Thoughts From Corey

Letter to a Younger Me: An Appreciation for Singleness

I recently read an article proclaiming the danger of feminism in the church. It stated that it was a danger because it leads young women away from submitting to their husbands and from building homes that honor God. It begged people to raise their young women better in order to save the church from the ills of culture and urged them to teach women to be a specific version of feminine (“Biblical Womanhood”). To be anything other is divisive.

This is my response as an other.

To a younger me:

I see you, my dear, searching, fighting to define who you think you should be as a Christian woman. You’re hearing messages and learning truths about womanhood that seem opposed to what you have learned from the Spirit and how you have been equipped by the Spirit.

Most messages you hear will shame you into thinking that you’re less than because you don’t fit cultural expectations for what your life should look like. You will read blogs and hear sermons that will tell you that your value in the Kingdom is being submissive to a man and cultivating a household. You will read books that encourage you to wait for your “prince charming” and pray for a man to be a savior.  

You will look at the wonderful, joyful life you’ve created in your singleness and...

All of it will feel a bit much.

You’ll feel like you failed, that your not quite…


Not an acceptable version of…


You will hurt.

But deep down you’ll know that your worth is not defined by a wedding band, or an expanding family. Your worth is not in your sex organs. I know it seems cruel that the world defines you by your sex appeal, while the church defines you by your utility. It seems cruel, because it is cruel. You’ll wrestle with anger over that cruelness for years, I’m afraid. You’ll wrestle with the thought of not-being-enough, not-having-enough because you don’t fit that very specific cookie-cutter mold.

You will hurt.

But you are enough.

You were created enough.

Married or single, you will feel the joy of submitting to the King. That is your strength.

Mother or childless, you will nurture your world into a place of more comfort and beauty. That is how you will share your light.

You will celebrate weddings and you will cry over newborn babies. Your life will be a technicolor celebration of love and joy and peace. You will be every bit as rooted as you want to be in community and in the intimate life of the church. Your life will have every bit of value as anyone else. You are strong. You are beautiful. You are enough.

Whether you like it or not (and sometimes you will not like it) your independence is a gift. Your ability to go out and serve, to be the hands and feet of love, will be a unique thing that you and your singleness bring to the kingdom and to your community. You will learn to taste and see how wonderful Christ is as you exercise that independence and grow fully alive in yourself. You will learn intimately about your skills, intelligence, and courage and all the ways God has designed you to be fully, unapologetically yourself.  

Your righteousness will not be found at the wedding altar, but at the foot of the cross like everyone else. Just as you appreciate the intimacy a union brings, be careful to appreciate the independence your singleness brings. It is a gift, a healing balm to the world.

Let them call you a feminist. Let them worry. Let them question. Your life is not there’s to own or to judge. Your life is a marvelous dance of redemption and  fully yours to live. Let them talk. And love them well through it. We are all weighted down under the expectations of our roles, married and single alike. Choose to turn your hurt to hope. Choose to live with courage, cultivating kindness in all of your spaces and places.

Just like the saints that walked before you, the Rahabs, the Ruths, the Esthers… the Marys, the Marthas, the Elizabeths… your worth will not be defined by your relationship status, but rather, your courage to love and to serve with adoration and abandon. The more you walk into that truth, the more others can as well.

I believe in you, young woman.

I believe in your worth.

I celebrate your independence and the great gifts you bring to all of those you know and serve. And if you get married, I will celebrate that as well.

Your life brings glory to God.

Your unique femininity and womanhood has something special to say about Him. Don’t worry about the cookie cutters and whispers. Don’t worry about the expectations.

You are enough.



To Be Human

My dad died 6 years ago today. There are days it feels like only yesterday and days it feels like an eternity ago. These long moments and fast seconds of contemplating his life have passed with increasing regularity. It is in these moments that I find what I can only describe as profound humanity.

It’s not that I wasn’t human before. I was. It’s not that I didn’t understand death. I did. It’s simply that on September 4. 2012 my life lost its softness. To those who did not know us, it would be odd to characterize my father as a soft man. He was rough. He was tough. Most would remember him for his steely personality, full of flair but undeniably unchanging.

