Where I Live

Written on 13 May 2025.

I live in Cole Camp, Missouri, a place that prior to serving as a pastor, I didn’t even know existed. Centrally located in the state, you’ll find Cole Camp nestled between rolling farm fields. Slow down as you travel through town to see the local shops and stop at the four way junction where women meet friends for lunch and local business owners grab coffee and greet their neighbors. During the summer we travel by golf cart to the town pool, weekly farmer’s market, and playdates at the park. We can’t go anywhere without knowing someone and stopping to chat. For a place that I had never heard of 13 years prior, it’s now the town my children will forever call their hometown.

I live in a parsonage, a one story white house with a green door. Our living room looks out to the town park where my children run to meet anyone who is there playing. We can see the church and the lighted steeple at night. Since the 1960’s, the parsonage provided a home to every pastor who served at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. I imagine the walls holding stories of laughter and heartache. The rooms have watched babies being brought home and children learning how to navigate friendships. The dining room has hosted community members, church members, meetings and Bible studies. Now it is ours to make our own with a turquoise table and zip line out front, apples and goldfish to share with friends who come to play, and a front porch where we can sit and greet neighbors.

I live on the sidelines of the sports fields. Specifically baseball and softball during the spring. From here, I gather with other parents cheering for our children, watching them try something new, and seeing the joy when they catch a pop fly or hit the ball to the outfield. At last season’s games, my daughter only hit the ball once. Yet, her joy was not deterred. This year at practice when she hit the ball during her first at bat, she couldn’t stop smiling. From my vantage point in the bleachers or in a camp chair, my presence reminds my kids that no matter how things go on the field, I’m there to watch them grow.

I live in my chair, the one tucked in the corner of our bedroom. There’s a small table next to it and a basket of books. Every morning, I turn on the lamp with an embroidered shade full of flowers to read and journal. Most mornings the kids are still asleep. No one is asking me to get them a snack or help them with their math homework. I have nowhere to be. Except present to myself, my breath, and slowly opening myself to the day ahead.

I live on the walking path, or the sidewalks of Cole Camp, or the paths at the park, or a trail along the lake or a wooded forest. What I mean is that I live to put one foot in front of the other. I walk and I think. I walk and talk. I walk and look up. I walk to move at the pace of my breath so that each step becomes a prayer.

I live surrounded by books. Books on our living room couch, books on my nightstand, books on the shelves, books overflowing from the kids’ room, books from the library. When I look back at the time raising my kids, I hope they remember all the books. There’s nothing like the feel of having both kids beside me and their bodies leaning into me as we travel to new worlds and places through story. Together we’re reading and learning, and then writing our own adventures.

I live at the table that is usually covered in school work, leftover cloth napkins from meals, the mail, and whatever random toys and Legos the kids have at the moment. But the table is where we come to eat our food and share a Bible story. We sit down together for dinner with our tired and wiggly bodies and tales from our days (and currently lots of talk about poop thanks to the first grade boy in our home…) But we look one another in the eyes, we leave our phones in another room, and we offer one another our full presence. And in an age where we’re constantly busy and tied to phones and social media, I believe that these moments of presence over a meal will help to rewire our brains and souls towards connections to others.

I live with a pen and paper detailing where I’m finding light, where hope is blossoming, and how each day is full of ordinary miracles. I write to remember this one precious life. I write to remind my children that they are loved, wholly and fully as they are. I write letters to friends across the country and thank you notes to bring encouragement to others. I write because I don’t know how not to.

And finally, I live in hope. The kind of hope that sees the world as it is — broken and chaotic and beautiful and sacred — and knows that we can find a way forward together. The kind of hope that puts on flesh and walks into the world fully aware of the chances of getting hurt, but walks forward anywhere. The kind of hope that links arms with others, offers a smile and a nod of solidarity, and looks ahead for the betterment of all people. The kind of hope that reminds us that there is no where we can go where we are not without God’s presence.

Inspired by Nora Ephron’s Where I Live essay from I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman.

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