Creative Lenten Practice, Session One: Releasing
As Lent begins, we are invited into the wilderness, not to be emptied for the sake of emptiness, but to make room for God.
Through the prophet in the Book of Joel we hear the invitation: “Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and merciful.” Returning often begins with releasing: loosening our grip on what we’ve been holding tightly.
When Jesus Christ speaks of fasting, he describes it as something quiet and hidden, not performative. Fasting can mean setting aside food, but it can also mean releasing habits, expectations, or ways of being that no longer give life.
This simple practice is meant to help you begin Lent gently, by noticing what feels heavy and practicing release with both your heart and your hands.
You can set aside about an hour, or shorten it if needed.
Supplies:
pen/pencil/marker (for journaling)
sheets of paper (for journaling)
cardstock, watercolor paper, canvas, wooden board
Mod Podge (or glue mixed with water)
old paint brush
Step 1: Prepare your body (5 minutes)
Make a cup of tea, coffee, or another warm drink if you’d like.
Sit somewhere comfortable.
Before doing anything else, take a few slow breaths and quiet your body.
You might pray silently:
God, help me notice what I am carrying.
Let the silence be enough.
Step 2: Reflect (5 minutes)
Read slowly:
Lent invites us to return to God.
Returning often begins with releasing.
Tonight, you are not striving to become a better version of yourself.
You are simply noticing what feels heavy, clenched, or crowded.
You might imagine Jesus’ invitation:
“Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”
What might you be invited to set down, just for now?
Sit with that for a moment.
Step 3: Journal (15–20 minutes)
Write freely in response to one or more of these questions:
What feels heavy or clenched as I enter Lent?
What am I holding tightly right now?
What might I be invited to fast from, not to punish myself, but to make space?
What feels ready to be loosened, even slightly?
Don’t worry about writing something meaningful or polished, just be honest.
Step 4: Practice Release With Your Hands (15–20 minutes)
Take your journal sheets and slowly tear them into pieces of all different shapes and sizes. Notice the sound and notice your response.
Then take the pieces and glue or tape them onto your heavier paper or canvas to cover the whole page.
You are not trying to make something pretty. You are practicing release with your hands. Let this be prayer.
Step 5: Sit and Wonder (5–10 minutes)
When you’re finished, sit quietly and notice what is present.
You might reflect on one of these:
I wonder what it felt like to write those words.
I wonder what happened inside me as I decided what to tear.
I wonder what the sound of ripping stirred in me.
I wonder what I noticed in my body as I pulled the paper apart.
I wonder what it was like to place the torn pieces down in a new way.
I wonder what God is inviting me to notice in this process?
There is nothing you need to figure out. Just notice.
Step 6: Close
You might end with this simple prayer:
God, receive what I have released.
Hold what I cannot yet let go of.
Make space in me for your life.
Amen.
Allow your piece to dry and keep it for session two, next week.
Creative Prompt: Draw a shape
Then change one side to make it imperfect on purpose.
Choose a simple shape:
a square
a triangle
a circle
a rectangle
Paint or draw most of it slowly on your page (or use this coloring page).
Then finish your shape imperfectly. Make it uneven, crooked, wavy or any other way.
Leave it that way. Resist correcting it. Let the imperfection be visible and intentional.
Wondering Questions
I wonder how it feels to change something on purpose?
I wonder which part of me wants to fix it?
I wonder what “perfect” even means here?
I wonder what becomes possible when something is slightly off?
I wonder if imperfection can be a form of freedom?
Let the questions sit beside you, not demanding answers.
A Kid-Friendly Version
Invite kids to:
Paint a big shape on their paper.
Pick one side and make it silly or wiggly on purpose.
You can wonder together:
Which side did you change?
Does it make your shape more interesting?
What would happen if all the shapes were perfectly straight?
Celebrate the weird side. That’s the brave part.
A Closing Invitation
Sit with your imperfect shape for a moment.
Notice:
Does your eye keep returning to the altered side?
Does it soften over time?
You might carry this gentle wondering into your day:
Where in my life could I allow imperfections and trust that it’s still enough?
If you feel comfortable, I’d love to see what you create. When I share these prompts, I’ll always try to share what I’ve made too. Tag me on Instagram or comment below with a photo or reflection.
A Prayer for Making Space
Father, generous Host,
You have made room for us in Your heart and at Your table.
