From Ashes

The Thin Space

On All Souls Day, many believe the boundary between earth and heaven grows thin. The ancient Celts actually called this space “thin times,” describing it as a time when the threshold between heaven and earth seemed easily crossed.

Another word for “thin space” or “thin time” is liminal space. Theologian Richard Rohr says of liminal space, “We are in liminal space whenever past, present, and future time come together in a full moment of readiness. We are in liminal space whenever the division between ‘right here’ and ‘over there’ is obliterated in our consciousness.”

As All Souls or All Saints Day 2025 approaches, I find myself longing for the liminal space.  I want to feel close to those who have gone before me.

During this season, I often think of my parents, wondering how close they are to me. I look for a connection between the past, the present, and the future – something that will remind me their spirits live on.

Remembering that the communion of saints surrounds us and upholds us happened for me on September 19, 2025.

On that day, Miller Houston Goff was born. He was one of the estimated 385,000 babies born into the world on that day, but for me, his grandmother, he was the one who drew our family closer to the thin space.

Miller Houston carries the name of his Miller great-grandparents and my father, whose middle name was Houston. He came into the world with the DNA of his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and beyond.

As we held him for the first time, we looked to see if we could catch a glimpse of my Mom or Dad in his eyes, or if there might be a reflection of his Papa somewhere in his sweet face.

We looked at his hair color, skin tone, eye color, head shape, cheeks, and lips, trying to decide which family member he inherited each trait from. Holding Miller was a physical reminder that we cradle the love and struggles of past generations, along with the hopes and dreams of a new generation.

Birth and death remind us that we are a part of a Great Whole. Rohr says, “We carry the lived and the unlived lives of our parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents as far back as DNA and genomes can trace them—which is pretty far back. It does take a village to create a person.”

In the weeks surrounding Miller’s birth, our family was also experiencing the sting of death. Miller’s dad, our son-in-law, was mourning the loss of his beloved Papa, who had just died a few weeks prior. On the same weekend that Miller was born, our daughter-in-law was walking her precious Granny home to be with God. The thin space was all around us.

Grief and joy. Death and birth. We have no choice but to experience the cycle of life. How we experience them is up to us. We can be vulnerable enough to lean into the thin spaces, or we can ignore them and miss the healing and joy they can bring.

Miller Houston is a beautiful baby boy with golden hair, deep blue eyes, and soft, rosy lips. When we hold him, he will curl up on our chest, breathe softly on our necks, and we never want to let him go.

In those moments, I feel not only his warm, soft body but the blessing he is to our family. Miller embodies for us the reality that we are connected to those who have gone before us and those who will come after us, reminding us that the connection really is only a thin space.

Wild Thing, You Make My Heart Sing

It was June, the beginning of my summer break from teaching, when I was perusing the clearance section of a local craft store and came across a $2 sign that caught my attention.

I wasn’t ready to think about the upcoming school year. My mind wanted a break from lesson plans and selecting songs for the holiday program, but my teacher’s planning mind is always just below the surface of my conscious thinking.

However, this sign spoke to me. My spiritual director’s brain turned on. It merged with my teacher brain, and I knew I had a theme for my classroom décor for the coming school year.

The spiritual director in me enjoys finding meaning in odd sayings and quotes. It likes to look deeper and pull out something to grasp and think about.

The sign said, “Wild thing, you make my heart sing.”

You may question my logic of finding depth in a quote from a song written in the 1960s. The “garage-rock” song, first recorded by the English rock band The Troggs, features a blend of influences from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, focusing on themes of desire and love.

Desire and romantic love were not part of my thought pattern when I saw this sign. Instead, I was picturing my classroom filled with wiggly, loud, crazy children who challenge and inspire me. That is where I was headed with this theme idea.

You see, my students challenge me. They challenge me to be creative and patient. They also inspire me. They inspire me to find ways to hold their attention and help them find joy in making music.

They are also wild. They struggle to sit still, to be quiet when I’m talking, and to sometimes get along with each other. But when they sing with their sweet, beautiful, young voices, that is when my heart sings.

For thirty years, my vocation was as a minister in the local church. During those years, I said that I would never teach school. I have learned never to say never.

Starting a new career as a music teacher, I felt a sense of grief about leaving church ministry. It has taken me a while, but now I realize that I never left ministry; only that the venue has changed.

Children are children, whether they are wearing their Sunday best or their school uniform. Children need nurturing and to feel loved, no matter their family’s faith practice. Children are "wild things" in school, at home, and at church. They are wild with energy to play and express themselves. They are wild with eagerness to learn and experience new things. They are wild with the desire to be loved and accepted for who God created them to be.

When I have the privilege of standing in front of all 300+ of them and leading them in singing a song like “We’re All In This Together,” it feels like a holy moment. That’s what makes my heart sing.

So, this year, my classroom is decorated with funny, silly monsters representing the wild things. These playful creatures will remind me to have fun with my students, to accept the messiness and craziness that goes along with living among the wild things. On the good days, my heart will sing, and on the not-so-good days, I will be reminded that wild things need my nurture, patience, and love to grow.