setback—the thing that went wrong—I’ll end up running headfirst into it again, or crashing into something else entirely. The better move is to lift my eyes, find my balance, and look for a smoother path forward. Sure, potholes sting. They can bruise your pride or even bend your rim. But they don’t have to end the ride. Looking back, I realize potholes have taught me something important: smooth pavement is nice, but it rarely makes me stronger. It’s the potholes that remind me to stay alert, to pay attention, to appreciate the stretches of road that are even and kind. In life, setbacks can do the same. They teach us resilience, humility, patience. They remind us that perfection isn’t promised, but perseverance is possible. For me, even the pothole becomes an Unlikely Altar. It’s the place where frustration turns into prayer—sometimes an angry prayer, sometimes a desperate one, sometimes a simple sigh. The jolt in the road reminds me that I am not in control, but I am not alone. And somehow, grace shows up in the shaken balance, the deep breath, the steadying of hands on the bars.
The road is never perfectly smooth. Not when you’re riding a bike, and not when you’re living a life. I love to ride. My Trek Domane road bike isn’t just a machine—it’s my sanctuary on two wheels. There’s something holy about the rhythm of pedaling: lungs filling, legs burning, tires humming on the pavement. On a good day, it feels like prayer in motion. The wind in my face becomes grace I can feel. Out there, the noise of the world fades, and what’s left is rhythm, movement, and presence. But let’s be honest: every ride comes with hazards. There are potholes that sneak up out of nowhere, big enough to swallow a small child—or at least rattle your fillings loose. There’s loose gravel that suddenly turns you into a circus act, wobbling and praying you stay upright. There are dogs who seem to believe it’s their sacred duty to chase cyclists, even when they have no real plan for what they’d do if they caught you. There are squirrels with a death wish, darting across the path like my front wheel is the finish line of their personal Olympics. And there are headwinds—those invisible walls of air that make you wonder if you accidentally signed up for a spin class called Despair on Wheels. And then there are the crashes. I know this one by heart. After a winter freeze, I was riding the Braes Bayou Trail when my wheels found an ice patch. I didn’t unclip quickly enough, and in a blink, my ankle snapped. Seventeen screws and plates later, I had the kind of X-rays that could stop a conversation. For a while, all that hardware held me together. But it also caused its own complications, so eventually it had to be removed. The scars remain, both visible and invisible—a reminder that sometimes the repairs leave their own marks. Still, the bone is stronger for having been broken. And here’s why I’m writing about all this now: I’m finally back on the road. Sjögren’s Disease makes riding harder than it used to be—my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I want it to. But I’ve missed it more than I can put into words. There’s nothing like that moment when I swing a leg over, settle in, and hear the sharp click of my shoes clipping into the pedals. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. That little snap always makes me smile, because it means I’m moving again. It means the ride is starting, no matter what the road holds. For me, the bike has become an Unlikely Altar. Not a marble table in a sanctuary, but a frame on two wheels, carrying me down cracked asphalt and winding trails. Each ride is an offering of breath and sweat, joy and pain. The sound of clipping in feels almost sacramental, like lighting a candle or whispering a prayer. Even the hazards—the potholes, the gravel, the crashes, the scars—become part of that altar. They remind me that God shows up not only in smooth pavement, but in the rough patches too. Cyclists learn quickly: hazards are part of the ride. You can’t avoid them all, but you can learn how to face them. And the more I’ve ridden, the more I’ve realized that life works the same way. We all face hazards that throw us off balance: setbacks that jar us, seasons of uncertainty where nothing feels stable, full-on wrecks that leave us scarred, and invisible headwinds that sap our strength. Here’s the truth that keeps coming back to me: hazards don’t mean the ride is ruined. They mean the ride is real. That’s what this series is about. Over the next few weeks, I want to share what the road has taught me about life: Potholes and Setbacks – the jolts that come out of nowhere. Gravel and Uncertainty – when you have to slow down and find your balance. Crashes, Scars, and Resurrection – the wrecks that leave you marked, but not finished. Headwinds and Grace – the invisible resistance that tests your strength and teaches dependence. Cycling strips things down to the essentials. You can’t control the road, the wind, or the dog with a bad attitude. All you can do is keep your balance, keep your eyes ahead, and keep pedaling. Life’s the same way. Smooth pavement is nice, but it’s the hazards that teach us, shape us, and remind us we’re still moving forward. So clip in, take a deep breath, and join me. The road ahead won’t be perfect—but it will be full of grace, laughter, and maybe even a few good stories about dodging squirrels.