Teach us how to make room in our own lives.
Jesus, gentle Savior,
You stepped away to pray and returned with compassion.
Shape our hurried hearts into hearts that are present and attentive.
Holy Spirit, breath of peace,
quiet what is crowded within us.
Loosen what we cling to.
Create in us a spaciousness where love can grow.
Triune God,
may the margin we keep become holy ground,
a place where You dwell
and where others are truly welcomed.
Amen.
A Lenten Examen: Releasing and Returning
Begin by becoming still.
Take a slow breath. Remember that you are held in the presence of Jesus Christ, who meets you with mercy, not disappointment.
1. Notice the day
Where today did you feel drawn toward God?
Where did you feel distracted, hurried, or pulled away from him?
2. Consider what you are holding
Lent invites us to release the things we think we need —
the habits, comforts, distractions, or even good things
that quietly take our time, energy, and attention.
What feels heavy in your hands right now?
What might God be inviting you to loosen your grip on?
3. Ask for help
Speak honestly with Jesus about what you want to release.
Tell him where you feel resistant, tired, or unsure.
Ask him to help you open your hands.
4. Notice your need
Where did you struggle today?
Where did you fall short of what you hoped Lent would be?
Do not rush past this.
Let your weakness remind you that you need a Savior.
Let it point you back to grace.
5. Receive mercy
Jesus does not wait for you to succeed at Lent.
He meets you in your need.
Sit for a moment and receive his forgiveness, his presence, and his love.
6. Return with hope
Ask for the grace to follow him tomorrow —
not perfectly, but faithfully, one small step at a time.
Amen.
Bearing Witness as a Holy Calling
Yesterday I talked about how sharing parts of my story can be a way of asking you to bear witness to what God has done. I want to talk about what God has done and I want others to see what God has done, not as a point of pride, but because it’s so exciting and good. And bearing witness to that is holy work. I want to bear witness to what God has done and is doing in you, too (this is so much of what spiritual direction is).
Why is bearing witness such a holy calling?
Because it mirrors how God relates to us.
God doesn’t just act, He reveals. From the naming of creation in Genesis to the sending of disciples in Acts, God’s work is meant to be seen and told. Bearing witness means we participate in that same pattern: God moves, people notice, people tell.Because witness tells the truth without trying to control the outcome.
A witness doesn’t argue or perform. A witness simply says, this is what I’ve seen God do. The Gospel of John uses this language over and over; testimony lets truth shine without forcing it.Because witness honors the dignity and freedom of others.
When we bear witness, we trust the Holy Spirit to work. We’re not trying to manage someone’s response. We’re simply sharing what is real and leaving space for God to move.Because it’s how resurrection keeps traveling through the world.
The Church didn’t grow because people had perfect explanations. It grew because ordinary people told what they had seen, heard, and experienced of Jesus Christ. That’s still how faith spreads: through lived stories.Because witness requires vulnerability.
To bear witness is to let your life be evidence of God’s life, which can be scary. It means naming where you’ve been changed, where you’ve been carried, where grace has found you. That kind of truth-telling is sacred ground.
Bearing witness isn’t flashy work. It’s quiet, relational, and deeply holy. And when we do it for one another (noticing where God is moving, naming grace out loud, holding each other’s stories with reverence) we become part of how God keeps revealing love in the world.
Book Review: Deep Breath, Little Whisper
We read Deep Breath, Little Whisper by Scott James in our preschool classroom on Sunday, and it was such a lovely fit for this age.
The book gently helps children see that prayer doesn’t have to be long or formal; it can be as simple as a quiet word to God in the middle of an ordinary moment. That idea felt very accessible for our group, and it gave us a natural way to talk about how God listens to even our smallest prayers.
After we read, the teacher in that class had the wonderful idea to have the children make paper heart crafts and each chose a one-word prayer to write on their heart, words like help, thank you, love, and Jesus. It was simple, honest, and developmentally just right.
This is definitely a book I’d use again when introducing prayer to young children, especially as a gentle first step into helping them find their own words for talking with God. It is also a gentle reminder for adults that prayer can be as easy as a deep breath.
