It has long been a WCC youth group tradition to write a letter to oneself at the first youth group after the new year and open one’s letter from the year that is now behind us. I’m not exactly sure when this tradition began, but it’s been going on for likely over a decade. If you’ve been a student or volunteer within that time, the chances are high that I have an unclaimed letter of yours (still sealed) in my desk drawer! Coupled with writing our actual letters– which the students fill with things like, “I predict the Bears will be good next year,” “I hope I grow 3 inches by this time in 2026,” “is 6-7 still a thing??”, as well as other aspects like their prayers, goals, excitements, and trepidations for the year that is ahead– we spend some additional time reflecting on the year that is behind us and praying for those things we deeply hope for in the year to come. 

I have seen a lot of chatter this year about how January 1st is a terrible time to try and start anew with new year’s resolutions and goals, because it’s still the dead of winter. Perhaps we ought to wait until spring, some people say, as that’s the time in which new life begins to bloom. Yet, for the students, and for me too, each new school year marks perhaps the most natural time to begin again. So, winter, spring, fall, let’s throw summer in there too– all of a sudden there’s a chance for a fresh start every season! Thank God!

As I was participating with the rest of the church in our time of confession in the service on Sunday, it struck me how fresh starts, trying again, new chances, and forgiveness are central tenets of our faith. And the good news is, God offers these opportunities to us every second and all the time, not just at the start of each season. Let us not underestimate this amazing gift– the gift of being able to begin again. Lutheran minister, Nadia Bolz-Weber, posted on instagram yesterday with a similar sentiment, that it takes much courage to try again or start over, but it is a profound grace that we are able to. 

I am wondering, if along with us at youth group, you might take some time to reflect on 2025 and identify your hopes and prayers for the year to come, to mark this opportunity for a fresh start & begin again. 

Here are some of the questions we used to reflect on Sunday:

• Over the last year, where and how did you notice God?
• When did God feel far away and when did God feel close by?
• As you look to 2026, what is bringing you hope & what do you want a chance to let go of?
• When you think about the year ahead, what do you hope for in your relationship with God, with family, with friends, with your church community?

I leave you with these profound words from the writer of the book of Lamentations– “Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” May we have the courage to begin afresh. 

With love, Pastor Lynnea

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flocks,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among others,

To make music in the heart.

Howard Thurman

In the days of King Herod of Judea, there was a priest named Zechariah, who belonged to the priestly order of Abijah. His wife was a descendant of Aaron, and her name was Elizabeth. Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to all the commandments and regulations of the Lord. But they had no children, because Elizabeth was barren, and both were getting on in years.

It was a reasonable doubt I had, when I asked the angel, “How will I know that it is so?” Who wouldn’t after all, at our age, after all those seasons of our private, burdened, lonely prayer. But I digress. Let me tell you what happened one unexpected day long ago. May name, Zechariah, it means “God remembers.” That meaning made it a common name — kings a few, prophets, and a bevy of farmers. Elizabeth and I, we come from priestly families. Our ancient family tree led us back into the Holy surprises of Yahweh, but God’s activity had long since ceased, or so it seemed. People would speak my name and roll their eyes and grumble their sense that God’s remembering had turned to forgetfulness.

Twice a year we traveled to Jerusalem, to gather with the thousands of other priests and all the people of Israel. As on each holy day, there were four responsibilities; the burnt offering, the meal offering, tending to the candlestick in the great sanctuary, and the offering of incense. The first three carried a certain prestige, and the fourth was the most honorable of all. Only once in a lifetime might a priest get the chance to light the incense of God, and that only if you’d win the lottery. Safe to say I had only a numb shock when one day the lot fell on me, and I would offer the Lord the evening incense.

I remember my legs trembling that night as the crowd watched me enter the great temple sanctuary. Two men were there, waiting for me. One opened a silver firepan and poured bright coals onto the altar. The other set a dish of incense at its side. They both left, slamming the massive doors behind them, leaving me alone. Here I was making ready the prayers of all Israel. I had imagined it a thousand times, and now, here I was, and it was unimaginable! I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams what happened next.

