For The Someday Book

Here are the rest of the books I read in 2016-2017. There is more non-fiction, plus fiction and an explanation.


20180114_165642Racing Across Lines: Changing Race Relations Through Friendship by Deborah L. Plummer, Pilgrim Press, 2004, 127 pp.

This is another UCC General Synod bargain that sat on my shelf for years, until it was just the right thing at the right time. The congregation I currently serve is interracial and international, bringing together people of many languages, countries and colors. I think our greatest opportunity is to build friendships across these lines. Plummer’s book explores both the promise and challenge of cross-racial socializing, boldly naming the ways that we feel most at home around those of our own race, the discomfort we feel when we are in a minority, and the ways that socializing with those of other races can help us realize our own narrow views. This is not a book about ending racism via friendship, although Plummer certainly addresses racial prejudice and white privilege in context. It is a book about friendship, and about how difficult—but worthwhile—it is to intentionally pursue friendships across racial lines.

The Locust Effect: Why the End of Poverty Requires the End of Violence by Gary A. Haugen, Oxford University Press, 2014, 346 pp.

My congregation has a partnership with International Justice Mission, founded by Gary Haugen and engaged in justice work around the world. This book helped me understand the organization’s difficult work, the problems it addresses and the strategies it deploys. Haugen argues that criminal violence and the lack of effective law enforcement are the single biggest issues impacting impoverished people around the world. This does not mean that poor people are criminals—quite the opposite. Poverty means that you will, almost inevitably, be the victim of a crime, and the perpetrator will go unpunished. All of the aid programs for food, education, shelter and water will remain ineffective if people are not safe from violence. Haugen addresses not just oppression and state injustice, but the everyday criminal violence, police corruption and lawlessness that afflicts poor communities. IJM is doing the slow, painstaking work of building systems of justice and local law enforcement around the world, and this book describes it. What most impacted me in reading this book, however, was the realization that these same forces of corruption and the unavailability of justice to those who cannot afford to pay for it hold sway in the streets and neighborhoods of the United States, as we have especially seen in the murder of black men and women by police, with impunity.


20180114_165723The Spirituals and the Blues by James H. Cone, Seabury Press, 1972, 152 pp.

Another classic I finally took time to read, prompted by plans to develop a Good Friday service called “The Passion in Spirituals,” weaving together the story of the crucifixion in conversation with African-American poets and spirituals. Cone’s work gave me the appropriate theological context for understanding the spirituals, and helped me to curate the service and write the notes to accompany it. The book argues that, since many African Americans were denied access to publishing and writing, their theology and faith expression was instead passed on through the singing of spirituals. Cone then mines the spirituals and the blues for the theological insight of the black community, with special attention to the ways the lyrics claim liberation from oppression. He writes, “Resistance was the ability to create beauty and worth out of the ugliness of slave existence. … Religion is wrought out of the experience of the people who encounter the divine in the midst of historical realities.” (29) Cone’s theology, then, emerges from evidence of that religious resistance from the spirituals and the blues.

The Good Book: Reading the Bible with Mind and Heart by Peter J. Gomes, HarperSanFrancisco, 1996, 383 pp.

I am still questing for just the right book, one that introduces people to the Bible with an affection and a critical eye. I bought this one on that quest more than 10 years ago, and recently thought one of the chapters might adeptly address a church member’s concern. I started reading for that reason, and quickly discovered in The Good Book a 20-year-old time capsule of theological hot topics. The mid-1990s were key to my seminary and formation, and I saw all the old debates here. I was able to marvel at how far we have come, how stuck we still are, and how much farther we have moved away from Christendom and toward both cynicism and hope. Gomes’ wisdom remains solid on the topics he addresses. The chapters on “The Bible and …” (race, women, anti-semitism, homosexuality) remain of their time. It’s not that we aren’t still arguing about those topics, but the way we are talking about them has changed in the last 20 years. The remaining chapters, on more timeless topics like the good life, suffering, joy, mystery and evil, remain solid. I especially appreciated his chapter on wealth, though the income inequality and flagrant worship of opulence in our time sometimes made it seem quaint.

What’s So Amazing about Grace? and Where is God When It Hurts? by Philip Yancey, Zondervan, 1997 and 1977, respectively, published in one volume 2008, 584 pp.

Writing all these reviews in a row is proving to me how many books I have read after they have rested in waiting for many years—this two-in-one combo is another one in that category. I picked this up in surgery recovery. I think I needed some theological reflection on these questions in my own life after the tumult of the year, but I wasn’t able to handle anything too challenging. Unlike most theologians I prefer, Yancey was actually trying to answer those questions in a way that offered comfort to earnest seekers. I think I sought that solace. While Yancey’s answers did not always convince, they did offer reassurance and hope. His conversation about finding God in suffering gave practical, everyday examples of the co-existence of joy and struggle, reminding us that they often come together. More importantly, he flips the question back on Christians: “where is the church when it hurts?” (249) The book about grace, though written 20 years ago, parallels some of the conversations happening in recent books on the purpose of the church (including Glorify, Weird Church, and Standing Naked Before God, which I read this year and review in this same post). Yancey argues that grace is the thing that the church has to offer that nothing else in the world can provide. He focuses not the overwhelming nature of human sin, but on our existential need to forgive and be forgiven. He contrasts God’s desire with a world and a spirit of “ungrace,” and chastises those who act without grace toward those it deems sinners or unchristian. Both of these books were better than I expected. While there was an occasional evangelical twist I couldn’t abide, mostly they offered simple expressions of comfort to me in a difficult season. Proof that it may take me awhile, but eventually I do read these books I buy. When the moment is right, they are just what my soul needs.


20180114_165513Watching the English: The Hidden Rules of English Behavior by Kate Fox, Hodder, 2004, 583 pp.

This was the single most helpful (and embarrassing) resource as I was getting acclimated to life in London. I am grateful to the church member who gave me her copy when I arrived. Kate Fox is an Englishwoman and an anthropologist who turned her sights on her home country, observing the behaviors, traits, cultural understandings and quirks of English people. She studies food rules, dress codes, speech patterns, rites of passage, money, taboos and every other area of culture. I read this book like a missionary studying up on a foreign culture, and realized in every single chapter something that I was doing wrong or completely misunderstanding. It was my own personal way of discovering my cultural faux pas. Fox’s writing is full of humor and self-deprecation for her home country, which is important, because she identifies self-deprecating humor as one of the most important traits of Englishness, alongside things like social awkwardness, class consciousness, and “eeyorishness.” I’m not sure I would have truly understood this book until I lived here. I’m also sure it would have taken me a lot longer to understand living here if I hadn’t had this book for help.