Creative Prompt: Tear and Glue
A slow collage prayer
I’ve done a few collage prayers in the past week or so. One was led by fellow a spiritual director and was beautiful and gentle and slow; joining in with her and a few others felt like a gift to myself. In leading that, she helped me make space on a day when I would have struggled on my own. I decided to bring that gift to Sunday school on a day when I led the children in a contemplative exercise — imaginative prayer (more on that sweet time later!) — as a way to respond to the story. And those kids dove in with gusto!
So now I bring that gift to you, trusting that each tear of paper, each stroke of glue, is its own type of wordless prayer. With this practice, I invite you to pray without needing to explain yourself.
Gather a few pieces of paper. They can be:
old magazines
colored paper
scrap paper
junk mail
tissue paper
pages you no longer need
Begin tearing pieces slowly with your hands. Let the edges be uneven. Let the shapes surprise you.
Then begin gluing the pieces down to form any shape, picture, or design you’d like. You can use anything as your background, or download this page.
It doesn’t have to “look like” something and you don’t have to explain what it means.
As you work slowly, you might wonder:
What do I want Jesus to help me with today?
or
What do I want to say to God?
There is no right way to answer. The collage itself can hold the prayer.
Wondering Questions
You might hold one of these quietly while you work:
I wonder what my hands are expressing that my words can’t?
I wonder if God receives this just as fully as spoken prayer?
I wonder what feels torn in me right now?
I wonder what wants to be mended, supported, or strengthened?
I wonder what it feels like to let prayer be imperfect?
Notice what arises. No pressure to resolve it.
A Kid-Friendly Version
Invite children to:
Tear paper into different shapes and sizes.
Glue them down to make a picture or design.
You can gently wonder together:
What would you like Jesus to help you with?
Is there something you want to tell God today?
How does it feel to tear paper instead of cutting it?
Let their answers be simple. Let the art carry what they don’t say.
A Closing Invitation
When you’re finished, sit with your collage for a moment.
Notice:
Where does your eye rest?
Which piece feels most important?
Which one surprised you?
You don’t need to interpret it, just let it be what it is: a prayer made of torn edges and held together with care.
And trust that even this is received with delight.
Look what God did: bearing witness
Sometimes I feel a little bit like a fraud.
I tell people to make ugly art, that what they make doesn’t have to be beautiful or meaningful to anyone else. And then I post my art online, and it’s often the pieces I think look the best. (Though I do try to be transparent about the process and all the messy pages that come in between…)
I tell people not to make their spiritual lives performative but then I share glimpses of mine publicly. And I worry if that makes me a hypocrite.
I’ve been sitting with that tension for a while now. Not trying to solve it too quickly, just noticing it. Because the truth is, the internet only ever shows a sliver of anyone’s life. Mine included. What people see online is not the whole process. It’s really just a glimpse of what grew from it.
Most of my art never leaves my notebook and most of my prayers are wordless and unfinished. Most of the ways I meet God are quiet, ordinary, and completely unshareable. They happen in the margins of the day, in the quiet spaces, in the moments when no one is watching and nothing looks particularly meaningful.
But that hidden space matters to me. It’s where the real work happens. It’s where I’m not trying to say something wise or create something beautiful or offer something helpful. It’s just where I’m showing up honestly.
So why share anything at all?
I think because sometimes what grows in secret becomes something that can serve other people. Not as proof that I’m doing it right or as a performance. But as a kind of witness.
Like saying, Look! This kind of prayer is possible.
Or, Look! God can meet us here too.
Or even just, You’re not the only one trying to figure this out.
There’s a difference, I think, between making something for people and letting people see what has already been made in the quiet.
One feels like performance. The other feels more like testimony.
I don’t always know where that line is. I’m still learning. I still check my motives. I still ask myself whether I’m sharing from a place of honesty or from a place of wanting to be seen a certain way. But I’m also realizing that hiding everything isn’t necessarily more holy. We’re shaped in secret, yes. But sometimes the fruit is meant to be shared. Not all of it. Maybe not even most of it. But sometimes a small piece of what grows in the hidden places can become an invitation for someone else. A reminder that God is at work in ordinary lives, a gentle encouragement to keep showing up.
Most of what shapes us will always remain out of sight. The roots go deeper than anything we could post. So maybe sharing the occasional blossom doesn’t mean the roots are performative. Maybe it’s just a quiet way of saying, Look what God grew here. He can do it in you, too.
