When Ash Wednesday rolled around last week my wife asked if I wanted to go to any of the church services in town. You see, after seventeen years in pastoral ministry I’d been spending the last two learning the trade of earthen building. Separated from the rhythms of traditional church life, and more particularly the life of a pastor, I said I’d like to do laundry instead. But that Wednesday moved fast and it was dark and late by the time we left the adobe house we’re building. We opted for enchiladas and a Modelo and dirty clothes. After finishing our meal we chatted with the restaurant owner as the plaza in our small town was being cordoned off after rumors of an active shooter and bomb threat were being addressed. Snow was falling for what felt like the first time all winter. 

The day after Rev. Jackson’s passing, our class discussion centered around a reading of David Walker’s 1829 Appeal to Color People. Dr. Chavis, when lecturing about the content, named that it is not enough to simply know history but to learn from it. It is a small class of about 15 people, so we always have the opportunity to ask him questions about the subject matter or about his life experience.

During black history month, the story of soul food is often recounted. Stories of those who used the scraps of food that was given, the throw aways, the discarded, and turned it into delicious dishes that were sustaining. They had to create something new out of what was given, resilience and resistance in action as the scraps were transformed. Cooking and eating became the few spaces where autonomy could exist, grounding oneself in one’s own humanity when every system worked to deny it. The flavors carried memory across generations even when language, land, and family were distant.

Smell is the quietest sense, yet it speaks the loudest. It enters without asking, slips past logic, and lands directly in memory. Long before we have words, we have scent. Before sight sharpens or language forms, smell is already working—wiring safety, love, fear, and belonging into our bodies.

Scientifically, scent travels straight to the limbic system, the part of the brain that holds emotion and memory. That’s why one breath can take you back decades. A kitchen you haven’t stood in since childhood. A person who no longer walks this earth. A version of yourself you forgot you were.

As the world around me is constantly changing and traveling up my nose and nervous system, I am triggered with something I was told quite a bit as a young girl, but am “today years old” in understanding more.

Growing up, the church would sing it was “...built on nothing less..than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.”

In 2006, India.Arie went on to sing about its presence.

Can soul work smell and taste like chocolate chip cookies? I think those 6 weeks in some ways did.  Soul work was a beautiful and communal experience. Connecting with those who were looking for community and the opportunity to talk about their faith. I remember my first meeting with these folks and sharing fresh baked cookies with them. The smell and kind gesture lingers with me as I reflect on our time together. Each week was a different batch of chocolate chip cookies. 

“Our fathers have given us this practice of patriarchy and racism that remains in our country and in a lot of our churches today. The violent and unjust acts we witness in our world are symptoms of this illness that hides behind American exceptionalism. However, this history reveals, like Kendrick’s song, that this is a generational problem—and our past ‘fathers’ were formed by environments that caused them to harm others.”

“What songs have traveled to you recently?

The other day I woke up in the middle of the night and could not get back to sleep.  After tossing and turning for a while in bed, I knew that the only thing that could help, would be music and song.  So I got out of bed, a ritual that I have known now for many years, and I sat on my couch and got my headphones ready.  I felt in that moment that I needed some old school gospel, words and tunes that had soothed my heart and body aches in years past.  As I listened and as I sang, I began to weep.  I cried and sang for over an hour, releasing much sorrow and sadness.  There has been an overwhelm of sorrow in these past months, moving between personal losses and pain in my own family, to accompanying friends through betrayal, to walking with communities that are facing incredible oppression and challenges today.”

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea that our well-being is deeply tied to the well-being of our neighborhoods—not just in theory, but in our bodies, our mental health, our dreams. If my neighbors aren’t okay, then I’m not okay. That simple truth has been shaping how I think about our work at BLK South.

The neighborhood isn’t just a space where we do things—it’s the ground from which we live. It invites us into a deeper kind of solidarity, one that isn’t only project-based but life-based. It calls us not only to ask, What do we want to build here? but How do we want to live here—together?

"We had coffee at Lux this morning with our friend and intern, Justus. He asked Kendall and me how we’ve been feeling, now that our big move is just around the corner.

I was tempted to respond with the usual: ‘Good! Great! We’re excited!’ But the truth is—that’s not really how I’ve been feeling. It’s more like a heavy cloud that I can’t quite explain.

There’s a deep sadness in my body—a weight, a darkness, maybe even a hint of depression. I haven’t been able to shake it, and I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from.”