Finding Purpose on the Margins

For those on a deep spiritual journey…

Richard Rohr emphasizes the transformative power of being at “the bottom,” where privilege fades, and true purpose emerges. He writes:

“The bottom is where we have no privilege to prove or protect, but much to seek and become. Jesus called such people ‘blessed’ (Matt. 5:3). Dorothy Day said much the same: ‘The only way to live in any true security is to live so close to the bottom that when you fall you do not have far to drop, you do not have much to lose.’ [1] From that place, where few would choose to be, we can be used as instruments of transformation and liberation for the rest of the world.” [2]

This perspective resonates deeply with Casting Crowns’ song Nobody, which captures the beauty of being chosen despite feeling like an outcast or a “nobody.” The lyrics reflect the loneliness of the margins but also the joy of discovering divine purpose:

Why You ever chose me / Has always been a mystery / All my life I’ve been told I belong / At the end of the line / With all the other not-quites / With all the never-get-it Rights / But it turns out they’re the ones You were looking for / All this time

‘Cause I’m just a nobody / Trying to tell everybody / All about Somebody / Who saved my soul / Ever since You rescued me / You gave my heart a song to sing / I’m living for the world to see / Nobody but Jesus

The song celebrates how God often chooses the unlikely, like those who feel inadequate, like Moses with his stage fright, David with just a rock against a sword, or the twelve “outsiders” Jesus called as disciples. Even Winston, my humble, little donkey, plods along faithfully, far less glamorous than a horse, yet most people expect him to do more, as if his calm, steady presence isn’t enough. As the lyrics proclaim: “Everybody’s got a purpose.”

Rohr’s teachings and Nobody together remind us that the margins, though painful, are where transformation begins. When the world questions, “Who do you think you are?” we can boldly answer: a nobody, chosen to share the story of Somebody who changes everything.

[1] Dorothy Day, Loaves and Fishes (Orbis Books, 1997), 86.

[2] Adapted from Richard Rohr, Scripture as Liberation (Center for Action and Contemplation, 2002). Available at: https://store.cac.org/products/scripture-as-liberation-mp3

The Unexpected Salvific Moments

It’s been a hot minute since I last dusted off this blog, but I’m back to share how God keeps showing up in my life through dogs, other animals, and the occasional gust of wind on my face. God has this knack for using creation to speak to us when humans fall short, or when we just need a break from them. Take my Miniature Donkey, Winston, for example. On days when the world feels like a dumpster fire, I grab Winston and head to the field. His strong presence and stoicism calms my soul and, sometimes, even makes me laugh. Those moments full of peace, laughter, and a breeze that reminds me I’m alive are what I call salvific. If “salvation” means resurrection, these are my mini-resurrections, my pit stops for healing. Through work, prayer, play, rest—I’m constantly re-learning to pause and soak in these moments with God’s creation. And let me tell you, Twig’s thumping nub is the ultimate wingman for that.

I’m beyond grateful for our dogs: Willow, Aspen, Twig, and the parade of dogs (and other critters) in my life. They help me hit that sweet spot of stillness where I can actually hear God’s voice because, let’s be honest, my brain’s default setting is “overdrive.” Busyness is my kryptonite, the ultimate buzzkill to contemplation. I like it but don’t love the word “mysticism” (it sounds like I’m about to pull a rabbit out of a hat), so I’ll call myself a modern-day contemplative. I’ve heard God’s quiet voice, felt the “Hand of God” in my life and others, and been gifted with a spiritual knack for “knowing.” I’m just trying to live mindfully, chasing God’s presence like Beau chased a rabbit.

Back in 2020, after a seven-year break from vocational ministry as a chaplain, I realized something big. I’d spent those years living as a “civilian,” surrounded by people who didn’t know my past and thought my do-gooder vibes were some kind of scam. Compassion fatigue and PTSD had forced me to step back, and I needed that break to heal. But it wasn’t until I joined the Doctorate of Ministry program at Lipscomb that I could put words to what I’d learned. When the program director asked, “Why do you want to be here?” I confidently replied, “Because after seven years in the ‘real world,’ I’ve learned there’s no place for me unless I’m in ministry.” Without the chaplain’s cross on my uniform or the title “chaplain” in a hospital, people didn’t get why I cared so much. They assumed I had an ulterior motive, like I was secretly selling essential oils or something.

So, I pursued re-ordination through the Federation of Christian Ministries, swapping my military rank of Major and hospital badge for a white minister’s collar. It was like God handed me a spiritual glow-up, complete with healing and grace. Now, I’m growing in wisdom and, here’s the fun part, creativity. Why creativity? Because God’s creation is the ultimate therapy. Leaning into the joy of dogs, cats, horses, and even our sassy donkeys has been a game-changer. They offer spiritual gifts like unconditional love and the ability to live in the moment (a serious flex for someone with PTSD).

When I started our business and handed it over to Jenny, “A Dog's Utopia,” I had no idea it would become a spiritual portal (fancy term for “God showing up in unexpected ways”). Caring for customers’ dogs helped me rediscover my ability to care for God’s people. Every wagging tail and slobbery kiss reminded me of the depth of love I’m called to share. Those furry goofballs became my bridge back to ministry, one belly rub at a time.