In an instant, just as the instant touched the coals, and angel was standing beside me. I struggled for breath, shook with fear, and lost my ability to stand, falling against the side of the altar and almost into the burning incense. Then, suddenly, my fear turned to deepest joy because the angel spoke the two most comforting words I have ever heard…my name, Zechariah, and then “Don’t be afraid.” I had heard what it sounds like when God says your name. What followed was a thoroughly unbelievable tale, that God had been listening to our barren lament, and that Elizabeth was in fact going to become pregnant. The angel at the end of the altar told me that this child would be named John — “God gives grace” — and that he would be the messenger announcing Messiah’s appearance. Well, I reminded the angel that “I am an old man” and found kinder words for Elizabeth — “and my wife is getting along in years.” As I said before, my doubts were reasonable, don’t you think?

Things ended there quickly. The angel told me his name was Gabriel, that he was sent straight from the presence of God to give me this news, and that though seeming impossible, the process was already underway. Then came one more holy surprise, another announcement that I would be silent, muted, unable to speak until the child was born. And just like that Gabriel was gone.

The crowd keeping Vigil outside was impatiently waiting and worried about the incense delay, and when I came out it was a much like anything a game of charades. They couldn’t understand what had happened, and I couldn’t tell them! Put yourself in my shoes; just imagine what that moment and the days and months following were like for me…holding onto the news, aware of the promise, desperately wanting to tell everyone about what happened to me when the powder hit the coals. And that day when Mary came, and she told us a story about an angel visiting her, and Joseph too, and all I could do was nod and draw pictures with stone edges on rocks, and play more charades, which helped us all figure out together that God was up to something holy and new. We celebrated together, and we were scared.

The day the boy was born I remained reduced to silent rejoicing. I danced and drew and did what I could, but my voice didn’t come back, and I was scared; thank God for that blessed eighth day, when we brought him to the synagogue for his circumcision and blessing, and I couldn’t do the father’s job, which was to speak his name for the first time. Instead it was back to the drawing board, as I listened to my relatives project him to be another Zechariah, I scribbled almost violently “His name is John….John!” and right then it was like something invisible punched me in my chest and knocked the wind out of me…AND I COULD TALK AGAIN! And you can only imagine how much I had to say! Finally I could join Elizabeth and Mary in singing my own song.

Though Gabriel never came back to me, I felt a strange and wonderful sense of God’s presence the rest of my days.

I was no longer present on the earth that day when John was a grown man standing in the water and saw Jesus and pointed at him and said, “Here comes the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”

Peter Hawkinson

I always had a difficult time sitting quietly and meditating. I did not have the
patience to still my mind. My mind would jump to all the things I was
worried about or had to accomplish. I explored contemplative practices
after graduating from seminary and found my way into the silence. While on
a retreat in a monastery, I stumbled across their labyrinth. I had walked
labyrinths before, but this time it was life changing. The kinesthetic activity
of moving my body, calmed my mind and allowed me to engage with the
silence, and in that silence to hear God profoundly. Patience came to me
through the activity of walking. It helps some of us to be patiently active. I
went on to become a trained labyrinth facilitator in 2019 and plan to
become an advanced facilitator soon.

The labyrinth is a meandering path that leads to a center. It is used as a
tool for meditation, contemplation, and spiritual transformation. It is typically
circular, following the circular, spiral patterns we find in nature, in shells, in
plants, and snails. It is not a maze, where there are dead ends in which you
can get lost, but a path that leads you to the center and leads you back out
again. The labyrinth dates back at least 4,000 years. One of the most
famous labyrinths is on the floor of the Chartres Cathedral in France. The
construction of the cathedral began in 1200, and it is believed that the
labyrinth was always a part of the plan.

Most labyrinths follow one of two patterns. The labyrinth in Chartres is a
medieval pattern. In Sweden you will typically find the classical labyrinth.
Sweden is a country with more labyrinths than many larger countries and
you may even find them scratched into the wall at the end of a pew in a
medieval church. Like someone who might have been bored during a
service and wanted something to help them focus. Labyrinths are found all
over the world and many faith traditions use them for spiritual centering,
discernment, and contemplation.

In the Middle Ages it was popular to take pilgrimages and many
pilgrimages contained a labyrinth walk. The Chartres labyrinth is part of the
Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. It is like a pilgrimage inside a pilgrimage.
Walking is a spiritual experience; movement can be prayer. It is used for
contemplation, discernment, and as a way to encounter God. The Labyrinth
is a spiritual tool in which our walking becomes a spiritual purpose. I look
forward to sharing more about my passion for the labyrinth, and guiding
walks.