20180114_165811Swim, Ride, Run, Breathe: How I Lost a Triathlon and Caught My Breath by Jennifer Garrison Brownell, Pilgrim Press, 2014, 146 pp.

This author is a friend whose book I was delighted to read, but again it sat awhile, because it was all about timing. I read this in the thick of chemotherapy, the hardest season for me. Something about the title captured my attention—the pacing and physicality of the verbs felt like my life in the moment: “just keep going.” I didn’t have capacity to reflect, but the author did, in beautiful and powerful ways that touched my soul. The short, poignant chapters were often all I could handle. I needed to know God in the simple act of keeping moving and breathing, and this book showed the holy to me. I don’t do well with physicality, with pushing my body’s limits. This book invited me to think about the power of incarnation, and seeing the strength and courage of a fellow Jennifer encouraged me to face the hard things I was going through at the time. This is a beautiful reflection, inspirational and truth-telling, and I loved it.

Sea Changed: Coming Home, Healing and Being at Peace with God by Kate Nicholas, Authentic Media, 2016, 294 pp.

A member of my congregation introduced Kate Nicholas and I, saying “you two share cancer, preaching and a joyous spirit. I think you should connect.” That connection has been a great blessing so far, not the least of which was the introduction to this marvelous story. When she was diagnosed with Stage 4 breast cancer, the author started to write the story of her life to share with her two young daughters. She had had a lifetime of adventures, but the story that emerged was one of God’s presence throughout, chasing her and changing her, shaping her and transforming her life—eventually even healing her from cancer. Kate’s life story is fascinating, but especially so because she tells it with rich detail and makes the people come alive. More, though, she makes God come to life, revealing all the ways the Spirit has been quietly at work around her, calling her to faith. It is a powerful testimony and a joy to read.

Standing Naked Before God: The Art of Public Confession by Molly Phinney Baskette, Pilgrim Press, 2015, 211 pp.

This book might fit more aptly in the “church leadership” category, because the first half is a rationale and strategy for integrating public confession into the weekly worship of a congregation. As always, Molly Phinney Baskette’s writing is compelling and revealing, speaking deeply about how God is present and at work in the church’s life. But for me, again reading in the thick of treatment, it was the second half, a collection of personal confessions and testimonies, that spoke to me most deeply. They are examples of the kind of practiced, prepared confession described in the first half of the book, but they are also glimpses of individual walks with God, struggles and successes and colossal failures, all of which the Spirit redeems and transforms into messages of grace for all who listen. Each was a tiny gift of hope to me.

Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and Death’s Duel by John Donne (with The Life of Dr. John Donne by Izaak Walton), Vintage Spiritual Classics, 1999, 234 pp.

This book spoke to me and for me in the early months of 2017. I was recovering from chemo and surgery, and turned to John Donne in similar circumstances. The “emergent occasions” which he references are the days of his deathly illness and long recovery. He prays earnestly, with faith but without consolation, for God to preserve his life through his illness, and vacillates between hope and despair as he endures treatment. When he writes about his relationship with his bed, seeing fear in the eyes of his physicians, and the pull of ministry even as he recovers, I felt such a resonance and understanding about the reality of facing a deathly illness. It was the poetry my soul needed, like the Psalmist who gives voice to our sighs. My reading was interrupted by the death of my father, and I returned to complete Death’s Duel, his final sermon as (many years after the other illness) he was preparing for his own death. Again, it offered me words and reflections that unlocked and explained my own feelings. This was an agonizing read, for the beauty and poignance were piercing for me this year.


Here is a summary of all the non-fiction books I read in 2017, sorted by category. Because there are so many, I’ll divide it into two posts. There is more non-fiction, plus fiction and an explanation.


Four books about George Whitefield. One about the Reformation. Why? Studying up. The church I came to London to serve is on the site of the Whitefield Memorial Chapel, and I wanted to learn more about this great preacher who linked London and the United States in the 18th Century. Also, 2017 was the 500th anniversary of Luther’s 95 Theses, and I wanted to understand more about this tumultuous period of Christian history.

20180114_165201The Printer and the Preacher: Ben Franklin, George Whitefield and the Surprising Friendship that Invented America by Randy Petersen, Nelson Books, 2015, 281 pp.

This book turned out to be terrible, but the only one of its kind. That makes it somehow still valuable, even though I don’t recommend it at all. Petersen is no scholar, and it shows on every page. His work is derivative of accredited scholars, and full of leaps and assumptions that are utterly unsupported by evidence and drawn from his own pet passions rather than helpful insight. Nevertheless, the relationship between George Whitefield and Benjamin Franklin is fascinating, and this is the only work dedicated to distilling it into a narrative. The two shared an approach to self-promotion, a concern for the well-being of the working class, and a passion for the new identity of America. I learned anecdotes and connections, even if I rolled my eyes and sifted out Petersen’s embellished interpretations.

George Whitefield: God’s Anointed Servant in the Great Revival of the Eighteenth Century, Crossway, 1990, 219 pp.

This book is a much-abbreviated summary of Dallimore’s multi-volume biography of Whitefield, as a way to make his work accessible and readable for non-scholars. Like most Whitefield biographers, Dallimore is an American evangelical whose theological perspective colors his interpretations, adds elements of moralizing and adulation I might prefer to omit, and omits more complicated or unorthodox information. However, his scholarship and storytelling are solid, and this was a helpful introductory biography for me to learn about Whitefield.

George Whitefield: America’s Spiritual Founding Father by Thomas S. Kidd, Yale University Press, 2014, 325 pp.

Kidd attempts to offer the first comprehensive biography of Whitefield by a professional historian. He shares an American evangelical perspective, and this biography argues that “George Whitefield was the key figure in the first generation of Anglo-American evangelical Christianity.” (3) Kidd’s admiration of his subject, his desire to sanctify Whitefield against the Wesleys and other critics, and his whole-hearted acceptance of evangelicalism gave me pause, though the argument that Whitefield created American evangelicalism is compelling. Kidd is more comfortable than I am making peace with the hard Calvinism and racial prejudice of that movement, both then and now. This was still a helpful, comprehensive outline of Whitefield’s life, full of insights that I can draw upon and carry forward as examples for our church that carries on in his name—though with a stronger critique of those things that belong in the dust bin of history and theology.

Inventing George Whitefield: Race, Revivalism and the Making of a Religious Icon by Jessica M. Parr, University Press of Mississippi, 2015, 235 pp.

