The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” They said to him, “Rabbi” (which translated means Teacher), “where are you staying?” He said to them, “Come and see.” They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. (John 1:35–39)

“One Day at a Time” (a slogan popularized by Alcoholics Anonymous)

“So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.” (Matthew 6:34)

My lovely Bethel family—what a gift it is to write to you. This is my first blog of the New Year… and of a New Knee. I have come through the worst part of recovery and am finally starting to emerge from the hydromorphone-induced haze and the pain-induced despair. Thank you: for the cards, the phone calls, the laughter you brought into my living room, and the beautiful flowers and centerpieces that have kept showing up like little sacraments of color and care.

I’m grateful, too, for the support you have offered my family. You have steadied them—and because of that, they have steadied me.

Now I am staring down the long middle stretch: the tedious, patience-testing part of healing. I remember this from my last surgery—the way the world narrows. The days can feel repetitive. The walls feel closer than they used to. I crave activity and company. More than anything, I want to be back with you: in the work of the Church, in the work of God, in the messy and holy business of loving our neighbors in real time.

And “keeping on” can be hard right now, because the end doesn’t feel close. Pain has a way of preaching its own sermon: This will never change. This will never get better. This is all there is.

That is where a small, sturdy phrase has been holding me up: One Day at a Time. Not because it’s cute. Not because it’s easy. But because it is true. It is a discipline of presence. A way of refusing the lie that I must live every possible future today.

I cannot control the rate of my recovery. I can participate in it—I can do the exercises, keep the appointments, follow the wisdom of the professionals caring for me—but I cannot rush my body into a timeline it doesn’t have. And I cannot protect my future. Not really. The future is not in my hands.

What is in my hands is the day in front of me—received as God gives it, not as I would prefer it.

Which brings me to the Gospel, and to that tender, searching question Jesus asks the disciples: “What are you looking for?”

It is such a gentle question. Not an interrogation. Not a challenge. More like an invitation: Name your longing. Tell the truth about what brought you here.

And when the disciples answer, it’s not a theological treatise. It’s a practical, human question:

“Where are you staying?”

As in: Where do you live? Where can you be found? Where does your life actually happen?

And Jesus’ answer is not a lecture. It’s not a map. It’s not five steps to spiritual mastery.

It’s simply:

“Come and see.”

Come and see where I am staying.
Come and see where God is showing up.
Come and see what is already here.

This past week has been sobering—politically, spiritually, humanly. We have watched horrifying newscasts of Renee Good being murdered by ICE. And in that grief, we cannot help but remember other faithful witnesses—people whose lives tell the truth about the cost of love in a violent world: Oscar Romero, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Maryknoll Sisters, and others.

And then came words from Bishop Rob Hirschfeld of the Episcopal Diocese of New Hampshire, spoken at the Renee Good vigil in Concord—words that landed like a rock in my chest. He said he had told clergy to “get your affairs in order… to make sure they have their wills written, because it may be that now is no longer the time for statements, but for us with our bodies to stand between the powers of this world and the most vulnerable.” He spoke of a church that may be entering “a new era of martyrdom,” and he urged us toward a fearlessness rooted not in bravado, but in resurrection hope: “Live without fear… God… loves you with a power and a presence that is stronger than death.” (Episcopal Church of New Hampshire blog)

I confess: when I read Bishop Rob’s remarks aloud to Hugh, I started to cry. I felt a level of despair I don’t often let myself touch.

Because here is the honest truth of my moment: I am sitting in my living room with a body that feels broken. I am trying to walk from one room to another. I am trying to sleep. I am trying to believe my own healing is real. And I cannot, for the life of me, imagine having what it takes to stand between the powers of this world and the most vulnerable.

And I cannot begin to imagine a future where I might have to.

And yet—this is where the Gospel keeps pulling me back by the sleeve.

Not into denial.
Not into apathy.
Not into spiritual escapism.

But into the only place where discipleship can actually be lived: the present.

Because the disciples do not start with the whole plan.
They do not start with heroics.
They do not start with certainty.

They start by turning their feet toward Jesus, and asking: Where are you staying?

And Jesus says: Come and see.

So today, my friends, I am asking you to stand with me—not in a fantasized future where we are all braver and stronger and less afraid, but right here, in the present life of our beloved Bethel Church: a community that cares deeply for one another and for the world around us.

Stand with me and ask the disciples’ question again:

Where are you staying, Jesus?

And then listen for his answer:

Come and see.

Because it is only when we see Jesus in our present that we can remain with him.
It is only when we live one day at a time—with our focus on what is right in front of us—that we can be disciples.
It is only when God keeps whispering, “Do not be afraid,” that we can tell the truth and live it.

The truth that we are called to be a people of hope and a future—
and also a people firmly grounded in the now.

Stand with me, my Bethel friends.

We’ve got this.

Blessings—and remember: you are Loved.

~Rev. Lynne