Kristie Finley

December is patience month for us this year. If you remember, we are taking a slow jog through the fruit of the Spirit…”the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Galatians 5:22-23). We started in September, so here we are with patience.

Patience is the patron-saint of the Advent season we are in. It just has to be! Because here we find ourselves waiting in the dark for the light to come, for the Messiah, Jesus, to appear. Once Israel did, and he was born into the body of a human baby. His own promise is that he’ll come again, and that when this happens all will be completely well, whole, and right.

Spoiler alert! Here’s how the prophet Isaiah will give it to us as we gather at the community table next Sunday: “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them….they will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD as the waters cover the sea.” (Isaiah 11)

When waiting is hard is when it’s connected to something deeply anticipated and longed for. The image that comes to mind for me is of childhood years, when mid-June came along, and school was out for the summer, and it was time to get ready for the trip north to Minocqua, Wisconsin and our family cabin. Anticipation built. I helped mom make sandwiches we’d eat at the rest stop by the cows near Fond Du Lac. I was more than willing to pack up my summer stuff. Then we were off, and it’s that moment when we’d hit the Wisconsin line that my longing would hit a fever pitch, and of course, time seemed to stand still! UUGH! Didn’t it take Foreeeeever to get through Milwaukee and catch 41 north? I would try to hold on until we hit the bridge at Oshkosh and Lake Butte des Morts, but then we always had to stop at Fremont for bacon and cheese. Then it was a short ride to the roadside rest stop by the cows out in the country.

Don’t get me wrong! I love bacon and cheese, and mom’s limpa bread sandwiches. But the thing was that I so wanted to pull in that sand driveway and run down the hill and onto the dock for the first time. That was the thing! And I wish mom and dad were here so that I could call and ask them how many times I must have asked from the backseat, “Are we almost there?” “When are we gonna get there?” Tom Petty’s writing says it well: “The waiting is the hardest part/every day get one more yard/you take it on faith, you take it to the heart/the waiting is the hardest part.”

Finally, finally, it was when we got across 10/110 and hit 51 north at Stevens point, when I could feel and watch that big turn right and straight north, that I knew it was only 100 miles more to go. It’s getting more and more north-woodsy. Wausau, 70 miles. Tomahawk, 30 miles, and then, oh boy, Hazelhurst, 5 miles! Just a couple ups and downs before a left at the bowling alley, and we’re on Doolittle road, and we’ve made it!

During advent, we recognize ourselves to be somewhere on a journey like this, toward a glory we most long for. How close, I don’t know, but what I do know by faith is that we’re closer all the time. Because of Jesus we’ll get there through our mortal death or should Jesus come back in the meantime.

We will get there! Even though some days feel like we’re still just passing Great America, or just as far as Racine, we will get there! The waiting is the hardest part, but patience will help us as our longing grows.

It was at the very cabin that my father and my brother-in-law wrote a hymn about that longing. It’s in our hymnal, 748: Like the spring after winter’s snow/like the seedlings hint of harvest/we are drawn by the hope that grows from our longing to be home with you/ someday soon, someday soon you will come and we will see your glory/’Til that day may our hearts burn bright with the hope of one day someday soon.

Love From Here

Peter Hawkinson

“Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise.

Give thanks to him, bless his name.

For the LORD is good; his steadfast love endures forever,

And his faithfulness to all generations.” (Psalm 100:4-5)

Among the many of my dad’s poems, there’s one that sits on our fireplace mantle. It goes like this:

Our Inheritance flows

Like a fresh, clean stream

From the heart of God.

Who knows where it begins

Or finally ends

In oceans of time?

Whatever we may say is inadequate to trace it clearly –

Except that God once gave and is still giving

Out of love for us.

We are never worthy to receive or give

The fruits of his grace

All that fits properly

Is thanks to him,

“Thanks for everything!”

May we all be swept up

With gratitude, and love for the giver.

He wrote it on the anniversary of his mother, my grandmother Lydia’s death. In May of 1986 she was receiving hospice care at Swedish Covenant hospital, and as her time was drawing near, my father, and my cousin Tim stood at her side, holding her hands. Her breathing shallow and spaced, my dad remembered years later what a sacred moment it was; he was then the age I am now. Dad recalled laughing about the stupid stories, remembering family life through the depression and world war II; They expressed their gratitude for her faithful love through life, and at that she labored a heavy smile, eyes closed. Finally, my father asked, “Mother, what would you like to say that we might always remember?” And after a bit, a broad smile came, and labored, she said her final words: “THANKS FOR EVERYTHING!” and then she died. Hence the poem, which says “All that fits is thanks to God, Thanks for everything!” May we all be swept up with gratitude and love for the Giver.”

