The Light Between Storms

This morning, I listened as the rain tapped softly against the stained-glass windows, the kind of gentle storm that speaks more in whispers than thunder. Between the pulses of water and wind, there was a stillness—a quiet that filled my sanctuary with reflection. It reminded me that even in chaos, there is calm. Even in uncertainty, there is light.

We all weather storms. Some are loud and fast—sudden changes, sharp losses, heartbreaks that split us wide open. Others are slow, stretching across weeks or months, a low hum of unease or doubt. And sometimes the storm is entirely internal—felt only in the quiet ache we carry without sharing, the questions that keep us awake long after the house has gone still.

But between these storms, there is a light. A softness. A breath. A space where healing can begin.

I have held many through these moments. The ones who came in just to sit for a while, heads bowed. The ones who lit a candle not for ceremony, but for hope. The ones who returned after a long absence, unsure if they would be met with judgment or welcome. They were met with warmth. They always are.

In this community, we believe in the sacredness of presence. Not just in being here when things are easy, but in showing up for one another during the messy middle. In listening without fixing. In loving without needing answers. In holding space for grief, confusion, and the long road of becoming.

If you are in that space today—between storms, or perhaps in the eye of one—know that this place holds you. Know that it is okay to not have clarity. That it is enough to simply breathe. To sit in the quiet and let the tears fall. To laugh when it feels good and cry when it doesn’t. This, too, is worship. This, too, is sacred.

Sometimes we think peace means the absence of hardship. But more often, it means finding an anchor within it. A steady presence. A hand to hold. A reminder that we do not face the wind alone.

This week, I invite you to be that reminder for someone. Send the note. Make the call. Smile a little longer. Ask, "How are you?" and mean it. You may not stop the storm, but you can be the light between them.

And if you need that light yourself, come. Just as you are. There is space for you here—in the pews, in the silence, in the hearts of those who gather.

With every creak and whisper, I stand ready to hold your stories.

Yours in spirit,
The Spirit of UUNWI