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There is something about summer that reveals how tired people really are.

Not just physically tired, though many of us are that too. Spiritually tired. Emotionally tired. Nervous-system tired. The kind of tiredness that settles deep into the bones after years of rushing, worrying, striving, reacting, producing, and carrying more than a human being was ever meant to carry alone.

And yet, when summer arrives, many of us do not actually know how to rest.

We may slow down for a moment, sit on a porch for an evening, or take a brief vacation, but internally the machinery often keeps running. The mind keeps scanning. The body stays braced. The soul forgets how to unclench.

Our culture treats rest like a reward for productivity. Something earned after everything is completed. But the trouble is, everything is never completed. There is always another email, another bill, another responsibility, another crisis, another demand for our attention.

The scriptures offer a different vision.

In Genesis, God rests. Not because God is exhausted, but because rest is part of the rhythm of creation itself. The Sabbath becomes holy not because nothing happens, but because life was never meant to be endless production.

Jesus repeatedly invites weary people into rest. He slips away from the crowds. He naps in boats during storms. He leaves urgency unfinished in order to remain present to people. Again and again, he refuses to treat human worth as something measured by output.

Rest, then, is not laziness. It is trust.

It is the quiet and courageous act of believing that the world can continue spinning without our constant striving. It is allowing ourselves to be human instead of machines.

And maybe we need that reminder more than we realize.

We are living in loud times. Outrage is monetized. Fear spreads quickly. Our attention is constantly pulled apart by devices and headlines that train our nervous systems to stay alert at all times. Many people no longer remember what it feels like to be still long enough to hear their own soul.

Summer can become an invitation to remember.

· To sit outside and notice the wind moving through trees.

· To share a meal slowly.

· To watch children play without multitasking.

· To put bare feet in the grass.

· To pray without hurrying.

· To laugh deeply.

· To nap unapologetically.

· To remember that joy is holy too.

Rest is not withdrawal from the world. True rest restores us so that we can return to the world more grounded, more compassionate, more awake, and more capable of love.

Perhaps this summer, God is not asking us to do more.

Perhaps God is inviting us to breathe again.

An Invitation to Gather for Peace
Interfaith Peace Vigil, May 10 at 5:00 p.m.

There are moments in the life of a community when it becomes clear that we cannot do this work alone.

The world feels tangled right now. There is grief we can name, and grief we do not yet have words for. There is division that runs deep, and a longing, sometimes just beneath the surface, for something more whole, more human, more rooted in love.

On Saturday, May 10 at 5:00 p.m., we will host an Interfaith Peace Vigil here at Holy Spirit. This gathering is part of an ongoing rhythm among faith communities in our area, as we rotate from one place of worship to another, showing up for one another and for the shared work of peace.

What makes this gathering meaningful is not that we all believe the same things. We do not, and we do not need to. Instead, we come bringing the depth of our own traditions, the prayers, practices, and wisdom that have shaped us, and we make space for one another to do the same.

In our Lutheran tradition, we are shaped by practices that invite us to be present, to listen deeply, and to trust that God is already at work within us and among us. At this vigil, we will lean into that spirit. Together, we will engage a simple, contemplative practice shaped around poetry, words that echo the heartbeat of scripture, allowing them to move through us slowly, gently, and honestly. Not rushing past the tension of the world as it is, but also not losing sight of the world as it could be.

Because part of what we are doing in gatherings like this is practicing hope.

We are learning how to sit in the middle of what feels knotted and unresolved while still orienting ourselves toward a future shaped by love, grace, and justice. A love that is strong enough to hold difference. A grace deep enough to meet us where we are. A justice wide enough to lift all of us without leaving anyone behind.

This is how bridges are built.

Not all at once, and not through grand gestures alone, but through simple, faithful acts of showing up. Through listening. Through praying side by side. Through allowing our lives to be shaped, little by little, by the presence of our neighbors.

