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Making Room for What's Arriving
There is a kind of anticipation that buzzes with excitement, and then there is another kind that arrives quietly, with mixed emotions tucked into its pockets.
Today, my godson and his family are arriving from Florida. They're bringing their daughter, Valentina, who just turned one. I haven't spent much time around babies. I don't quite know the rhythms, the cues, the needs. And yet, I feel something softening in me at the thought of her presence. Not excitement exactly, but curiosity. Openness. A gentle wondering about who I might be with her.
Alongside that, if I'm being honest, there's some angst.
Family gatherings have a way of stirring things up. Schedules change. Routines bend. The house feels fuller, louder, more alive, and part of me resists that. I notice that my first response isn't always joy. Sometimes it's tension. Sometimes it's the quiet sadness of realizing that I feel more stress about having guests than excitement about seeing people I love.
That noticing matters.
As I've gotten older, now standing firmly in my 60s, I've become more protective of my time, my energy, my rhythms. Interruptions feel bigger than they used to. The pace I once thrived on doesn't call to me the same way. And I'm realizing that this isn't something to fix, it's something to understand.
For a long time, I've lived with an unspoken pressure to be endlessly enthusiastic, zealous, energetic. To always show up bright, animated, “on.” That version of me has served beautifully in many seasons. But as I move into 2026, I feel invited into something different.
Slower.
Kinder.
More spacious.
This next chapter isn't about losing vitality, it's about redefining it.
There is a new kind of strength emerging for me now: the strength to pause. The courage to choose rest without guilt. The willingness to let presence matter more than performance. To be with myself, and with others, without needing to entertain, impress, or push.
I find myself wanting more harmony. More self-care. More moments that don't need
commentary or urgency. More room to simply be.
And perhaps that's why the image of little Valentina feels so meaningful. She doesn't need me to be anything other than present. She won't measure my productivity or energy level. She'll respond to tone, attention, gentleness. She'll invite me into the now, whether I'm ready or not.
That feels like grace.
This week, I'm practicing patience with myself. Understanding for the ways I've changed. Compassion for the parts of me that get tired, guarded, or overwhelmed. I'm learning that slowing down isn't a retreat, it's an arrival.
And I suspect many of us are standing at similar thresholds.
Which is why this Sunday matters.
As we gather, we'll be moving into our White Stone Service, a sacred pause at the beginning of the year. A moment not to strive, but to listen. Not to decide who we should be, but to gently notice who we already are becoming.
If you're feeling tender…
If you're feeling reflective…
If you're sensing a quieter wisdom rising within you…
You're not behind.
You're right on time.
I hope you'll join us this Sunday as we step into the new year together, with openness, curiosity, and grace for the unfolding.
With love and presence, Rev. Bobby 
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