Spring's arrival doesn't let us hide from the temporal rules and rhythms of God's creation. To everything there is a season.

March 11 was only the beginning of a stretch of anxious weeks when I would return, almost daily, to the words of Psalm 46 and their reminder of our ever-present help in trouble.

There’s a certain time of day, time of year, and type of weather that reminds me of that morning. January 1, 2015. Do you have moments like that, where the right alignment of factors and feelings takes you back to a very specific place?

The “resurrection” season after the death of COVID-19 will be glorious, won’t it?

There is rebirth on the other side of this long Saturday. A great reopening, rebuilding, reunion, resurrection. When will it come?

In retrospect, the horror of watching the spire of Notre-Dame de Paris collapse into billowing flames—a year ago this month—was just a foretaste of horrors to come.

If there is one thing that becomes utterly clear living with a child in their first year of life, it’s how fast they change. Every month is change. Every week. Every day.

The California super bloom is speaking theologically, just in time for Easter. What is it saying? Here are a few things I hear.

The other night was a Santa Ana Winds night. Southern Californians know what this means. The hot, dry winds come raging down from the high desert, through the San Bernardino mountain passes. They carry dust and debris and the sage-scented shrapnel of the chaparral. They fuel fires and defrock the palms. They howl with glee as they rattle windows and send trash cans tumbling. They tip over semis and send Jacaranda purple blossoms everywhere.

I graduated from Wheaton College 10 years ago this month. This Friday, I’ll be attending commencement ceremonies at Biola University, where I’ve had the pleasure of working for nearly seven years. I’ll be cheering on a dozen or so students who I’ve mentored, taught, employed or befriended; students who will be walking across the stage to receive their diplomas, much as I did when I was their age, a decade ago.

Autumn isn't really autumn in L.A. Sure, temperatures may drift downward into the 70s and (if we're lucky) 60s rather than the 80s and 90s. And sure, the evenings cool off quicker and some types of deciduous trees (if you can find them) shed their leaves. Sure, Starbucks has their pumpkin spice lattes and caramel apple ciders. One can even find a local pumpkin patch after enough Googling.But for a Midwestern boy like me, it will never feel quite right.

Part of the sadness and elegiac quality of something like commencement is that we remember what it was like to be young and free, "Golden in the mercy of his means," with the world as our oyster. We lament that we've lost the sense of adventure, bravery, and risk that electrified those long lost days. And yet the truth is we need not abandon such things. We should be lifelong learners, career explorers, always re-imagining the world and discovering its wonders anew.

Because Twitter increasingly seems to be the medium through which the "now" moments of life are expressed (albeit not remembered or archived for posterity), I thought I'd attempt to summarize the highlights from my year in 12 tweet-style updates  (one for each month) of 140 characters or less.

In the spirit of change, of Autumn, and of good music, I put together a fall playlist of new music. Listen to it on Spotify here (if you're on Spotify), or take a look at the tracklist below. It's all music that has come out in 2011, and most of it in the last 3 months.

The goodness of the world—the “all is not lost,” salvageable beauty of it—is legitimated in the God-made-flesh moment of Christmas. In that epoch of history, the climax of so many centuries of hopes and fears and expectations, heaven literally came down to earth and took up residence within it. A new kingdom began—physical, tangible, unexpected. Christmas is the celebration of life as it can be lived in the light of that very real hope, in the knowledge that, though we will have trouble, we should take heart because Christ has overcome the world (John 16:33).

Why are rituals such a blessing? Why are they so comforting? Why—after spending 10 days seeing amazing things on another continent—was I so excited to return to the routine rhythms and rituals of my "normal" life back home? Why am I confident that some day, I will go to bed at the same time every night, have the same breakfast cereal every day while watching the same morning show, and love every minute of it?