Your Monthly Reminder: Make Ugly Art
This is your gentle reminder to make ugly art. Yes, ugly! On purpose!
Why? Because making it ugly keeps the focus on the process, not the outcome. It frees you from performance or comparison. It reminds you that creation isn’t about impressing anyone; it’s about showing up, exploring, and playing.
And here’s something wonderful: even when your art feels “bad,” your skills grow! Every time you pick up a pencil, a paintbrush, or sit at the piano or guitar just to play… every time you throw together a few ingredients in the kitchen without worrying about the final dish… you’re building experience, learning, experimenting. You’re getting better, even if that’s not your goal.
Ugly art is honest art. It’s brave art. It’s art that belongs to you, fully and unapologetically. And in that belonging, in that courage to create without judgment, you’re echoing the Creator. God doesn’t call us to make things beautiful; He makes them beautiful. Our role is simply to join Him in creating.
Even our “ugly” efforts reflect something true and good. As we show up and make, God is at work in us, shaping not just our creations but our hearts. Things that feel awkward or clumsy can still be holy. Things that feel messy can still be part of the story God is telling through you.
So pick up that pencil. Throw some paint on the page. Sit at the keys and just play. Cook something messy. Laugh at the result. Keep creating. Every small, imperfect act is a step deeper into belonging, into belovedness, into the joy of co-creating with the One who made us to create.
Ash Wednesday reflection
Today is Ash Wednesday. The cross on my forehead has already been wiped away, but the ashes still linger in my pores.
I don’t pretend to be an expert on Ash Wednesday or Lent. I’m grateful for the people who guide me in these seasons (my husband, the wise spiritual directors in my life, and the leadership at my church). But what I do know is that we cannot possibly understand the fullness of Joy without remembering the depths of our Sorrow.
Lent invites us to hold both. To face our mortality, our grief, and our need for God, and somehow, at the same time, to live in the enjoyment of Him. Not a loud or easy joy, but the quiet kind that comes from knowing we are held even here. The kind of joy that doesn’t erase grief, but refuses to let grief be the final word.
That feels impossible. And yet the kingdom of God has always been a place where impossibilities meet grace. Again and again, we are invited into paradox: death and life, repentance and joy, ashes and hope.
So maybe that is the invitation of Lent: not to perform sorrow, but to let it open us to mercy. Not to have everything figured out, but to stand honestly before God and remember that we belong to Him.
The cross on my forehead is already wiped away, but the ashes remain. And in that I remember that He carries the cross, and I carry the need. Thanks be to God.
“Enjoy Me”
I’ve been meditating in this quote from Teresa of Avila recently. This is not the stuff of silver linings. This is the hard-fought joy, one that encompasses all our grief and sorrow and loss, that holds, sees, and loves. This enjoyment has grit and battle scars and so much laughter. I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s the very real invitation on the table.
Practicing the Presence | Prompt 9: An Unexpected Pop of Color
“Look for an unexpected pop of color and capture it.
Let surprise be a doorway to joy.”
Some days feel muted. The sky is gray. The to-do list is long. The rhythm of life feels predictable, even heavy. And then, almost without warning, you notice it:
A bright red mitten on the sidewalk.
A yellow leaf against dull pavement.
A burst of pink in a winter coat crowd.
A bowl of oranges glowing on the counter.
Color has a way of interrupting us.
It doesn’t demand anything. It simply catches our eye and invites us to look again.
What Is “Practicing the Presence”?
Practicing the presence means paying attention to the small moments where God’s goodness breaks into ordinary life.
It’s not about manufacturing happiness. It’s about noticing what’s already there.
An unexpected pop of color can become a reminder that joy is often quiet and unscheduled. It shows up without an announcement. It surprises us. And sometimes surprise is exactly how grace arrives.
Try This
Today, look intentionally for color, especially somewhere you wouldn’t expect it. Pause when you see it. Let yourself enjoy it without rushing past.
If you’d like, take a photo, not for perfection, but as a way of saying, I almost missed this.
Then ask yourself:
What did this small surprise stir in me?
When was the last time I allowed joy to interrupt my day?
Where might God be inviting me to notice beauty more closely?
Joy doesn’t always come through big moments. Sometimes it slips in quietly, bright and unplanned. Look for it. You might be surprised.