They say that the way you relate to your father is the way that you relate to God the Father. A rigid, correcting father leads you to believe in the sternness of God. A kind, gentle father leads you to believe in the caring nature of God. Whatever it might be, your father is your example. And I am no exception to the rule.

My father was no saint. Complicated and wounded, he fought through his life with a determinedness that forged on through every season. His life was a fight, one that would be won through the sweat of his brow and the determination of his mind. He was all steal and all metal. This was the father that I thought I knew.

And then I lost him.

I lost the incessant phone calls full of love and guilt and quiet curiosity. I lost the hugs and the gentle nudges to push forward with my next hare-brained idea. I lost the exasperated giggle when I dramatically retold my most recent hyperbolic interaction with the public in general. I lost the softness behind the steal.

In therapy I’m learning that the hardest part of grief is not grieving your memories, it’s grieving the potential of what you lost. It’s grieving the absurdity of the missed opportunity to argue over the 2016 Presidential Campaign. It’s grieving the loss of his wisdom while planning his mother’s funeral. It’s grieving all the hugs and the phone calls that would undoubtedly filled up the years. Those are the hard moments.

But, yet, even this has been a gain.

For it is in those moments of grieving my father’s softness that I see the softness of others. I’m able to cherish the text message from a friend or the late night phone calls. It’s the joy of hearing a friend’s surfing story and knowing that they will enjoy my latest email gaffe with the full kindness of knownness that only time can give. It’s the full celebration of seeing a dear friend’s face after all the years and enjoying the new wisdom in their gentle eyes.

I am grateful for my father. I am thankful that he showed me what it is to be both soft and strong. I am thankful that I can see both the softness and strength of God the Father through his example.

Mostly I am thankful for the community of people that are in my life, both Christians and non-Christians who have poured their lives into me through these long years. Their softness and kindness rekindling in me the knowledge of how deep and how wide and how high is the love of God.

It’s in these full moments of complicated grief I am able to appreciate what it means to be fully human and to hold on to those who are human with me. What a journey, what a gift to be able to walk alongside them even if our paths are short or our journey tumultuous.

What a gift it is to be human together.

So on this hard day I say:

To my dear, lovely friends, you are both salt and light to me. You are my softness and such a deep part of my strength. You help me discover the depth and heights of humanity with increasing grace and truth. I love you. I am thankful for you. You make my joy complete.  

Running and Power

Words have power.

That sentence seems cliche, if not absolutely annoying to me. Who doesn’t know that words have power?

But, as I’ve learned in counseling lately, I lost that lesson a long time ago. The words I use to discuss my life are absent of action and intention. Life seems to just happen to me.  The trauma that wrecked me stole my youth, and much more quietly, my voice.

I spent so long in the darkness that I couldn’t see how to “choose” to walk into the light.

Running has taught me this exact lesson throughout the last year. If you asked me six months ago if I classified myself as a runner, I would invariably say that I am not. I am too fat, short, and old for that title. I wanted to be a runner. I admired runners. But, simply put, I was not one. That was for those people who were much more in shape, active, and type A than I am. Other people are runners. Not me.  

But then things started shifting. I began putting the lessons I learned in counseling into my daily life. I started using words that evoked action. And that’s when I realized, the only person denying my ability to run was me. I gave myself the language and the habits that shackled me.  My language kept me from acting. It kept me from participating.

Truth is I am a runner. I have always been a runner. I just didn’t believe in who I was created to be and I stripped myself of my power.  I might’ve crossed some finish lines but I allowed my language to steal my joy. It stole my power.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
— Hebrews 12:1-3

The same can be said for my faith journey. For many years, faith has been something that has happened to me.  It’s is something that I am invariably linked to. I have to go to church on Sunday. I don’t have a choice. I have to tithe. I don’t have a choice. I have to (insert action). I don’t have a choice.

As I traveled through my Lenten season, I learned that words lead to self responsibility and engagement.  Being a Christian is not sitting on the sideline and waiting for all the action to happen. It’s getting into the mix of things. It’s not waiting for God to force us to do something or to be something. Being a Christian is choosing life. It’s choosing love. It’s choosing to use your gifts, your time, your treasure for the Kingdom of Heaven.  