A couple of weeks ago I attended a Jewish wedding. The music was lively, the laughter contagious. But what caught my attention first wasn’t the dancing or the glass. It was the chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stands. Four simple poles, cloth stretched above, open on all sides. The chuppah isn’t just there for decoration. It is one of the most important symbols of the ceremony. It recalls the story of the Exodus, when a cloud led God’s people by day and fire by night. The Hebrew word shekinah describes that presence—not just glory, but the very dwelling of God among the people. Standing under the canopy, the couple is reminded that they are not alone in this covenant. Their love is sheltered, covered, surrounded . But the canopy carries more meaning still. Some rabbis say its four open sides recall Abraham’s tent; a home always open to strangers. In that sense, the chuppah is about hospitality—marriage as a space of welcome, a household where others are received. Others say it represents the sky itself, stretched above the couple like creation’s ceiling. Either way, the chuppah whispers that love is not private property. It is held within something larger, and it is meant to spill outward in welcome. And if the canopy over their heads spoke volumes, so did the calendar on which the day was marked. John tells us the wedding at Cana happened on “ the third day .” For first-century Jews, that wasn’t a throwaway detail. Weddings were often held on the third day of the week—Tuesday—because in the creation story, Tuesday is the only day God called good twice. A double blessing. Even today, some Jewish couples choose Tuesday for that reason. But “ the third day ” carried even more resonance. Again and again in Hebrew scripture, the third day was the day God showed up. Abraham saw Mount Moriah on the third day. God descended on Sinai on the third day. Esther put on her royal robes and went before the king on the third day. To say something happened on “the third day” was to say: expect God to arrive, expect deliverance, expect blessing. So John knew what he was doing when he set the Cana story on that day. It wasn’t just about the calendar. It was a signal: this is the kind of moment when heaven leans close. And when heaven leans close, the ordinary becomes charged with meaning. Even the wine. Wine is central at Jewish weddings, not just as refreshment but as covenant. The ceremony begins with blessings over the kiddush cup, sanctifying the marriage. Wine marks both betrothal (kiddushin) and marriage (nissuin). It’s more than a drink—it is joy, covenant, and abundance poured into a single cup. That’s why running out of wine at Cana wasn’t just awkward. Without wine, the celebration itself felt incomplete. So when the jars were filled and the steward tasted new wine, it wasn’t just about quenching thirst—it was about joy restored, covenant renewed, abundance overflowing. What I love most is that wine in Jewish tradition always carries both sweetness and seriousness. It’s laughter and gravity in a single sip. The sweetness of joy, the weight of commitment. Every toast raised holds both—celebration and promise mingled together. ( And really, it’s one of the few times in life when no one complains about being poured a second glass. ) All these details—the canopy overhead, the blessing of the third day, the wine in their hands—remind me that weddings were never just social events. They were sacred rehearsals of older stories, echoes of covenant, reminders that life itself is stitched together with meaning. Which brings me back to the wedding in Cana. John could have begun with something more dramatic: a healing, a resurrection, a thunderous sign. Instead, he begins with a wedding. A family gathering. A table that was about to run dry. It turns out he knew that the extraordinary often hides inside the ordinary. That the presence of God shows up not just in miracles, but in music and laughter, in promises and canopies, in glasses lifted high. Standing there that night, watching this couple under the chuppah, I realize the altar doesn’t have to be stone or wood. Sometimes it’s laughter under a canopy. Sometimes it’s a circle of dancers clapping to the beat. Sometimes it’s a blessing whispered in Hebrew, or a glass of wine raised in joy. And sometimes, for those who remember the old stories, it’s a promise that echoes even deeper: “I go to prepare a place for you.” Like a bridegroom building an addition onto his father’s house, love prepares room for another. That’s the heart of covenant—making space for someone else, not just in your home but in your life. A wedding. Some wine. And a promise. An unlikely altar, reminding us that love’s promise is always to prepare a place.