Creative Prompt: Paint a Rainbow
I wonder what promise you need to remember?
Rainbows are one of the first symbols many of us learn to recognize. They show up in children’s books and skies after storms, in crayon drawings and old stories passed down through generations.
A rainbow doesn’t erase the storm. It appears afterwards as a reminder. Today’s creative practice invites you to paint a rainbow, not as decoration, but as an act of remembering.
Remembering is a spiritual practice. Not remembering facts but remembering truth when it’s easy to forget. A rainbow reminds us that storms don’t last forever, beauty can follow difficulty, and promises are often quieter than we expect. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is look back and say, I’ve seen goodness before.
Paint a rainbow on your page.
It can be:
traditional or unexpected
bold or barely-there
perfectly arched or uneven and wandering
You can paint every color clearly, or let them blend and bleed into one another. There is no correct version.
As you paint, hold this gentle wondering: What promise do you need to remember right now?
Watercolor Option
Lightly sketch an arc if you want or begin directly with paint.
Paint one color at a time, moving slowly across the page.
Allow colors to touch, soften, or blur.
Pause between colors if you need to.
You don’t have to fill the page. A single arc is enough.
Colored Pencil or Crayon Option
Draw a rainbow using crayons or colored pencils, or use this coloring page.
Press firmly in some places and lightly in others.
You can repeat colors, skip some, or invent new ones.
Let your hand choose what comes next.
Wondering Questions
You might hold one or two of these gently while you work or afterward.
I wonder what promises have carried me before?
I wonder which promises feel hard to trust right now?
I wonder what it feels like to remember instead of strive?
I wonder where hope shows up quietly in my life?
I wonder if the promise comes after the storm, not instead of it?
A Kid-Friendly Version
Invite kids to paint or draw a rainbow in any way they like.
You can wonder together:
What do rainbows make you think of?
When do rainbows usually appear?
What is something good you hope for?
You don’t need to explain the promise. Let imagination lead.
A Closing Invitation
When you’re finished, sit with your page for a moment.
Which colors stand out?
Which feel gentle or strong?
You might carry this wondering with you: What promise wants to be remembered today?
Let the rainbow hold it for you even if the answer is still forming.
If you feel comfortable, I’d love to see what you create. When I share these prompts, I’ll always try to share what I’ve made too. Tag me on Instagram or comment below with a photo or reflection.
Making Space When It Feels Hard
We talk a lot about making space for God as if it’s a simple, quiet thing we can just decide to do.
But for many of us, making space alone is actually one of the hardest parts of the spiritual life.
Distractions pile up. Noise fills the room (and our heads). Productivity values whisper that we should be doing something useful instead. Anxiety hums in the background, making stillness feel unsafe or impossible. Even prayer itself can feel like one more task we’re failing to do “right.”
So we tell ourselves we’ll try again tomorrow. Or when life is calmer. Or when we’re less tired. Or when we feel more spiritual.
And the space never quite opens.
You’re Not Broken; You’re Human
If sitting alone with God feels hard, that doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong. It means you’re human.
We are formed by a world that rewards speed, output, and constant engagement. Of course silence feels awkward. Of course listening feels unfamiliar. Of course prayer sometimes feels inaccessible.
God knows this about us.
Which is one of the reasons spiritual direction has existed in the Church for centuries.
Why Spiritual Direction Helps Us Make Space
Spiritual direction isn’t about fixing your prayer life or achieving spiritual goals. At its heart, it’s simply about making space—intentionally, gently, and with support.
When you make an appointment for spiritual direction, you are doing something powerful:
You are setting aside real time to be with God.
You are allowing someone else to hold the container so you don’t have to.
You are giving yourself permission to slow down, notice, and listen.
You don’t have to arrive calm. You don’t have to know what to say. You don’t even have to feel particularly prayerful.
The space itself does the work.
Together, we pay attention to where God is already present in your life, often in places you might overlook on your own.
Making Space in Gentle, Creative Ways
For some people, silence and words are enough. For others, they aren’t.
That’s why spiritual direction doesn’t have to look only one way.
In my work, I’m open to incorporating creative practices (simple art-making, reflective prompts, embodied practices) as well as reading and wondering together with children’s books.
Stories have a way of bypassing our defenses. Images can speak when words feel thin. Creative practices can open doors that effort alone cannot.