One of the most problematic aspects of Whitefield’s biography is his advocacy for the institution of slavery and its expansion into the state of Georgia. Yet his prejudices on race are not so simple, as he was also more open-minded than many in preaching the gospel to enslaved people and befriending people of African and Native American descent, believing them fully capable and worthy of Christian life. He was famously memorialized by Phillis Wheatley and praised by Olaudah Equiano. As I think about how (or whether) to reclaim Whitefield’s legacy in our ministry on his site, this is one of the most critical issues for me to understand and address. I was eager for Parr’s book to help. It did not deliver what I hoped, which was an analysis and some conclusions about his words, their repercussions and impact (positive or negative). It did at least catalog most of his interactions around race, slavery and theology, which was helpful. Instead, Parr’s book is an argument about how Whitefield and those who have since studied and written about him have tried to craft his image as a religious icon. This was itself interesting and valuable. Scholars, preachers and theologians have been able to make Whitefield over in the service to a variety of causes—and Whitefield himself not only allowed such a mutable image, but cultivated his image to be flexible and appealing to all.

20180114_165303The Reformation: A History by Diarmaid MacCulloch, Penguin Books, 2003, 832 pp.

I started this book in early 2016, but couldn’t keep up in the midst of moving. It was densely packed with information, but fascinating and readable. What I appreciated most about this book was that MacCullough did not focus only on the theologians and their differences, but on the way these theological disputes were lived out in political and social realities. From the beginning, he paid attention to the everyday spiritual lives of Christians, and how the waves of Reformation impacted their relationships with God and one another. In chronicling the relationships between churches, princes and Rome, he captures the upheaval not just of war and conflict, but of spiritual homelessness found in the Reformation. A great read.


20180114_165609Good News Preaching: Offering the Gospel in Every Sermon by Gennifer Benjamin Brooks, Pilgrim Press, 2009, 158 pp.

This book had been in my shelves for a long time, acquired on sale at some UCC General Synod, but I needed it urgently in this last year. With the Trump administration, the rise of right-wing ideologies of hate, and the impact of terrorism here in London and everywhere, it was hard not to spend every week in the pulpit condemning some new heresy and prejudice in the name of Christ. While that proclamation is also important, I recognized the need to also offer good news, hope and courage rooted in the Gospel. Brooks’ book was right on time, not only making the case for why preaching must always include good news in a bad news world, but offering techniques and examples for including this message of grace and salvation even as we sustain our prophetic critiques.

Weird Church: Welcome to the Twenty-First Century by Beth Ann Estock and Paul Nixon, Pilgrim Press, 2016, 176 pp.

Estock and Nixon are church consultants helping congregations grow, thrive and change. This book begins with an analysis of our social and ideological reality, which contains multiple worldviews at work all at once. I am not sure I agree with the evolutionary understanding Nixon and Estock offer, as though humanity is becoming more enlightened, but the worldviews they describe are readily in evidence, and in conflict, within our congregations and communities. The first half of the book identifies trends and challenges of church life today. While it was a helpful summary, there were not a wealth of ideas and insights I had not already read elsewhere. The second half of the book catalogs new incarnations of church that respond especially well to the newest worldview (not integrating the various worldviews, as we are doing in traditional settings). From dinner church to coffee house enterprises to mission outposts, they look at creative “weird” endeavors that speak to changing realities.

Ask, Thank, Tell: Improving Stewardship Ministry in Your Congregation by Charles R. Lane, Augsburg Fortress, 2006, 128 pp.

This is a popular read among clergy trying to improve their congregational giving, and it is a solid, helpful and rich resource. Lane’s main emphasis is on discipleship, and the need to develop people not as givers or members, but as disciples. Cultivating generosity is about learning to trust God with our money. I also appreciated the simple outline he offers, from the title on: ask, thank, tell. There is no life-changing program here, but too often churches try to work on better “asks” without following up on the other portions of the cycle of inspiration—thanking people for their gifts and telling them how the church’s ministry is making a difference. This is a softer, gentler approach than J. Clif Christopher’s Not Your Parents’ Offering Plate, but with similar ideas and themes.

Glorify: Reclaiming the Heart of Progressive Christianity by Emily C. Heath, Pilgrim Press, 2016, 136 pp.

This was one of my favorite books this year, and not just because Heath is a friend. This book makes the case that discipleship is the missing ingredient in progressive churches, and that we ought to be paying far more attention to the development of the faith lives of our congregations as our most critical task. Heath expresses concern that progressive Christians often define our faith by what we are against, or how we are not like “those” Christians who are anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-sex and all the rest. Instead, we should be asking how we can live lives and build communities that glorify God, with joy and compassion. That means cultivating transformed lives, letting God change us and work through us in prayer, study, generosity and—yes!—acts of justice. Heath speaks concerns and passions I have shared since seminary, and I am grateful for this clear case for the importance of discipleship in our progressive churches.

20180114_165359Leadership Without Easy Answers by Ronald A. Heifetz, Belknap Press, 1994, 348 pp.

This book isn’t specifically about church leadership, but leadership in general. I’ve read about this book and its ideas in many sources, but it took me a long time to get around to reading the original source. In many ways, this made it feel like a refresher to concepts I already knew (and have used many times). Reading Heifetz’ arguments and defense of his ideas revealed to me how innovative he was by moving away from understanding leadership as a trait or character type and instead as an activity and skill set. Leadership doesn’t reside in personality, but in one’s ability to build trust and move people to follow. Beyond the helpful distinction between technical and adaptive change, Heifetz’ articulation of “leadership without authority” is a perfect way to capture the essence of congregational leadership, both clergy and lay. He addresses the pain and personal challenge of sustaining this kind of leadership in long-term struggles, and offers reassurance and insight. I’m glad I finally read it—now on to the next volume, Leadership on the Line, which is still on the shelf.

Here’s a summary of all the fiction I’ve read in the last 18 months, grouped by some categories and with a short review of each. Non-fiction is here and here, plus an explanation.


These books are what fiction is all about—words and characters that come together to tell a powerful, moving, captivating story about being human. These brought me joy, tears and healing this year.


My Grandmother Asked Me To Tell You She’s Sorry by Frederik Backman, Washington Square Press, 2015, 372 pp.

I bought this at the airport on my way either to or from my father’s funeral. The narrator offers a child’s perspective on death and grief, on truth and fiction, on love and normality, but woven by a brilliant storyteller. Elsa’s grandmother creates for her a magical world of stories, and when she dies, Elsa journeys to discover the meaning behind them. This book spoke to my heart’s need to tell my story to make sense of my own life and its heartbreaks.

Grief is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter, Faber & Faber, 2015, 114 pp.