So, here’s to more walks in the field and chances to see God in the most unexpected places.

When Beau Found Me: A Tale of Kibble, Heart, and a Hound’s Wisdom

When Beau Found Me: A Tale of Kibble, Heart, and a Hound’s Wisdom

The good Lord has a knack for knowing what we need long before we figure it out ourselves. When I gave my heart to Christ, I handed over my mind too, diving headfirst into seminary. Little did I know, a four-legged philosopher named Beau was about to teach me a similar lesson. To paraphrase John Pilley, author of Chaser, “If you have your dog’s heart, you’ll have his mind.” Beau, with his soulful eyes and hound-dog charm, proved that in spades.

Looking back, I see it clearly now, from the moment Beau waltzed into my life until he left pawprints on my heart last fall. But back then? I was clueless about what made this droopy-eared goofball tick. Beau was the ultimate dog’s dog, greeting every canine visitor to our house with a wagging tail and an invitation to play. Yet, for all his social swagger, I struggled to connect with him the way I had with other dogs. Let me take you back to where it all began.

Picture this: a scruffy hound chowing down on a bowl of kibble on my back porch like it was his personal buffet. My first thought? This guy doesn’t exactly scream ‘rocket scientist.’ I sized him up, floppy ears, soulful eyes, and a vibe that screamed, “I’ve seen some things.” I figured he was a stray with a PhD in porch-loafing.

I called a buddy who hunts, thinking I’d found him the perfect sidekick. “Hey, Harold, I’ve got a hunting dog for you!” I said, brimming with confidence. He swung by the next day, and I proudly showed off Beau’s one trick. “Check it out, he knows how to sit!” My friend doubled over laughing. “Aww, shoot, that ain’t no huntin’ dawg! He just knows how to sit!” Strike one for my dog-scouting career.

In my defense, Beau didn’t exactly scream “adopt me.” If I’d seen him in a shelter, surrounded by fluffy puppies and perky-eared mutts, I’d have walked right past. He was a hound, a hunting dog, and—let’s be real—he looked like he’d already lived a few lifetimes. My first impression? This dude’s older than my grandma’s couch. Oh, how wrong I was. Underestimating Beau’s smarts was my biggest fumble, and I cringe now for pigeonholing him as “just a hound.”

Here’s where it gets humbling. I tried to give Beau away, just like his two previous owners had. I tracked down the last one using the number on his collar. Her response? “You can have him.” Later that day, she texted me a gut-punch of a photo: Beau, cable-tied to a doghouse, looking like he’d lost all hope. She added, “We got him from the shelter.” My heart cracked, but Beau’s? He was already in pieces. We both had a lot to learn about trust, love, and second chances.

Beau wasn’t just a dog; he was a teacher with a wagging tail. Over time, he showed me that intelligence isn’t about tricks or hunting skills, it’s about loyalty, resilience, and knowing who’s worth sticking around for. He chose me, kibble thief and all, and I’m forever grateful he did. When Beau passed last fall, he left behind a legacy of love and a reminder: sometimes, the ones we overlook have the most to teach us.

Here’s to you, Beau, my heart-stealer and the smartest hound I never deserved.

RIP (Beau became a heavenly angel on August 26, 2025) 

Why blog?

I wrote my first blog post ever on January 16, 2018, and never published it until now.

Journaling, Dogs, and Why I’m Blogging About Both

For as long as I can remember, two things have been constants in my life: journaling and dogs. I’ve filled countless notebooks with my thoughts, feelings, heartaches, sermon notes, and, yes, plenty of dog-related musings. Journaling is my mental spring cleaning, a way to dump my brain’s clutter and make room for more of life’s chaos. From my first gig as a kennel assistant at Pet Health Center (where I learned that dog poop and minimum wage are a humbling combo) to the gut-wrenching loss of a furry friend, my journals have been a safe space for it all.

When I became a Christian at 19, my journaling took on a new dimension. Suddenly, I was scribbling prayer requests, answered prayers (with dates, because I’m organized like that), and lessons learned during military deployments. Later, as I worked in healthcare ministry, my journals became a lifeline for processing compassion fatigue, because caring for others can leave you emotionally running on fumes. Through stacks of spiral-bound notebooks, I’ve documented my spiritual journey, my triumphs, and my “why is life so hard?” moments.

So, why start a blog? Great question, imaginary reader! If the Apostle Paul's scribe could have used his era’s version of a laptop, parchment, and a quill to share his wisdom, then I figure I can use a keyboard to do the same. Blogging is my modern-day parchment, a way to share what matters to me with anyone curious enough to read it. Sure, putting my personal thoughts, devotions, and dog-obsessed memoirs out there feels like standing in front of a crowd in my pajamas, a bit vulnerable, risky, and a terrifying. But the rewards? Oh, they’re worth it.

Why not share my experiences if it means cathartic healing for me and maybe, just maybe, inspiring someone else? If one person feels uplifted, starts journaling, or looks at their dog and thinks, “You’re not just a couch destroyer, you’re a soulmate,” then I’ve already won. Plus, let’s be real, writing about my love for dogs and the Lord is way more fun than keeping it locked in a notebook under my bed.

So, grab a coffee (or a dog treat for your dog), and let’s start this blogging adventure together. Who’s with me?