None of this replaces prayer. It is prayer, just offered in forms that meet us where we are.
An Invitation
If you’ve been longing for space with God but finding it hard to make on your own, spiritual direction may be a gift to receive, not a task to add.
I am trained and available for ongoing spiritual direction, and I welcome sessions that include creativity, story, and gentle exploration alongside conversation and prayer.
You don’t have to figure this out alone.
If you feel a quiet nudge of curiosity or desire, I’d love to talk with you about what spiritual direction could look like for you.
Questions for Intentional Living
Usually at the end of the month, I will post some type of examen: a way of looking back to notice God and what He has been saying. But this month, since we are still close to the start of the year, I’d like to post a gentle, forward-looking reflection. It’s not about resolutions, or figuring things out, or setting intentions to keep. It’s simply a way of noticing how you might want to move more intentionally through your days, attentive to God’s quiet invitations.
Read the questions slowly. You don’t need to answer all of them. Just notice which one or two stands out and sit with those for a few minutes, whether in silence, in a journal, or while doing a creative exercise.
There is nothing to complete here, only something to pay attention to.
Creativity
What kind of making feels possible for me right now?
What would it be like to create without rushing or proving anything?
Rest
What actually helps me rest in this season of my life?
Where am I longing for more space, slowness, or gentleness?
Play
What brings lightness or quiet delight?
When do I feel most like myself?
Attention
What do I want to give my care and attention to right now?
Who am I being invited to show up for more intentionally?
How am I being invited to love God, love others, and receive love in the way of Jesus in this season?
Letting Go
What am I ready to hold more lightly?
What might I gently set down as I move into the days ahead?
God, help us notice the life you are inviting us into, the abundant life Christ speaks of, shaped by creativity, rest, and play.
Sacred Story Time: Last Stop on Market Street
I absolutely love Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Peña, illustrated by Christian Robinson. It’s the story of CJ and his grandmother riding the bus together on a Sunday afternoon. We don’t know where they’re going until the very end (and it’s a tender, meaningful surprise, so I won’t spoil it), but most of the book lives in the in-between: the ride itself, the people they encounter, the ordinary moments that make up a shared journey.
Along the way, CJ asks honest questions—the kind that come from paying attention. Why don’t they have a car? Why doesn’t their stop look like the others? Why is it so dirty here? And again and again, his grandmother gently reframes the moment. She doesn’t dismiss his questions or rush him past them. Instead, she invites him to look again, to look deeper, to notice what might otherwise be missed.
CJ’s grandmother becomes a kind of spiritual guide, teaching him (and us) how to see goodness, beauty, and dignity in places that don’t always get named as beautiful.
My favorite part of the story is this exchange:
He reached for his Nana’s hand.
“How come it’s always so dirty over here?”
She smiled and pointed to the sky.
“Sometimes when you’re surrounded by dirt, CJ,
you’re a better witness for what’s beautiful.”He wondered how his nana always found beautiful where he never even thought to look.
Every time I read that line, it stops me. A better witness for what’s beautiful. This feels like a calling—not just for children, but for all of us. To notice beauty where it’s unexpected. To give testimony to it. To learn how to see with love shaped by experience, compassion, and hope.
Can I just say: I want to be just like CJ’s grandma.
This book makes a wonderful sacred story time invitation—one that opens space for noticing, empathy, and the holy work of paying attention.
Noticing prompt:
As you read, pay attention to the illustrations. Where does CJ notice something new because his grandmother points it out?
I wonder: Where do I tend to overlook beauty because I’ve already decided what a place—or person—is like?
Play prompt:
After reading, take a short walk or sit in a familiar place (a bus stop, sidewalk, parking lot, waiting room).
Challenge yourself to name three beautiful things you might normally ignore: a sound, a color, a small act of kindness, a patch of light.
Imaginative prompt:
Imagine you are riding the bus with CJ and his grandmother.
Who would you sit next to?
What would you notice first?
What might CJ’s grandmother gently invite you to see differently?
Prayer:
Beautiful Father, give us eyes to see beauty everywhere—even in places we are tempted to rush past or judge too quickly. Help us to be witnesses to the beauty you have already placed in the world. Teach us to notice it, name it, and share it with the communities in which we find ourselves. Amen.
