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.