Many of my favorite passages from scripture use their language to equip us with power. Hebrews 12 urges us to “throw off everything that hinders” us. It tells us to “run” and to “fix our eyes on Jesus”.

The beauty of this passage is that it recognized that Jesus, too, had a choice. He didn’t have to submit to death. But, he chose to “endure the cross” and its shame. He chose it. For you, for me…

He chose it.

And, likewise, we too can choose to throw off all our baggage and shame. We can run the race, fixing our eyes on Jesus just like he ran it for us. He chose it out of love for us. We can do the same.

But, we can also choose not to.

We can choose not to run, not to fix our eyes on Jesus, not to throw off all that hinders us. We can choose to divorce our thoughts and our words from our actions. We can choose a language that strips us of identity and action. We can choose to not participate. We can choose to stay shackled to our burdens and our sins.

We can choose.

My name is Corey. 

I am a runner. 

I will run my race well, fixing my eyes on Jesus.

I will lace up my shoes and put one foot in front of the other.

I am not a prisoner to my body or my mind.

I am not an inactive participant in life.

I am not an inactive participant in my faith.

I am making my choice.  

I am a runner.

Who do you choose to be? 


Holy Saturday

Today is Holy Saturday, a day set aside by the church to remember the time between Christ’s death and his resurrection. As you prepare your heart and house for Easter, take time to contemplate the significance of Christ’s death.  

Below is an exercise in remembrance:

Set a timer for 5 minutes.

Spend that time in prayer, asking God to reveal new depths in the Easter story as you contemplate Jesus’ death and its purpose.  


Journey through Romans 6: 3-11. Follow the prompts and questions laid out below:

3 Or don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? 4 We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.

Contemplate Christ’s death.

What does it mean to be buried with him?

How does that impact your life?

5 For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly also be united with him in a resurrection like his. 6 For we know that our old self was crucified with him so that the body ruled by sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin— 7 because anyone who has died has been set free from sin.

Contemplate being united in Christ’s death.

What does it mean to be crucified with him?

How does that impact your life?

8 Now if we died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him.9 For we know that since Christ was raised from the dead, he cannot die again; death no longer has mastery over him. 10 The death he died, he died to sin once for all; but the life he lives, he lives to God. 11 In the same way, count yourselves dead to sin but alive to God in Christ Jesus.

Contemplate living with Christ.

What does it mean to to be alive to God in Christ Jesus?

How does that impact your life?


Set a timer for 10 minutes.

Spend that time in silence. Contemplate Christ’s death and the tomb. Think about what it must have been like to be a follower of Jesus on the first Holy Saturday. Let the knowledge and thought of his death wash over you.

For the past several years, our community has taken a “day of silence” where we don’t listen to music, watch TV, or have any other form of audio distraction on the Saturday of Holy Week. We remember the hush that the disciples must have felt as they fearfully reflected on the previous day’s events. We consider what our faith would mean without the resurrection and what our destiny would be without his death.

Good Friday

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.
— Romans 5:8

It’s easy to sanitize our faith, to look on our holiday and imagine the breaking of the fast and the candy/food/wine we are about to indulge in. To imagine the flowers and the hallelujahs seems to pull us through these last days of Lent as we prepare for our fasts to be over.

It’s just so easy to get lost in the minutiae.

Our society, our world says the mighty win. They conquer. But Good Friday turns that notion on its head. You can’t have resurrection without death. You can’t have Easter without the crucifixion.

If I were to gaze upon my faith story, I would be hard bent not to understand the Jews of Jesus’ time. They wanted a Messiah king, one that would overthrow the government and make all things right. Who doesn’t want a conqueror king? Who doesn’t want immediate Earthly vindication?

But what they got… what we got... was a dead rabbi hanging from a cross.  His flesh pierced and destroyed from lashes and spears. His bones not broken but his body poured out.

They wanted a King but they were given a sacrificial lamb.   

We underestimate God and we overestimate evil. We don’t see what God is doing and conclude that he is doing nothing. We see everything that evil is doing and think it is in control of everyone.
— Eugene Peterson

A son, a rabbi, a friend brutally executed.

