Here in Indiana, we are entering peak autumn. The lazy afternoon sun reveals the richness of the changing leaves as they come alive with flaming burgundy, dark gold, rust, and amber. If the soul had a color palette, autumn would be mine, and year after year, I breathe it in.
But this fall, the invitation is a bit different.
Life has been very life-y as of late. It turns out that having a high school student in marching band means staying up past our regular bedtime, weekends spent at competitions, fulfilling volunteer hours at the concession stand, and spending a lot of time waiting around in parking lots and school pick-up lines. The commitment has been an adjustment for us all, but truth be told, I love it. I love this unexpected joy that has taken over our lives, and while I have a harder time keeping up with all the details these days, it’s been a gift we didn’t see coming.
But I am also finding another reality at play: In order to partake of the goodness, I need to let my life grow small.
I FaceTimed a friend last Friday, and tears fell fast and easy as I told her about my underlying desire for what is quiet and unseen. I craved the comfort of invisibility but felt trapped by a never-ending list of expectation (most of which I had created for myself). When she asked why I couldn’t just pull back, I spoke aloud the fears that had been hissing and spitting in my head:
“I still have a book to promote. I can’t go quiet now.”
“I’m afraid that if I stop talking, I will be forgotten.”
“I cannot completely disappear online. My work will be lost beneath all the noise.”
“I will become irrelevant.”
The story I had been telling myself wasn’t pretty, revealing the same ol’ performative narratives I have worked so hard to untangle from my worth. Apparently, you can write a whole book about belonging but still so easily confuse being seen and being known. It’s become painfully obvious that a little taste of the spotlight left me grasping for attention rather than paying attention, and that momentary swell of self-importance was more than my humanity was prepared to hold. But last Friday, as I spoke my fears out loud in the presence of a friend who didn’t try to fix or sweep my concerns aside, I found the gentle nudge I needed to get quiet and let myself be small.
I looked at all I was holding and asked: What if I let the leaves fall?
Like the trees outside my kitchen window, what if I too give in to the soul’s desire for dormancy, if only for a little while? What might I find as I shed some of the things I have been carrying and instead let my bare and spindly branches become fully exposed to whatever the sky might bring? How might I breathe differently? How might I notice what is already here? Already good?
Permission seemed to emanate from the inside out like an exhale as I realized how deeply my soul craved space—a type of hiddenness that lets you see more clearly and savor whatever life places on your tongue. It is a kind of space that only comes from letting yourself shrink a little, from turning your attention from life’s fringes to the sacredness of the small.
But that kind of spaciousness doesn’t just happen. Modern life does not often support or encourage limitations for the sake of living well. “More” seems to be the mantra of our day as life is measured by outcomes, by what we can point to or hold up and say, “Look. I did that! Isn’t that great?” Plus, letting go leaves us vulnerable, and it’s hard to hide without all the extra and the noise. Who am I when I have nothing to show?
But what if what we perceive as falling apart is in fact a falling open? What if by letting go we are simply giving our souls room to breathe? Maybe, following the wisdom of Parker Palmer, by letting certain things fall away we are not broken “into shards and scattered about,” but rather, broken “into new capacity.”1 It is expanse, not extinction, and spaciousness waits patiently on the other side.
While we might fear the loosening, all the ways we will be stretched and exposed, perhaps getting smaller is exactly what we need to notice what is already here, what has been with us all along.
A Few Good Things for Fall
I’ve binged on audiobooks over the summer and (a little bloated) found myself inching back to podcasts this autumn. There’s something about prepping a savory soup or my favorite Paleo Apple Cinnamon Muffins while listening to voices that have become familiar that just adds to the comfort. Lately, I have been really into Ruth Haley Barton’s series on Christian Spirituality, in particular the episode on desire with Ronald Rolheiser and on the gift of spiritual direction (which offers some really great info if you, like me, are fairly new to this type of spiritual companionship).
I have been also been laugh-out-loud delighting in a new podcast called That’s The Spirit, hosted by
and Morgan Page. The premise is that it’s “a podcast about nothing for those carrying everything,” and for someone like me who can easily lean serious but craves a little levity, these episodes have been so very life-giving in the most ridiculous and human kind of way.Lastly, I want to tell you about a few books that came out this month.
If you listened to season 2, episode 3 of Human Together, I talked with Chuck DeGroat (professor, licensed therapist, & author) about how we often live “habitually disconnected” lives and what it might look like to find our way back home to ourselves, to God, and to each other. Well, Chuck’s book, Healing What’s Within, is now out in the world! I have read it cover to cover, and I can tell you without hesitation that’s its full of depth and insight that reaches down to the soul level. (Plus, it’s a great companion read to The Way of Belonging. I found many overlapping themes!)
The other two books that I have not yet read but sit on my stack with expectation are Your Jesus is Too American by Steve Bezner and Even After Everything by
. Over the years, I have come to respect both Steve and Stephanie in their respective fields and as people with a heartfelt desire to love people well through their words. While these books are quite different, I look forward to when I can cozy beneath a blanket with them both.Coming Soon…
This year marks the fifth November for Liturgy of the Little Things, an Instagram challenge I created out of a desire to see the good embedded in my actual life. When I started this practice five years ago, I did not anticipate was the flood of beauty that transpired as others began to join in and November became not just a month for being grateful on a large scale but for noticing the sacredness in the small.
I’d love for you to join us.
The practice is simple. For thirty days we will:
Notice. Pause and take a picture wherever beauty, joy, or goodness emerges in your everyday life.
Name. Whether you write one sentence or one hundred, put the moment into words.
Share. Some people choose to process offline. That’s great. But if you want to participate in the wider communal aspects of the challenge, you can post your reflection and photo using the hashtag #liturgyofthelittlethings or by tagging me. (You can check out a past Liturgy of the Little Things here.)
I’m pretty quiet on Instagram right now, but you’re welcome to come find me. Liturgy of the Little Things will be a gentle way for me to re-enter that space in the coming weeks, and I hope the “challenge” helps us practice paying attention together and find more ways to embrace everyday goodness. Hope to see you there!
glad our paths crossed,
from Parker Palmer’s book A Hidden Wholeness: The Journey Toward An Undivided Life (John Wiley & Sons, 2004), p. 178.
"But what if what we perceive as falling apart is in fact a falling open?" Beautiful, friend. Thanks for this and for the reminder that there is sacredness to be found in the small, hidden things.
Your words are so relatable here, Sarah. More and more, I'm convinced that obscurity is a spiritual practice, and that it's a worthy endeavor to engage in it for a time. I hope you feel the freedome to lean into it for a while, and that your soul would find some much needed refreshment!