In this week as we count our many blessings and give thanks, may we find un-numbered reasons to say to God and to one another, “Thanks for everything!”

Peter Hawkinson

Judi Geake

The Tuesday Women’s Bible Study has been looking at Biblical stories of God’s presence in the lives of the Israelites, even when they went through hard times. I could certainly tell my story of how God has been active in my life…in fact, I could tell story after story. Two stories immediately come to mind. Both stories are similar… times when what looked like a hard time was ultimately the precursor to a particularly wonderful time.

My husband Howard was older than me, so when he was offered early retirement from his company after a large corporate buy out, he was 52 but I was only 40…and we had three sons – the oldest just entering high school, the middle one entering Jr. High, and the youngest in nursery school. This was not a good time to have a drastically reduced income and a husband not yet qualified for a pension or Social Security. However, he was convinced if he didn’t take the offer, he would be let go with in the next year anyway, and then wouldn’t even have the early retirement bonus they were offering. He made out a budget… the first in our married life… and decided we could afford it. However, his idea of our expenses and what it would cost to raise our three boys was entirely unrealistic. I’ll never forget that his budget allowed $300 for the boys clothing for the year. He was not detoured, even though I told him that $300 would barely buy each boy a new pair of shoes. 

Clearly we needed another source of income going forward. I decided to go back to school for my masters degree at National Louis University in Evanston. However, instead of an MBA to follow my undergraduate degree in business, I decided I wanted to get a MS in Human Services…a much better fit for where I was in my life at the moment. The expense was greater than I anticipated so I took a job as a part-time nanny to two local families with three young girls. I took all my classes in the evening and used the girls’ nap times for homework. Howard stayed home with Adam.

It was a hard three years, and don’t think or a minute that I didn’t question where God was in all this. However, I finally graduated after taking a year’s internship with an organization called the Women’s Exchange, an outreach ministry of Winnetka Congregational Church. Getting that internship was the first of many God infused moments. The Women’s Exchange wasn’t really big enough to need an intern, however, the director had been diagnosed with breast cancer and really needed help. Having an intern, she told me, was a Godsend. That year I took over many of her responsibilities. I got to know the board of directors so well that at the end of the year, when she resigned, they hired me to be the new director.

July 1st, 1991 I began the the first year of a 20 year love affair with my job and the women who passed through the doors of the Women’s Exchange. I can honestly say that every time I left my house and made the turn from Lagoon Drive onto Willow Road to head to work, I was excited for the new day. What had started with my husband’s untimely retirement and the worry of how our lives would change, God had turned into one of the greatest joys of my life. 20 years of pure joy. 

The second story that immediately came to mind was similar. My retirement did not turn out the way that I thought it would. I found time heavy on my hands and I missed the daily interactions with people. Pastor Pete mentioned that he was looking into a program at North Park Seminary that would lead to a certificate in Spiritual Direction. It sounded intriguing. When I called to inquire about it they said it was full for the next year but a last minute cancelation allowed me to start immediately.

Again, the next three years were not easy. Much of what I thought I knew and much of what I thought I believed was challenged. My journals during that time are filled with laments to God, asking why…and how…and what questions. But gradually my theology broadened. Love became more and more a part of my vocabulary. Love for my fellow cohort members, love for my church, and love for people… all people.

Some time after graduation, I approached Peter and Jen, and asked to be considered for a position on staff… a position that would allow me not only to use my Spiritual Direction certificate, but my love of putting together small groups of people to form more ways of building community within the church. They and the trustees said yes. Once again God had taken a troubling situation and turned it into something that I love… something that again brings me joy every day that my car turns off Lagoon drive and onto Winnetka Avenue heading to church. 

These are just two of the bigger, more obvious stories of how God’s story became part of my story. I could write a book about all the others, large and small, significant and seemingly insignificant. In fact I am. It is called a book of memoirs. I write a new one every month for the three memoir groups I facilitate. Not all stories or writings are about God’s role in my life. But they are all stories about my life so I trust that God is in there somewhere. 