In a time when it is easy to retreat into what is familiar, this is an invitation to step toward one another instead.

Come as you are.
Come with your questions, your hopes, your weariness, your prayers.
Come ready to stand alongside others who are also seeking peace, not as an abstract idea, but as something we are called to live into together.

We hope you will join us.

https://www.trefzandbowser.com/obituaries/Donald-B-Green?obId=47776831

Easter in a World That Still Bleeds

It can feel a little strange to say “Alleluia” right now. We say it in church. We sing it with conviction. The lilies are bright, the music is full, the proclamation is clear: Christ is risen. And yet, just outside those doors, the world keeps turning in ways that don’t always feel like resurrection.

There is still violence. Still instability. Still grief that hasn’t softened. Still the quiet, persistent exhaustion that so many of us are carrying. Some of it is global, unfolding on a scale that feels overwhelming. Some of it is much closer to home, held quietly in our bodies, in our relationships, in the parts of our lives that are still tender. So what does it mean to speak of resurrection in a world that still bleeds?

It can be tempting to treat Easter as a kind of turning point where everything is suddenly resolved. A moment where sorrow gives way to joy, where darkness is replaced by light, where everything finally makes sense. But if we look closely at the resurrection stories themselves, that’s not quite what we see. The world does not suddenly become peaceful. The systems that led to Jesus’ death are still in place. The disciples are not suddenly bold and fearless, they are hiding behind locked doors. Even when the risen Christ appears, he is not always recognized. Mary mistakes him for a gardener. The disciples on the road walk with him for miles without knowing who he is.

Resurrection does not arrive as an obvious, overwhelming correction of everything that is wrong. It arrives quietly, gently, almost hidden. Not as denial of what has happened, but as something beginning within it.

This is where we begin to see that resurrection is not about escaping the world as it is. It is not a way of bypassing grief or pretending that suffering has no weight. It is something closer to defiance. It is the persistence of life where life should not be. The refusal of love to disappear. The steady, unrelenting presence of something deeper than death.

And if we look at the life of Jesus, we begin to see that this was always the pattern. He lived in a world shaped by power, fear, and violence, and he refused to mirror it back. He moved toward those who were excluded. He told the truth when it would have been easier to stay silent. He embodied a way of being rooted not in domination, but in love.

That way of living did not protect him from suffering. It led him directly into it. And the cross reveals what the world does to that kind of life. But the resurrection reveals something else. It reveals that this way of being, this life of love, of presence, of courage, cannot be extinguished. That even when it is rejected, it is not undone. That even when it is buried, it is not gone. Resurrection is God’s quiet and unshakable yes to that way of living.

And that matters, because it means resurrection is not only something we celebrate, it is something we participate in. It shows up in ways that are often small, almost easy to miss. In the moment when you choose gentleness instead of sharpness. In the decision to stay present when everything in you wants to shut down. In the act of telling the truth when distortion would be easier. In the choice to care for someone else, for yourself, for a world that can feel like too much.

These are not dramatic moments. They rarely make headlines. But they are real. They are the places where life begins to push through again.

You don’t have to fix the world to participate in resurrection. You don’t have to carry more than you are able. But you can notice. You can pay attention to where life is quietly returning, where something in you is softening, or waking up, or reaching toward connection again. You can respond to that.

And maybe that is where Easter meets us most honestly, not as a declaration that everything is already made right, but as an invitation to recognize that something is still unfolding. Something is still alive. Something is still moving, even here.

And so we say “Alleluia,” not because everything is okay, but because life is still breaking through. Because love has not disappeared. Because even in a world that still bleeds, death does not get the final word. And that is where Easter begins.

Please join us for the services of Holy Week

Palm Sunday– March 29, 9:30 a.m.

Maundy Thursday– April 2, 7:00 p.m.

Good Friday– April 3, 7:00 p.m.

Easter Sunday– April 5, 9:30 a.m.

Find the link to our live services on our website.

www.holyspiritlutheran.org