This book defies explanation. This short piece explores the topology of grief and loss, with all its attendant feelings, through prose-poetry in multiple voices, including the husband grieving his wife, the two sons grieving their mother, and the giant crow who comes to stay with them, who is sometimes nonsensical and sometimes the only one who makes any sense. Epic, complicated, deep and true. I want to read it again, a year later, living with new grief.

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness, Candlewick Press, 2011, 225 pp.

Intrigued by the movie previews, I gave the book to my son for Christmas. I didn’t realize it was about a boy coming to grips with his mother’s death from cancer! And I didn’t learn it until a month later when I finally read it and talked to him about it! Not my finest parenting moment. The monster is his grief and his fear of it, and it abides with him until he opens his heart to accept the reality of loss. Another book that is deep and true, but this time for a younger audience. Even though I should have prepared my son for its content—and perhaps not given it to him right in the middle of my treatment!—it was a gift to open up conversation between us.


These books made me feel better informed about the world and about literature, but the content was sometimes difficult and sometimes reading took work. They demand appreciation, but sometimes withhold joy.

20180102_195322Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward, Bloomsbury Press, 2011, 258 pp.

This is a book about survival in the midst of poverty and hardship. As a hurricane approaches, Esch and her brothers in the Mississippi bayou work with their unreliable father to find food and shelter to survive the storm. The lives and circumstances are harsh and unrelenting, but Ward creates characters with depth and nuance. They lack much, they make choices we might disdain (dog-fighting plays a prominent role), but they have a fierce tenderness for one another that brought me to care for them. A tough but worthwhile read.

Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg, Quercus, 2011, 372 pp.

Set in 1830 on St. Kilda’s Island, the most remote corner of Britain, where a young couple goes as missionaries to the pagan Gaelic inhabitants. In addition to teaching me about the geography, zoology and history of these Britons, the book reflects on what it means to be a missionary—to inhabit a particular place, to love and mingle with others, to find God already there even in the most remote places.

England’s Lane by Joseph Connolly, Quercus, 2012, 532 pp.

I picked up this book because it’s set in our neighborhood in London. England’s Lane is just at the end of our street, and we venture there almost daily for coffee or groceries. This novel tells about life in the 1950’s, with three couples living and working there—the ironmonger, the confectioner and the butcher. The story taught me a lot about our neighborhood and about post-war London, and the writing was excellent. However, it was a novel driven by character development rather than plot, and I didn’t find any of the characters particularly likeable. That made it feel like a bit of a slog at times, but that may also have been the timing. I started it in January, and slowly finished after my father’s death in February.

Girl Reading by Katie Ward, Virago, 2012, 352 pp. (Not Pictured)

This novel was almost like a series of short stories, moving through time. In each, a girl or woman’s story unfolds around the time an artist captures her image, and in each of those images, she is (or appears to be) reading a book. The book was exquisitely crafted, and each of the stories made me want an entire novel about those characters. I enjoyed moving through the ages (stories move chronologically from the 14th century to the future 21st), even as I wanted to linger with each set of characters just a bit longer. Definitely recommended!


These last books were just for entertainment. They were good and well-written, but not outstanding or especially memorable. (I am struggling to recall the details of some enough to even write these small reviews.) We all need that kind of fiction in our lives as much as the profound and life-changing kind.

20180102_195428The Trouble with Goats and Sheep by Joanna Cannon, The Borough Press, 2016, 454 pp.

This is the story of a British neighborhood in the 1970s. Mrs. Creasy has gone missing, and two ten-year-old girls decide to take on the job of finding out what happened. It opens them to adult realities and to the complicated relationships within households and between neighbors. As someone who was just a little younger than the characters in the 1970s and is the mother of a ten-year-old, I connected with the story in several ways. I also enjoyed understanding all the Britishisms in the book, which I never would have gotten before!

The Muse by Jessie Burton, Picador 2016, 445 pp.

I enjoyed this book because it introduced me to worlds I would never otherwise see—London art galleries in the late 1960s and Spain in the Spanish Civil War. The story was about a painting created in 1936 Spain, discovered by a young gallery worker in the 1960s. The characters were likeable, and the plot was interesting, as we come to discover the painting’s origins alongside them. A fun and fast read.

The Innocents by Francesca Segal, Vintage Books, 2012, 436 pp.

This book is also set in North London where we live, but much wider ranging than one little street. It’s a story of love and family, set in the tight-knit Jewish community here. Adam and Rachel are childhood sweethearts, but Adam has feelings for her wild cousin Ellie. The book follows Adam as he feels torn between Rachel and Ellie. I loved the way the story lifted up the tangled relationships between family, community, faith community and more as he considered the possible consequences of his choices. Another entertaining and enjoyable read.

The Carriage House by Louisa Hall, Penguin Books, 2013, 279 pp.

This story struck me as one about upper class fears of decline. William Adair is a wealthy man with three daughters, for whom he had enormous dreams—and who have each stumbled along into disappointment. When he has a stroke, they return to care for him and fight to preserve the beloved Carriage House behind their home. In so doing, they are able to shake off the shadow of his expectations find themselves and even discover a bit of joy. Good to pass an afternoon or two, but not especially memorable.


If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that I have posted reviews of all the books I read, which I haven’t done since May 2016. If you are a regular reader, you can also guess why that happened: in June 2016, I moved to London and got diagnosed with cancer. My normal reading pace (about a book a week) slowed dramatically, as a fog from the move and the treatments kept me from reading. But I have read a little bit, and I have been collecting all my books to somehow catalog and review.

I began writing book reviews in a notebook for myself in 2002, because I was reading so much so fast that I was forgetting most of it. I wanted to slow down and capture each book in my memory. I started sharing my reviews here in 2009. It has become an important part of my spiritual discipline and reading habit, a way of spending time with my literary companions.

I didn’t have the time or energy for reviews in the last 18 months. Yet each time I completed a book, I couldn’t bring myself to put it away. The ritual of shelving a completed book is one of my life’s great (though simple) pleasures, but nothing felt complete without offering a few words of reflection. I like talking about the books I read as much as I enjoy reading them.

That’s what caused this to happen on top of the bookcase in my bedroom.


The first stack, on the left, contains all the books I read in the remainder of 2016, from the time we moved to London until year’s end. It’s a mighty thin stack, because these were my months of chemotherapy. I could barely hold a book, and I couldn’t concentrate for more than a few pages at a time. Since birth, I can’t recall a season with so few books in my life.