The Son, God as man, submitting to death, even death on the cross.

A week ago I was assigned the task of playing Mary Magdalene for my church’s “Walk with Jesus” event. We created a tomb and dressed up as these characters exclaiming to children how Jesus’ body was gone from the tomb.

It struck me as I organized the sheets and the alter, how joyful I was in comparison to the actual Mary. It struck me how light the cross was with the knowledge of what was to come Easter morning.

This year as I reflect on Good Friday, I want to remember the cross and the death of the Messiah. But I also want to remember Mary. I want to remember her trembling hands as she wrapped his body in cloth. I want to remember her tear stained face as she watched her friend, the man who set her free from unspeakable evil, die a bloody, despicable death. I want to remember her helplessness as it seemed like evil won and the stone was rolled over his tomb. I want to remember.

Lord, help me remember.

On Good Friday, we await resurrection and we sit in the darkness. We sit like Mary. Our trembling hands and tear stained cheeks searching the cross for an answer to the brokenness. Our ears open to the silence, the scent of death wafting through our lives... We sit. We wait.

Lord, help us remember.   

Four suggestions for you and your community:

Make a bonfire with friends, reading the story of Peter’s betrayal, and confess your habitual sins over the year openly. Pray for each other as you remember your sins consequences on the cross.

Read over the crucifixion story, setting aside time to contemplate Jesus’ suffering for your sake.

If your church is not having a service, attend a church in your neighborhood that is hosting a Good Friday event. Take this day as a chance to remember with fellow believers from the Kingdom.


Maundy Thursday

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
— John 13:34-35

Community is hard. It’s messy and dirty. Mostly, it’s overwhelming. Today is Maundy Thursday, a day set aside in Holy Week to contemplate and remember the Last Supper and Jesus’ washing of his disciples’ feet.

On the night before Jesus was arrested and betrayed, he sat with his disciples and commanded them to love one another. The very same people that would shortly hand him to the soldiers and deny him, he reminded them of his love. The very same people who would soon abandon him, he reminded of his truth.

Jesus loved them. They were to love one another.   

Scripture knows nothing of the solitary Christian. People of faith are always members of a community. Creation itself was not complete until there was community, Adam needing Eve before humanity was whole. God never works with individuals in isolation, but always with people in community.
— Eugene Peterson

Sometimes I get this all wrong. I am messy and dirty. Mostly, I’m overwhelming.  I desperately want to be a solitary Christian. I don’t want to mess with the work and dedication it takes to build a community. It’s just easier to watch The Office for the 10th time. Communities, like families, are built on birth and redemption. They’re fortified by forgiveness and hard conversations. They are long nights of angry words and and early mornings of mercy.

They are not just Sunday morning sunshine.

Sometimes they’re Thursday nights of washing feet and getting to the bare dirt that we travel with. They’re clinking wine glasses and breaking bread as unknown trauma and death lies before us. They’re not just me and Jesus traveling this road in the sand. They’re me and His people on a pilgrimage up dusty paths, building a family of faith in the desert as we await his Kingdom.  

So as we travel towards Easter Sunday, let us pause today and remember the night of the Passover and Jesus’ desperate call.

Let us remember:

Jesus loves us. We are to love one another.

As we approach this Easter weekend, are you walking in community? If not, what keeps you from investing?

What do you think it means to be loved? How does it look? How does it feel?

What do you think it means to love like Jesus loves? How does it look? How does it feel?

What are some things you need to leave at the foot of the cross in order to love your community more deeply?

Four suggestions for you or your community:

Read the story of the Last Supper in Luke 22 and John 13, contemplating the significance of the event for both the original audience and for the Kingdom of God.

Invite your close community over for dinner and wash each others feet in remembrance of Jesus’ actions. Read the above sections to each other and discuss the ramifications of Jesus’ command.

Culturally, in the setting of the Lord's Supper, washing of feet was messy work. It was a task meant for only lowly servants. Consider a way you can engage in today's "messy tasks" for someone in your community. Offer to deep clean someone's bathroom or kitchen. Give the struggling parent some time away from their tantrum-ridden toddler. Get your hands dirty to show your neighbor love.