Sacred Story Time: Winnie-the-Pooh booklet
Sacred story time is a perfect example of contemplative play, where we allow ourselves to rest in a low-stakes setting—like reading a children’s book—and take a minute to reflect on what is happening inside us, below the surface. Recently, I’ve started shifting my book reviews into sacred story time prompts. I also spent quite a while creating prompts and prayers to accompany the first chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh.
With each story, I always include three prompts and a prayer as a way to guide you in noticing. That said, as I’ve shared before, you can always simply read and then ask yourself, “What am I noticing?” or “What am I drawn to, and why?” before bringing that noticing to God.
The first prompt is what I call the Noticing Prompt. This sits at the heart of what I mean when I talk about using children’s stories for contemplative play. It’s the simple act of reading a gentle story and allowing it to stir something within us. The prompts are there to help guide you, but honestly, you can do this without them too. My hope is that, as you read, you’ll pause to notice what’s happening in your heart. Afterward, you’re invited to offer that noticing to God in prayer. That prayer piece is essential—it shifts our focus from ourselves back to Him. I usually provide a simple prayer you can use, though you’re always welcome to pray in your own words.
The second and third prompts are a bit more playful. These are activities you can do on your own, with a friend, or with a child—something lighthearted, creative, and intentional. Even when they seem a little silly, they often open the door to meaningful reflection as well.
Finally, there is the prayer. It might look like an afterthought, but it is actually the center of the whole practice. Reflection is valuable, but the goal isn’t just self-awareness; it’s connection with God. The prayer is our chance to lift up our hearts, remember who He is, and invite His presence and help into what we’ve noticed.
This booklet, then, is a compilation of all the sacred story times I created with the first chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh. I hope there will be more to come, but for now, I wanted to offer a printed collection so you can have all the prompts and prayers in one place, right alongside the text. It is available for sale on my Etsy store, but all the prompts, coloring pages, and text are available for free download on my play page.
Holding grief, without fixing it
Sometimes I wonder if it still makes sense to talk about wonder, awe, play, and creativity during times of grief. Is there really space in these things for lament?
But grief doesn’t cancel out these things. It offers a way to hold it without trying to fix it. Sometimes they’re the only places that can adequately express our lament.
This is how they often show up in grief.
Wonder and Awe
In grief, wonder may get quieter: less “Isn’t this beautiful?” and more, “How can there still be beauty and laughter when everything feels so broken?” That question doesn’t need an answer, it’s already a way of naming grief.
Awe doesn’t always feel comforting. Sometimes it can feel overwhelming or even unsettling: standing before something you can’t make sense of (God, loss, love, mystery) is familiar ground when you’re grieving. The Psalms hold this kind of awe: honest, reverent, and unresolved.
Wonder and awe in times of grief allow room for lament and require honesty. But where do we put this kind of wonder and awe when we’re carrying grief?
Play through Creativity
Play in grief isn’t silly or escapist. It’s just about low-stakes presence. It gives your body and nervous system a place to rest without asking for meaning or productivity. It says, You’re allowed to be here without explaining yourself.
Creativity is one of the oldest ways people have expressed lament. Before grief has words, it often shows up as marks, movement, sound, silence, tears. We don’t create to feel better. We create to tell the truth, even when that truth feels raw or incomplete.
Lament belongs here because:
lament isn’t the opposite of faith; it’s honesty
lament doesn’t need resolution
lament needs space more than answers
Wonder, awe, play, and creativity don’t move grief along. They make room for it and remind us that:
you don’t have to be okay
you don’t have to have the right words
you don’t have to move on
This is why wonder, awe, play, and creativity matter so much to me. They aren’t extras we return to once we’re okay again. They are ways of staying present to God and to ourselves when life is hard. They make space for honesty, for silence, for unfinished prayers. And sometimes, that is what faith looks like, choosing to remain in relationship, even when all we have to offer is our lament.
A Gentle Practice for Lament
Settle your body. Take a few slow breaths.
Name what feels heavy, simply and honestly:
What is heavy right now is…
As you sit with that, choose one simple action:
make slow marks with a pencil, pen, crayon, or paint
move your hands through clay or dough
trace lines on paper without lifting your pen
Let your hands move without trying to make something good or meaningful.
When you’re ready, pause. Place a hand on your heart or the table.
Say quietly: Nothing needs to be fixed right now. I am already held.