However, these books were loving companions to me. Three of the five were written by clergy friends, people who were praying for me and encouraging me during my illness. One of them is even a fellow cancer survivor. In reading, I felt their prayers and love with me. Two were full of spiritual testimonies of courage and hope, one was a twisted prose poem about death and grief, the other two were practical and inspirational guides for church leadership. These were the books I chose for this hard season—the witness of other faithful folks who had overcome hardship and suffering; a lament to give voice to my own; and two professional reads to keep me grounded in my vocation, a source of great hope for me.

Starting in January, the chemotherapy was leaving my body, and I had surgery. The surgery left me home for three weeks, and I planned to catch up on my book reviews at that time. However, my incisions left me unable to type or sit at the computer comfortably. My days alternated between reading books, watching television and checking Facebook on my phone. The middle stack represents my reading for those first few weeks of 2017. As you can see, there was a lot of it. The upright tome, The Reformation, was one I started reading in January 2016, abandoned when the move to London got hectic, and returned to complete in my surgery recovery. I alternated between various novels and The Reformation for most of that three weeks of recovery.


My dad died on February 5, and I stopped reading again. The mountain of grief over all the year, combined with the lingering impact of chemo and radiation, again made it difficult to concentrate. Only since mid-summer have I slowly begun reading in a way that is more “normal” for me. The third stack, only slightly taller than the January one, represents the remaining eleven months of 2017. It is perhaps not as many books as previous years, but the balance of sacred and secular, the diverse categories and the tilt away from fiction much more closely resemble my normal patterns.


With the new year turned to 2018, it’s time to clear the shelf and start anew. Now that my health is restored and life in London has settled into a routine, I plan to return to my regular reading and reviews. Lest you be concerned, this last picture is my “to-be-read” shelf shelves, sitting right under these three completed piles. I’m hoping to read more and buy less in order to get them all fitting on one shelf by the time 2019 arrives. We’ll see.


Much like the year itself, with all its life-changing moments—much like my dad’s old snow hat in the picture, with all its attendant memories—I couldn’t let these books dissolve into the shelves without handling them one more time, marking their presence as companions through this year, and, yes, writing at least a little something about each one.

So, what will follow in the next couple of days will be two long posts, one fiction and one non-fiction, with mini-reviews of each book. (If you want to know more about any of the books pictured above, look there.)

After that, I hope I can happily place them in their appropriate places in my library. In the same way, after these book posts, I hope to start writing more regularly. I need to revisit so many episodes from this last year and write a little something about each one. It’s how I read and capture things in my memory —not just books, but my life.

One year ago today, I carried the last box of my belongings out of St. Luke’s UCC, where I had served as pastor for more than 10 years with a congregation whom I loved and who loved me in return. With tears in my eyes, I returned to take this photo, lock the door one last time, and surrender my keys.


I got into my car, piled high with boxes, and drove to the radiologist for a mammogram on the lump I had found in my breast a few days earlier, on the eve of my farewell service and celebration. The mammogram produced hushed tones, and I knew right away that wasn’t good. The tech escalated me to an ultrasound, and, after a few minutes, quietly left the room to fetch the doctor immediately.

They told me they couldn’t be certain, but the lump I found showed every characteristic of being cancerous. I called a dear friend from the parking lot, sobbing with fear and uncertainty. The next morning, as the crew loaded all our belongings into a container bound for London, the doctor called to schedule a biopsy.

Thus began the most incredible year of my life. Incredible is the only word I can muster, because it literally means unbelievable. I find this year in my life impossible to believe.

Today, one year later, I am sitting in the tiny village of Cadouin in southern France, sipping wine, eating Camembert on a fresh baguette, feeling great, and preparing to officiate a wedding in a chateau later this afternoon. I can’t believe I get this opportunity. Incredible.


My writing spot for this post: Les Anciens Gendarmarie, a police station in Cadouin dating to at least 1606, converted to a B&B. Every now and then, someone passes by my window on horseback.

This year, our whole family moved to London, and we have learned how to navigate a new country, a new city, a new currency, a new house, new groceries, and a new language (it’s more unfamiliar than you think). I have made more cultural faux pas than I care to remember—usually not even realizing it until hours or days later, too late to apologize—and received much forgiveness. Incredible.


View of London’s Canary Wharf from Greenwich, on a Sunday afternoon outing with the family.

My son has made his way in a new school, and we have all made new friends that we expect will last a long time. Incredible.

My new ministry at the American International Church in London has been a gift in every way, and I am honored to serve with such faithful folks. We are energizing one another with the possibilities and the power of the Spirit to work through us in this place. Incredible!


The day I had my PICC line removed, the end of chemo and just before surgery and radiotherapy.

I have had three surgeries, countless tests and procedures, six sessions of chemotherapy, 23 sessions of radiotherapy, yet I now feel stronger, healthier and more fit than I did a year ago. I lived with a PICC line for five months and spent most of the year completely bald. Another surgery and more targeted chemo injections still await, but the worst is over, my hair is growing back, and the cancer seems to be gone for now. Incredible.

Having never been to Europe before the move (except for the interview at the church), I have now explored Vienna, Austria; Bratislava, Slovakia; Rome, Italy; Prague, Czech Republic and the Perigord region, France. Unglaublich! Neuveritelny! Incredibile! Incroyable!


My son’s team in Prague. An hour after this picture, my son would be wrapped in this flag celebrating victory over Lithuania. Amazing!

Last weekend, my son played on Team UK, a 10U baseball team representing the United Kingdom in a tournament in Prague. We made new friends from across England that suddenly feel like our closest kin. They brought home a trophy and he wrapped himself in the Union Jack after hitting a walk-off double to win the game. Incredible!

My father died unexpectedly this year, yet even as I grieve his loss, there remains a sense of peace and relief in his sudden death, knowing he was spared a coming suffering. I want to call him up to tell him things all the time—like my son’s game-winning hit in Prague, or the fact that the rehearsal dinner last night at this wedding in France featured the Good Old Song from his alma mater the University of Virginia—but I feel a sense of peace and trust that he already knows. Incredible.


Standing in front of my dad’s office one last time, having dressed in our finest to go to the courthouse to probate his will. He took us to the courthouse with him often when we were growing up, and always required we look our best. I also always remember him in his gray suit, so I dressed to match.

A cadre of friends—both old and new, here and abroad–have been a posse, a safety net, a support structure, a protective guard, a soft landing place, a strength in times of trouble. I cannot imagine how I would have survived this year without such support, encouragement and permission to be needy for awhile. Incredible.

I learned to drink coffee. For those who know me well, you know that this may just top the list of unbelievable events. Incredible!


I learned to drink coffee in Vienna, accompanied by some new friends that already feel like heart-friends.