If your church community doesn’t have a service, attend a neighboring church and engage in the wider community of Christ followers.

It Takes a Village

This Lent has been new for me.

Not in the stories or rhythm, rather it has been a different sort of dance. It’s a dance, not born of my desires or even best qualities, but a dance that is built upon some of my greatest weaknesses and insecurities.

Too many times I lead with my dominant foot. But, this year, I found myself swaying and stumbling far removed from my life of old, from the movements that normally make me comfortable, trusting that this new dance I am learning will make sense in the long road.  

Truth be told, I limit myself based on faulty notions about who I am and who I am not. That self induced truth strips me of many opportunities to serve God. Very rarely do I branch out to invest in things that cause me to feel like, maybe, just maybe, I don’t have ALL that is needed.

Every human activity can be put at the service of the divine and of love. We should all exercise our gift to build community.
— John Vanier

This weekend, me and my people, were blessed with the opportunity to watch two sweet baby boys so that two of our other people could finally get some well deserved rest. I found myself holding lots of babies. My role as Aunt Cookie is pretty secure. The jovial, delightfully overweight one of my friend group, I often find myself with babies and toddlers on my lap. I am truly, madly, deeply a comfortable person from my thighs to my giggle.  

Because of that, I struggle with discipline. Not one for rules either, I find it hard to enforce things and, to make it worse, it’s very rarely that I’m taken seriously when I do try.  

So as Kate and I watched these dear boys, we fell into a rhythm. She, a seasoned mom. I, a fun-loving aunt.

I know little about babies or children. I don’t even know that much about being an adult. Not surprisingly halfway through the day, I started feeling insecure about what I had to offer. What do toddlers even eat? (Answer: everything and yet nothing.) What am I doing? (Answer: I don’t know.) Which way does this dang diaper go? (Answer: Not that way.) How much poop is too much poop? (Answer: You’ll find out fast.) Can you OD on apples?  (Answer: TBD). On and on, I questioned myself and my ability. If I can’t be ALL things to these boys and my friends, what am I even doing?

Later that night, as I took it upon myself to put big brother to bed, I found myself at another hard place of not knowing if I was enough for what he needed. As the rain started pouring and I stared out the window pondering my next step, he came and crawled in my lap. We rocked in the squeaking rocking chair recounting the day as I laughed and jabbered on about my favorite parts. The park, O THE PARK, was great! The walk, O THE WALK, was great! Do you remember when we played in the sand? O that was great too. What a day, sweet boy, what a day!  

Pretty soon he was fast asleep in my arms.

That moment was humbling and beautiful for me. I can’t do a lot. There’s so much that I don’t know. There’s so much that I can’t offer. But I can rock that sweet baby to sleep.

When I think about the body of Christ, and what it means to live in the here-and-now of Lent and our salvation story, I will think of that rocking chair and that sweet boy. In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t have a lot to offer him. But I had willingness and presence.

Those boys didn’t need the best of me. They needed all of me. They needed all of us as a community of aunts and uncles. We needed to be all in it together, trusting each other to fill in when the moment called for, our strengths and weaknesses melding together in perfect unity.

Isn’t that what the church is to look like? Isn’t that what community is all about?

When I look at our journey towards Lent, I can’t help but be struck by this truth.

We are all wounded. We are all broken puzzle pieces trying to fit together in the grand narrative of faith. We are all desperately seeking community. We are all wounded, faulty pilgrims dancing to a song we don’t entirely know and can’t fully comprehend.

As we continue on this road to Easter, may we be filled with the assurance that all of us is enough for Christ our Lord. All of us is enough for our community.  

This weekend we lived out the truth that it takes a village to raise a baby. But, even more so, it take a village to be human.

We need each other. And God needs us as we are- fully human.  Faults, insecurities, flaws, and falls, every aspect of ourselves on full display with willingness and presence.

To God be the glory.

Messy Praise

Messy Praise

Life Is Hellish

I’ve been in therapy for months now. Month after month after month I dredge up pain. Therapy has a way of centering your words, cutting out the casual and reaching the point of it all.

Trauma has visited my doorstep many times and waltzed through my life in an effortless dance of destruction. I am, at best, overwhelmed by it.