Lee Corso made a career out of three little words: “Not so fast!” Delivered with a grin, a wag of the finger, and just enough mischief to keep everyone guessing, it was part joke, part interruption, part blessing. When he said it for the final time on his last ESPN College GameDay , it struck me that those words might be the sermon we all need. Because if we’re honest, most of us are living way too fast. We rush through conversations, multitask our way through meals, scroll past sunsets we barely notice, and plan the next big thing while overlooking the small, holy things happening right now. We’re always sprinting toward “what’s next,” which means we rarely pause long enough to savor what is. In my work with grieving families, I hear a truth again and again: when someone we love dies, it isn’t the big occasions we miss most. It’s the little things . The way he’d whistle while cooking breakfast on a Saturday morning. The way she’d slip her hand into his during a TV show. The sound of her laugh carrying through the house. Those are the things that stick. The everyday moments we barely noticed while they were happening—until suddenly, they’re gone. And only then do we realize how sacred those little things really were. I miss my Saturday football bets with my stepdad—something we did almost every Saturday for years. It wasn’t about the money (there wasn’t much of that anyway). It was the rhythm: the calls, the smack talk, the friendly second-guessing of coaches who would never hear us. A ritual stitched together one autumn at a time. This year, I’m starting that ritual with my two grown sons. Different Saturdays, same heartbeat. Scores and spreads, sure—but mostly a reason to show up for each other. To hear their voices. To make the small thing big again. And I miss Scrabble games with my mom—the quiet competitiveness, the eye she’d give me when I “accidentally” used a questionable word. I miss her laugh most of all. That sound was its own benediction over an ordinary evening. Kids grow up too fast. Parents pass away too early. The calendar insists we keep moving. But Corso’s raspy little reminder pushes back: Not so fast, my friend. The Bible names this rhythm Sabbath—a weekly way of saying not so fast. Rest. Breathe. Remember you are more than what you produce. Jesus lived with that same unhurried attention: lilies, sparrows, children, a tax collector in a tree. He didn’t rush past them. He saw them. He made the little moments holy. I think that’s the secret inside Corso’s catchphrase. It interrupts our certainty and our speed. It creates a pocket of time where we can notice again—be it a goofy mascot head or the person sitting across the table. When we slow down, the little things become altars : The phone call that doesn’t have a “point” beyond hearing a familiar voice. The grandchild’s drawing stays on the fridge longer than the calendar says it should. The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up. A well-worn game board and a laugh that fills the room. These aren’t headlines. They’re sacraments of the everyday. And if we’re going too fast, we’ll miss them. Lee Corso’s farewell wasn’t just about football or mascot heads. It was about a life spent showing up, savoring the moment, and never taking himself too seriously. That’s what he gave us, week after week—a reason to laugh, to pause, to notice. And maybe that’s what made his catchphrase feel like a benediction. So maybe that’s the blessing we carry forward: Not so fast, my friend. Not so fast when grief feels like it should be over. Not so fast when joy seems too small to matter. Not so fast when life pushes you to hurry past the wonder of an ordinary day. Slow down. Breathe. Call your people. Place your tiles on the board. Make your silly bets. Laugh in the kitchen. The altar might already be right in front of you.