At several moments this year, I believed my life to be in jeopardy. There were some scary times, not just at the initial diagnosis, but during treatment here in the UK. (Those are some of the stories yet untold, except to a very small group of friends. They will be written as I am able, as I still need to process all that has happened.) Yet here I am, and the prognosis for my future cancer-free life looks very good indeed. Incredible.

This morning, I sat at a panoramic overlook looking over the village and Abbey of Cadouin (built in 1115), just trying to comprehend all that has happened this year. Incredible. Unbelievable.


This morning, one year later, overlooking Cadouin. The smile is genuine—I started laughing with joy after contemplating this incredible year. Here I am in France, a cancer survivor, pastor in London, beloved of God. Incroyable!

I was overcome with the feeling of privilege. I feel privileged to be alive at all, and only more so to have experienced this incredible year. I think this might have been simultaneously the best and worst year of my life. I have been privileged to experience things this year that most people only dream about—travel, living abroad, engaging in meaningful work, a thriving child, feeling beloved by family and friends. I have also been privileged to experience things this year that most people fear—cancer, chemo, the death of a parent–and to have survived them.

Today, it all feels like privilege. I can’t call the events of this year a blessing, because that opens the door to a theology in which God sends pleasure and pain to edify or punish or reward or inspire, and I don’t believe God works like that. Things happen, from cancer to death to miracles to weddings in France and baseball games in Prague.

I wrote earlier in this journey, quoting Frederick Buechner: “Welcome to the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Do not be afraid.” Today, I make an addendum. “Give thanks, for God is abides.” I can only stand on this anniversary day, in this incredible, unbelievable year, and tell you that God has been with me, that I have survived, and that I feel only gratitude for the gift of it all—the hard days and the amazing ones, the grief and the joy, the pain and the pleasure. I am glad to be alive, and I am overwhelmed by love. If it seems incredible, that’s because it is, even to me. But it is my truth, my joy, my testimony. Praise be to God, for the gift of life.



The last post I wrote–not counting the eulogy for my dad–happened all the way back in January, just before surgery. In that reflection, I talked about how I kept moving forward, forward, forward, but my emotional and spiritual healing would require time to stop moving and even look backward, reflecting on all that I have been through. I had been too busy coping with the physical work of healing to attend to other matters. My silence here reveals I still haven’t managed to do that yet.

Since that last post, I had surgery, and discovered that the muscles for typing were the exact muscles that needed to rest during my recovery. My computer use was limited to the bare minimum. Then, before I was fully recovered, my father died, and the world began to spin again. I went home to Virginia for ten days, and returned to the start of Lent and the start of daily radiotherapy, which ran for nearly the same 40 days until Easter. Each day was truncated by radiotherapy, which sent me home to sleep immediately after, and my desire to honor holy week in my new church took all my working energy.

After Easter, I had planned to slow down and let the feelings come. I made intentional efforts to carve out spacious days with time to write. I had a trip to a seven-day conference in Vienna and Bratislava, and told everyone (including myself) that I planned to spend hours alone, writing and praying and processing.


Regents Park, on one of my long walks in London

Instead, I kept moving. Literally. One day in Bratislava, I planned to sit in a cafe and write. Instead, walked around town for nearly five hours, never even stopping for water. Here in London, I set out to walk to a coffee shop to sit and write, and end up walking and walking instead, until my feet are blistered and I’m too tired to shape thoughts and feelings into words. It has happened over and over. Yesterday, I cleaned all the things. Since starting this post, I have paid bills and started laundry and dealt with a pile of unread e-mail. I have to meet my guys at the baseball field this afternoon, and I just learned I could walk there in less than 90 minutes. I considered stopping this post so I could do that instead.


During that epic walk in Bratislava, I stopped at the Coronation Church to pray, and shed a few tears for my Dad. This guy walked in wearing a Rotary backpack. Being a Rotarian was a huge part of my dad’s life. This stranger felt heaven sent, and I wept some more.

I think I have been a bit starved for seeing things, after treatment left my world so small for so long. My walks have always been full of interesting things to see—beauty and humanity and energy. But I am the kind of person who needs to move beyond so many stimuli and process all that my senses encounter. Rather than pause to reflect, I have been walking myself so much that I come home too tired to do anything beyond watching TV and scrolling through Facebook—an exact replica of all the nights I’ve had through cancer treatments. Numb and exhausted, unable to concentrate and focus.

It’s probably good for my physical health to be walking so much, and I am using the time to think and pray, but I also feel like I just don’t know how to stop moving. I want to rest, to dig deeper, to feel my feelings and write my story again–but my feet keep moving.

I first realized the pattern after that day in Bratislava, but I didn’t know how to stop. For well more than a year now, since we first knew we were moving to London, life has been lived in a rush. There were visa applications and a house to sell, goodbyes to make and a church to transition. Then, just when I thought I could rest, a cancer diagnosis. What followed has been a crush of a new church, new job and new culture amidst chemo, surgery, radiotherapy and all the rest. Then the sudden death of my father.

Through it all, I knew I had to keep moving forward, and I did. Now my feet–and with them my mind and heart–don’t know how to rest anymore. I’ve lost my habits of reflection, my patterns of withdrawal, my mental space for writing more than sermons (and even concentrating on those has been a struggle). In order to renew them, I am starting writing by talking about how hard it is to write. It’s all I can manage right now.


Inside the Karlskirche, awaiting the Requiem

I am aware, too, that my feet may be in motion to run away from some of these feelings, because grief is big and deep and scary sometimes. But I have been allowing space for lots of feelings, especially for my dad. In Vienna, I attended a concert of Mozart’s Requiem in the Karlskirche. The Requiem has always been a piece that opened my heart to grief. As soon as I saw it advertised, the tears came. I knew I needed to go, and to use the music to let the feelings flow. I wept for the entire concert, and it was just what I needed. I pause for tears on a regular basis, so I don’t feel like my feelings are locked away from me.


I found these (very old) tissues in my dad’s briefcase, which had always been sacred space off-limits to the rest of us. I held on to them, along with some terribly old Altoids. I took them with me to Vienna, and to the Requiem, and it felt like my dad was there to catch my tears for him.


In the next two weeks, I am facing some time alone. Starting this morning, while the guys are at baseball. Then, three days, two nights home alone for the first time in more than a year. Then four days for a wedding in France, where I won’t know anyone apart from the bride, groom and rabbi. All those days fall around the one year anniversary of both leaving my church and home in Jeffersonville, and finding my cancer.

Normally, I would be fiercely protective of this time, with a long list of writing and thinking projects to tackle and a great eagerness for being alone. Not this time. I am nervous, because I won’t have any distractions or excuses. I think all my loneliness from the last year might catch up to me. My fear is that I’ll just keep busy, keep moving, keep walking—and spend all that precious time alone watching TV and scrolling Facebook again.