Thoughts and Prayers and Action

It seems like all of life is a rebellion, every waking moment a battle against mediocrity and hypocrisy. This first week of Lent was no different for me. Approaching this journey I stilled my heart for the inevitable reminders of death and pain. The palpable pain of loss is fresh in my daily existence of death certificates and probate attorneys.

But then the unexpected happened. Florida happened.


Gun shots. Death. A massacre of innocents.



Through the days since, as is our culture, my social media was full of thoughts and prayers and calls for action.  Anger and sorrow poured from the screen as our entire nation grieved openly through their keyboards. We argued with our friends, lamented our politicians, and lambasted any opposing view.

What struck me, specifically in this Lenten season, was the open anger towards the “clanging cymbal” like call for “thoughts and prayer.”

It seems like the last few years our lives have been filled with constant refrains of “thoughts and prayers” from well meaning Christians, myself included, that have been absent any real action.

There are hungry in the streets? Thoughts and prayers.

There are fellow humans suffering under systematic racism? Thoughts and prayers.

There are children massacred? Thoughts and prayers.

We didn’t make them lose their job. We weren’t blatantly racist. We didn’t pull the trigger.


Thoughts and prayers.


I will spare you from echoing this refrain over and over in all sorts of contexts.

Now hear me. It’s not that thoughts and prayers are bad. They’re essential to our faith. It’s simply that devoid of action, they are hollow. They are lazy and disengaged.   

The great danger of Christian discipleship is that we should have two religions: a glorious, biblical Sunday gospel that sets us free from the world, that in the cross and resurrection of Christ makes eternity alive in us, a magnificent gospel of Genesis and Romans and Revelation; and, then, an everyday religion that we make do with during the week between the time of leaving the world and arriving in heaven.
— Eugene Peterson

My faith is a Sunday kind of faith. I feel at home within the walls of the church. I enjoy the bread and the wine, the body and the blood. The repetition of my faith ritual gives my faith flesh and bones.

But, if I were to be honest, the body of my faith lacks expression. It lacks the Monday through Saturday pilgrimage of faith. It is absent the faith-in-action dance that gives my faith its expression to the world. I am starving myself for need of action, for need of trust in this God who I claim to follow.

One of my favorite things about Jesus is that he got things done. When the woman came to him who could not stop bleeding, he didn’t reply “thoughts and prayers.” He healed her. He healed the lepers, gave the blind sight, and fed the multitudes.

He thought. He prayed. He acted.

Commanding his disciples, Jesus urged them to take up their cross and follow him. Not with just their thoughts and prayers, but with their life and their death, with their income and debts, with their victories and mistakes… with their actions.

That same Jesus calls us to do the same. He calls us to die to ourselves for the sake of his Kingdom. He calls us to forsake the darkness for the sake of the light. He calls us to leave our rights, our political leanings, our stubborn socio-economic labels at the door for something far greater than we can imagine. He calls for action.    

My hope is that we all experience a God this week who is present in our thoughts and prayers, but also, in our action. In a journey filled with death and destruction, may we dedicate our lives to the great pilgrimage of faith from our waking moments on Monday to our twilight hours of Saturday.  May we put action to our faith.

Truth be told, I’m tired of the same old refrains. I’m tired of hearing about our culture’s “heart problem”. I’m tired of the judgment on our so called “godless” nation (as if we were ever “God’s nation”). I’m just bone tired. The problem is not them. The problem is me. It’s me and my inaction. It’s me and my lack of faith.  

It’s time for a change.

I don’t know how this will look for me.

But it’s where I am. It’s where I am at in the gritty, messy reality of my faith. I’m exhausted from trying to live out a faith devoid of compassionate action, a faith dedicated to a God I don’t quite trust enough to live out through my physical body.

As we continue this march towards Calvary, may he give life to these old, creaky bones. May he bring resurrection to my dead mess. May he rescue me from my hollow, lazy, disengaged faith.  

May I be the kind of Christian who’s actions speak for her thoughts and prayers.

Answer these questions:

How did I worship God this week?

How did I rebel against God this week?

In what ways will I commit to seeking His Kingdom purposes in this coming week?

In what ways do you hope to engage your faith in action?