True confession: when I bartended my way through college, I hated cleaning the frozen margarita machine. Hated it. Sticky, messy, impossible to get right. I used to slip the busboy an extra tip just so he’d clean it for me. Maybe that’s why to this day I still don’t care much for frozen margaritas. But even beyond that, it took me a long time before I’d drink a Margarita at all — even on the rocks. Too many painful memories of the bar. Too many nights when the clink of glasses was covering up loneliness, or when laughter at the counter didn’t quite reach the heart. And then there were the Wednesday nights. At one bar I worked, it was “upside-down margarita night.” Ugh. Messy, noisy, and honestly, kind of humiliating. Tips usually sucked. Maybe that’s part of why the Margarita carried more sting than sweetness for me. So for me, the Margarita isn’t just about refreshment — it’s about redemption. A Margarita on the rocks, with a salted rim and freshly squeezed limes, became something different. Something honest. A reminder that joy can be real, not forced. That sweetness can hold its own, even alongside the sour. That salt doesn’t have to ruin the glass, but can frame it. Because the Margarita isn’t just a party drink — it’s a paradox in a glass. Sweet and sour. Joy and sting. Celebration rimmed with salt. It’s laughter with friends while tears are still fresh. It’s the reminder that life doesn’t come to us neat and tidy, but mixed — with both the ache and the joy in the same moment. I think about that every time I hear the phrase “ Celebration of Life .” That’s what we used to call funerals. And I’ll be honest — I chuckle to myself whenever I read that title. Because the truth is, very few people are celebrating in those moments. There are still plenty of tears, because someone we love is no longer with us. When my mom died, and later my stepdad, in many ways it was a blessing. They had both been sick for a while, and I was grateful their suffering was over. But did I celebrate? No. It was sad in so many ways. There were tears and stories and laughter, yes — but celebration? That word didn’t quite fit. I see it often when I lead funerals. Laughter breaks out as the stories are shared, as we remember the quirks, the good times, the little moments that made someone who they were. And then, just as quickly, the tears come. Because those same memories remind us there’s now an empty seat where they once sat, a silence where their voice used to be. It’s both at once — laughter and tears, sweetness and salt. And maybe that’s what the Margarita reminds us: life is mixed. You can’t sip only the sweet and ignore the sting. You take them together. And when you do, you discover even the salt rimmed around the glass has its place. Isn’t that life? Always both. The good and the bad, the sweet and the sour, the joy and the sadness. And if this were a country bar instead of a cocktail post, this is probably where someone would cue up Garth Brooks. Because he said it best in The Dance : “ I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance .” We don’t get one without the other. The tears prove the love was real. The ache shows us the joy was worth it. Grief, after all, is just love with nowhere to go. Or, as Winnie the Pooh so simply put it: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” May the salt on your lips remind you of the tears you’ve shed. May the sweetness on your tongue remind you of the joy that still lingers. May the stories you tell bring both laughter and ache — and may you know that even in the mixture of grief and gratitude, grace has a place at the table. Bar Lore Like many classic drinks, the Margarita’s exact origin is a little blurry. Some say it was first poured in Tijuana in the 1930s. Others claim it was invented for a Dallas socialite named Margarita. Another story points to Juárez in the 1940s. But what most agree on is this: it belongs to the “daisy” family of cocktails — a classic formula of spirit, citrus, and liqueur. In fact, “margarita” is Spanish for “daisy.” From its hazy beginnings, the Margarita grew into a worldwide favorite. Today it’s one of the most popular cocktails in the U.S. — whether served frozen (God help the poor bartender cleaning that machine) or shaken fresh over ice. Recipe: The Margarita 2 oz tequila (blanco or reposado) 1 oz Cointreau (or triple sec) 1 oz fresh lime juice Salt rim (optional, but highly recommended) Shake with ice, strain into a rocks glass with a salted rim. Garnish with lime. Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic tequila and orange liqueur alternatives with fresh lime. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.