After the Requiem, I went out with friends and ordered an Old Granddad, my dad’s choice for bourbon when out to eat. He was also called Granddaddy by his grandchildren. Sipping bourbon is a slow burn, exactly the right speed for what I need right now.

But now I’ve managed to make it almost to the end of my first reflective writing in nearly six months. It’s nothing much, but I’m hoping it relieves the pressure to make way for some more writing to come, and reminds me of how much I miss it.

I want to go back to being myself again—and I don’t. I want to be changed by this experience—and I don’t. I should be different, shouldn’t I? Aren’t I? I’m only beginning to understand how my new country, new pastoral role and new status as cancer survivor will change me, and that’s all happening at the exact same time that I am finally feeling well enough to get back to being myself again. Only “myself” isn’t quite there anymore. I believe it’s writing that will help me find my footing again.

I am so glad to be through the worst of the cancer treatment, to feel my strength returning and exhaustion lifting. I look forward to slowing down my feet and the rest of me, so that I can also return to creativity, reflection and concentration. In all this, God has never felt far away, and for that I am most grateful. I hope it’s five days, not five months, until I am able to write again.





There is lots to update you all about on my cancer journey, but on Sunday, February 5, my father died suddenly and unexpectedly at age 69. I have just returned from 10 days in the States to be with my family. I wanted to share with others who could not attend the words I offered at his memorial service. His life had a big impact on many people, and it was standing room only in the church.

Especially if you didn’t know my Dad at all, you might begin by reading his obituary here. Prior to this homily, three others spoke (his high school friend, a member of the men’s Bible Study he led for many years, and my sister).  I also read written letters from my husband (reflection-by-j)and son (reflection-by-b). 

What follows is my attempt to lift up my Dad’s life to God, to share what he meant to me, to capture what he meant to others, and to represent his voice and what he would have said of himself. It was an honor and a privilege to share that day, and to share with you. 

Love you, Dad. Always.

dad-bulletin-headshot-correctedLet me begin by saying, on behalf of my mother and sister and Dane’s sister Bonnie, thank you to all of  you for being here today. We have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from our extended family, this church, the wider church, and his circle of friends, colleagues and clients. Thanks be to God for you.

We knew my dad was beloved, and that he made a difference in his church and community, but we are only now discovering the depth and breadth of the impact his life had on so many people.

This is my chance to share the impact he had on me. When I was a little girl, I wanted to grow up to be just like my dad. All the things you’ve heard in the words shared by others are true for me too–he influenced me with his generosity, kindness, faithfulness, cleverness, humor, integrity and pursuit of justice. But more than anything, what made me want to grow up and be just like my dad was his library of stories. I shared my husband Josh’s reflection on them as parables–for me, as a child, they were adventures. As I grew up, I wanted a collection of adventures and stories to rival his. Sorry, Mom, but I think this is probably why I live all the way in London. Blame Dad and his stories. If I’m honest, the desire to collect good stories has probably influenced more major and minor decisions in my life than anything else. I owe all of that to my Dad.


My dad and I in my first newspaper appearance, age seven months.

Dad knew that life is not only lived in the moment, it is re-lived in the stories you tell about it. My dad’s inspiration–all those crazy stories–taught me that life is not the sum of what you do (your career, your accomplishments, your alliances) or even what is done to you (the heartbreaks, the illnesses, the defeats). Your life is the story you tell about it.

That’s why this task today humbles me so, as it falls to me to tell the story of his life when he can no longer do so himself. All week long, I wrestled. There are countless stories to be told, but what’s the bigger story of Kenneth Dane Mills? What is the story of his life he would have me tell?

I first turned to fictional characters for inspiration. My father was Atticus Finch, the man of honor and integrity because he did what was right even when it was not popular. My father was Andy Griffith, the one you called in an emergency, trusting him to handle problems with grace, integrity and good humor. Even more, my father was George Bailey of It’s a Wonderful Life. He was the richest man in town–not because of money or status, but because of this–you all, who show up and tell us Dane made a difference in your life and you would do anything for my mom or any of us.

Those capture parts of his life, but none capture his true story. It took awhile, but finally this preacher realized the real story of Dane’s life is the same one she preaches week in, week out, the one from my day job. The story Dane would tell about his own life is that he was a sinner saved by grace, redeemed by Christ to live in love.

I’m so glad his high school friend Kevin spoke first, because if you only knew my dad as the upstanding citizen he became, you might not believe me–but now you know it’s true. I believe he saw his life as the story of a sinner saved by grace to live in love.

Let’s go back to the beginning. The firstborn son of Ken and Ruth Mills, born in Chelsea Naval Hospital in Massachusetts, brought home to an apartment so small his mother washed both dishes and diapers in the bathtub. At two weeks old, he and his mother boarded an airplane to San Francisco, to meet his father when his ship, the U.S.S. Dane, returned from a six-month cruise. His parents loved him and doted on him from that point on. Childhood on navy bases around the world was played out in cowboys and indians, Davy Crockett’s coonskin cap and baseball games–along with plenty of time annoying his two younger sisters, Carol and Bonnie.  

Dane wasn’t a bad kid, but that clever jokester we all know–while a direct inheritance from both his mother and his father–also made him a bit of a troublemaker. When he was in his early teens, they lived in Charleston, South Carolina, and Dad’s stories from those years are ominous–a boy on the wrong path with the wrong friends, sneaking out, smoking cigarettes, causing trouble. He often speculated he’d have ended up in jail if they hadn’t left Charleston for Virginia Beach. In his story, he was a sinner, saved from himself by the grace of God.

Somehow, the school and environment here channeled his energy in a better direction, and he transformed into a young man with both ambition and ability. He discovered he was a leader–Boys State, Leadership, SCA, Key Club and all the rest at the brand-new Cox High School. Don’t be misled, here–he wasn’t a model student (as Kevin said), and his continued harassment of his sisters earned him the nickname Daney Wayne the Window Pane. He did get a bit more generous–he allowed Bonnie to drive his car, but only after she had ironed all of his t-shirts. His t-shirts! Still, his future was bright–he was headed to the University of Virginia, eventually becoming the first in his family to graduate college.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves too much–because one of the biggest moments of God’s grace and gift in his life happened in those Cox High School years. He met my mother. The young Pat Halstead was then as she is now, sitting there in her red jacket. (My dad loved it when she wore red.) Beautiful, gracious, faithful and good. She was a cheerleader, and he played football, and their first real date was the prom. They loved each other from the time they were 16 years old, and stayed together while he was at Virginia and she was at Longwood, then when he graduated and joined the Navy, they got married on a the only weekend he could get leave–December 21, 1969. They honeymooned in Atlantic City, but found everything so closed up for the holiday they decided to just drive home for Christmas dinner. They listened to Christmas music the whole long drive, and neither one of them ever wanted to listen to it again. Their song was “My Girl” by the Temptations, and it summed up his feelings for her: he had sunshine on a cloudy day, all the riches one man can claim–because she loved him. They loved each other, and it was obvious to us growing up and anyone who knew them. But my dad believed his whole life he never deserved her, that the fact she loved him at all was gift of God, a grace unearned, a sinner’s life redeemed.