Whenever the leaves are about gone and the first snow and cold of each year comes, I come back to a poem I wrote now 25 years ago in Minnesota. I have noticed about my own family ancestors how often they were keen on poetry, reading and reflecting on it, and working on their own expressions — their file folders stuffed full call out to me for exploration. I have a whole thick file of poems I’ve written too, but am hesitant to share. But here’s one from October, 2000:

These Days are Changing

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea. (Psalm 46:1-2)

These days are changing With each new leaf shimmering down in sunshine And frosty air through my bedroom window These days are changing

These days are changing Children growing up, parents growing old Death is stilling the laughter of friends These days are changing

Yet you, God of everything, do not change Forever hiding us in Your love Still helping us to face our troubles You become a man and change our days

These days are changing Forever creeps closer like snow Many glad reunions, the laughter of heavenly friends These days are changing

So come, changing days Blow winter-time of life with all your challenge and pain Meet our Refuge and Strength Who conquers for us your trouble

These days are changing Falling leaves promise us that life shall come again And for now, until then, Refuge and Strength, very present help

Peter Hawkinson

Yesterday in adult Sunday school we began to talk about peace, which is our focus for the month of November. We focused in on the Hebrew word Shalom, and it’s beautiful and complicated understanding of peace. It’s rooted in a well-being, wholeness, and harmony that is more collective than it is personal. In other words, “If any person is therefore denied shalom, all are thereby diminished.” (United Methodist Council of Bishops, 1986).

The scripture says it this way: “Seek the welfare (shalom) of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:7). Re. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. reflected on Shalom this way: “In a real sense all life is inter-related. All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be, and you can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be…this is the interrelated structure of reality. (Letter From a Birmingham Jail).

My greatest life experience with Shalom and its call to mutual flourishing happened because Chicago Public School teachers were on strike. It happened for a few years in a row during the mid-seventies at the start of the school year. What to do? Well, i’m not sure how it happened, but a number of my friends and I ended up at Share Tikvah (“Gates of Hope”), a synagogue just north on Kimball from Peterson School, where the rabbis and a couple of pastors (including my own) and a number of good-hearted people took care of us kids for a couple of weeks until the teacher strike was settled. They taught us — I remember one rabbi being exasperated with my inability to write cursively, which in fact I never accomplished. They fed us, they took us to Hollywood park for extended recess, they coordinated with our parents to give them the help they needed, and more than anything my lingering memory is that I felt loved and cared about and for. I remember being sad when we had to get back into the school building!

That’s my story about Shalom. Do you have one? And isn’t Shalom our deepest need and hope these days?

Next week we’ll be reflecting on the challenges to this kind of Shalom mutual flourishing that we find in our own broken and fearful selves and in the world which we belong to. Then we’ll explore how Jesus is our peace and brings us together. Hope to see you at 9:30 next Sunday morning!

Love from here!

Peter Hawkinson

I’m at home this morning looking out my window and pondering the years. The village leaf pushers/catchers are hard at work as the massive locust tree in our front yard shed it’s little leaves. I’m collecting time, as it’s the twentieth autumn I have watched the world go by from this spot.

I remember the day that two new saplings, now forty feet tall, were planted across the street. All our neighbors around us have changed except for one. My kids have grown into adults. Two dogs have kept us alert and loved. Forties welcomed me here; sixties now carry the day.

Where does the time go?

It’s a good question for this week as we prepare for All-Saints Sunday as we come remembering those who have loved us and left us. I’m looking at a picture on the wall of my girls group-hugging my mom and dad with birthday candles glimmering at the photo’s bottom. It must have been about the time we moved onto Lockerbie Lane. It seems like yesterday! Yet it’s now been ten years since my mom’s death, and soon fifteen for dad. I’ll whisper their names come Sunday. I miss them so!

Yet as I treat the photo like an icon — just sit and gaze at it for awhile, and let the smiles and faces and voices come to life, it’s not sadness I feel, but joy, deep joy, for the wonder of life and the blessing of time and all that is has held for me. “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places” Is how Psalm 16 puts it.

Life has been, is now, and will be a good gift as long as it lasts. That doesn’t mean it’s all good, all the time, every day. It does mean that my spirit is grateful this morning for my life’s journey and all the joy through it. I’m glad to rest here for awhile with a cup of coffee as Oliver carries on with his euphonium in the living room and Stina arrives home from a morning walk with bear. Life goes on. I’m so glad.

Love From Here!

Peter Hawkinson