I have a confession to make: I’m not a big Negroni drinker. It’s a little too bitter for me. I’ve heard bitterness is a taste you can develop, so maybe one day I’ll get there. For now, though, I’m defintely in the minority. You see, plenty of people love the Negroni. In fact, Drinks International recently asked a hundred bars across 33 countries to list their most popular classic cocktails. For the second year in a row, the Negroni took the crown. And it’s more than just a drink — it’s become a movement. Back in 2013, Imbibe Magazine launched Negroni Week , both as a celebration of one of the world’s great cocktails and as a way to raise money for charity. What started with about 120 bars has grown to thousands worldwide, raising over $5 million for good causes. Not bad for a drink that began as a twist on the Americano in Florence over a century ago. Still, I’ll be honest: bitterness isn’t a flavor I usually chase. Sweet, sure. Strong, definitely. But bitter? That one’s harder to love. And yet bitterness has a way of finding us. It comes with the end of a relationship — no matter whose fault it was. It can creep in when a father walks away and leaves silence in his place. It can root itself in the wounds of an abusive relationship, or in the words you can’t unsay, the moments you can’t undo. On its own, bitterness can consume you. It narrows your world. It makes joy feel impossible. But here’s the thing: bitterness doesn’t have to have the last word. You can choose to carry it forever, or you can choose — slowly, painfully, bravely — to let grace meet it. To let healing do its quiet work. That doesn’t mean the bitterness disappears. It will always be part of the story. But it doesn’t have to be the whole story. When it’s held in balance — with sweetness, with strength, with the surprising mercy of grace — bitterness can deepen you instead of destroying you. But let’s be honest — finding sweetness in life’s bitterness isn’t easy. Sometimes grace feels miles away, and the sharpness lingers longer than we’d like. I know in my own life there are seasons where it’s hard to believe anything good could come out of the pain. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, and balance doesn’t arrive with one stir of the spoon. And yet — sometimes all it takes is one crack in the dam. A song that brings back a memory. A friend who listens without fixing. A prayer whispered when you’re not even sure you believe it. Or even just a single tear finally allowed to fall. In those fragile moments, bitterness loosens its grip. The heart softens. And somehow, the edges of grace begin to shine through. Grace doesn’t erase the bitterness. It sits beside it, carries it, and whispers that this isn’t the whole story. Over time, sweetness and strength begin to mingle in. And what once felt unendurable can, somehow, become part of a story still worth savoring. That’s the beauty of the Negroni. It doesn’t try to hide its bitterness. It wears it openly. But when it’s paired with the right companions, what once felt harsh becomes something worth savoring. And here’s a little fun fact: by the strict 1806 definition, the Negroni technically isn’t even a cocktail. Back then, a “cocktail” meant spirits, sugar, water, and bitters — which makes the Old Fashioned the textbook example. The Negroni? It cheats. Instead of sugar and bitters, you get sweet vermouth and Campari, pulling off the same job in their own way. Turns out even cocktails don’t always fit the rules. And maybe that’s how life really is — it doesn’t always fit neatly either. It’s a mixture of bitter and sweet, good and not-so-good. Yet somehow, when it’s all stirred together, there’s still something to be savored. And maybe that’s the unlikely altar the Negroni offers us: the reminder that even bitterness can belong, and even sharp edges can hold grace. So, may the bitter not consume you. May the sharp edges soften when the tears come. May the cracks in your heart become openings for grace. And may you taste, in time, the sweetness that still waits to be found. Bar Lore The Negroni is believed to have originated in Florence, Italy, around 1919. Legend has it that Count Camillo Negroni asked his bartender to stiffen his favorite drink — the Americano (Campari, sweet vermouth, soda) — by swapping soda water for gin. The simple tweak caught on, and soon everyone was ordering their Americano “the Negroni way.” Even James Bond had one. In Ian Fleming’s short story Risico (part of For Your Eyes Only), Bond orders a Negroni — made with Gordon’s gin — long before the Vesper Martini became his signature on screen. Apparently even 007 wasn’t immune to the drink’s sharp charm. Recipe: The Negroni 1 oz gin 1 oz Campari 1 oz sweet vermouth Stir with ice, then strain into a rocks glass over fresh ice (or serve up, if you prefer). Garnish with an orange peel or slice. Zero-proof option: swap in non-alcoholic gin, NA bitter aperitif (like Lyre’s Italian Orange), and NA vermouth. A Note of Care: If you’re in recovery, please know this post is never meant to romanticize alcohol or overlook its very real dangers. The sacred can be found in tea, water, coffee, or stillness just as surely as in a cocktail glass. If drinking brings harm rather than healing — to you or to those you love — may you feel zero shame and full freedom to find your altar elsewhere. What matters isn’t what’s in the glass, but what opens your heart.