I think of the next chapter of the story as the time Dane tried to build a life worthy of the grace he had received. He was ambitious in all the right ways–to be a good husband and father, to build a thriving law practice, to do good in church and community.


Holding me while studying for law school

I, AKA Hot Shot, came along just as he was starting out in law school, and he often took care of me while my mom was teaching. Lauren, AKA Be-Bop, followed a few years later, about the time they bought the house on Virginius Drive. He worked at parenting like he worked at the law–thinking about how to cultivate the relationship he wanted with us and how to instill in us the skills, habits and values we needed. From the time we were two or three years old, he took us out on Daddy-Daughter dates, when we put on a frilly dress (which I never enjoyed) and went out to a nice restaurant for lunch, complete with Shirley Temples. We didn’t take many big vacations, but he somehow made our annual trips to Charlottesville to see my grandparents feel like a long, long, long journey, as he sought out every possible side road we could take to get there. Lauren called these his pig paths–but boy, the things we saw, the stories we collected on those crazy road trips! Dad made sure we knew how to change a tire and balance a checkbook–even though he was never very good at either of those things himself. He and my mom together kept us strictly in line, but they did it with love. Neither my sister nor I ever doubted, not for one moment that we were loved. His favorite scripture from Romans 8 proclaims that nothing could separate us from the love of God. Dad made it clear that nothing we did or could ever do would separate us from his love either. The story, his big story, is about grace–he knew he was a sinner and he knew we would be too, but he also knew that God’s love was bigger than all of that. He wanted to love like that too.

My Dad was always driven by the desire to be a good man, to be worthy of love and respect. He was good at it, too–good at being good, if you will. I often suspected he was way too kind to be any good as a lawyer. I got some perspective on that from some of you who were his clients, who told me that he treated you as his own–and he was going to stand up for what was right for you, unrelenting. It was his love and kindness that made him a good lawyer.

There are so many stories to share about the good he did for others–there is much more to say about the people he helped through his practice, his community organizations, this church and the wider church, and just in his personal kindness to strangers. From Galatians, we read about the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. My dad knew the Spirit and its grace, and he let that Spirit bear fruit in him. I know you all are here because you saw that fruit, and he touched your life and your faith with his grace.

And now I hear his voice in my head saying, “Did you just call me a fruit?”


Teaching Bible Study

Most of us who knew him saw a righteous man–but he saw where he fell short. He saw a sinner redeemed, a man doing his best to give back to God and to others because so much had been given to him. That’s why grace was so important to him.

One of the places Dane discovered that experience of grace was at his Emmaus Walk, and in the Emmaus community, which filled him with joy. He also found it here at Thalia United Methodist Church. You all put up with him and his corny jokes for more than 40 years. There outta be some kind of church merit badge for that. The Christian Home class, the Methodist Men, the bridge group, the early morning Bible study–you all loved him in good seasons and hard ones, and he would want me to tell you that he was so grateful.

If he were here, he’d tell you, all of you, from every facet of his life, how blessed he was to walk in this world beside you. How honored he was by the people who trusted him with their most intimate needs as an attorney. How humbled he was by the leadership roles entrusted to him. How flattered he was that the youth of the church would let him hang out with them as a chaperone. How amazed he was that their parents would let them. How lucky he was to get to be the one sleeping on the floor with the homeless. How much you showed him grace, and how grateful he was for the way you were loving, joyous, peaceful, patient, kind, good, faithful and gentle toward him.


Trying to pitch a fastball to his grandson (my son)

Starting with the death of his sister Carol in 1999, life had been hard. He lost both of his dear parents in short order. The practice of law shifted beneath him, taking with it the business and style he had crafted for himself. His grief over all of this was profound. There was still joy to be had–he had three grandchildren whom he adored. They made him so happy and proud. They remember all the trips they took to Plaza Bakery to get doughboys–and the way they would fight over his chair in the living room. He loved spending time with you. Besides that joy, Virginia basketball was good again, and he lived long enough to see his beloved Boston Red Sox break the curse and win the World Series in 2004–then again in 2007 and again in 2013.


Celebrating the 2013 World Series win with new gear

Even so, in recent years, he began to fade away somehow. I missed him already, before he was gone. When you asked him how he was doing, he would say, “Old.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t funny. Perhaps it was one of his story parables–telling us something about how he felt that we couldn’t grasp. Only weeks ago, he was finally diagnosed with a slowly progressing vascular disease that mimicked both Alzheimers and Parkinson’s Disease. That was a bleak outlook for the next 5-10 years, but no one anticipated his sudden death.

Still, life isn’t just what you do or what is done to you. Life is the story you tell about it.

Dane’s story was that he was redeemed by grace, blessed to live in love. Dane’s story is the Gospel story–where a life changed by grace, claimed by the Holy Spirit, bears fruit of love in the world. And this story has an ending like no other–because it ends with God’s grace swallowing us whole, forever, in the life everlasting, the grace eternal, the promise of resurrection.  That’s the end of Dad’s story, and the end of all our stories when they are lived in Christ.

Way back in high school, ever wanting to be clever, ever ambitious to write his own story, my dad picked up a phrase that he always used to say goodbye. He wrote in every high school yearbook he signed. He used it as the saluation in countless letters he wrote. And he whispered it in my ear many times when we hugged goodbye.

Vaya con Dios, he said. Go, with God.

So it is today we lay claim to the end of his story–and we pronounce with faith and hope and even dare to claim joy: Vaya con Dios. A sinner redeemed, a life of grace, lived in love. There is no better story. Thanks be to God for the life of my father, K. Dane Mills. Go with God, Dad. Vaya con Dios.

About Me

I am a full-time pastor in the United Church of Christ, mother of a young child (B.), married to an aspiring academic and curmudgeon (J.). I live by faith, intuition and intellect. I follow politics, football and the Boston Red Sox. I like to talk about progressive issues, theological concerns, church life, the impact of technology and media, pop culture and books.

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