 Most mornings lately I start my walk with the dogs in the dark. Their paws pound out a steady rhythm of excitement and purpose, as we make our nearly 2-mile trek together. For most of the walk, the whole world feels like it hasn’t quite made up its mind yet–to either move forward or go back. But by the time we’re on our way back home, the sky has decided–slowly pulling its colors forward—the pinks and oranges of dawn. It is a sacred, albeit short, window of the in-between—proof that transition itself can be holy.
This Sunday is technically the last Sunday in Ordinary Time. It’s also Christ the King Sunday—or Reign of Christ Sunday, depending on your tradition. Either way, it’s a hinge. A fulcrum. A moment where the church stands in the shifting light before Advent and asks, “What kind of world are we stepping into? And what kind of power do we trust as we step?” We talk a lot about seasons in the church—Advent, Lent, Easter, Pentecost—but the truth is, life rarely fits neatly into one category. Most of us live in the blurred lines and unnamed spaces that dot the landscape of our human experiences. After something ends but before something else has found its shape. After the diagnosis, before the plan. After the loss, before the healing. After the dream, before the next brave step. The church calendar may try to give each week a title, but our actual lives are full of these transitional dawns where nothing is fully clear yet. Rather than skip over them or deny their existence entirely, a better practice may be to assume these thresholds are always there–with or without our noticing–and then, give them the attention they deserve. Or as John O’Donohue suggests, “At any time, you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing?” Reign of Christ Sunday is our opportunity to engage in this practice. It is a moment to pause at the threshold–between this church calendar year and the next, and remember whose story we’re actually living in. Not the story of domination or fear or scarcity, but the story of a God whose power looks like mercy, tenderness, justice, and stubborn, surprising hope. It is a different kind of kingdom, filled with a different kind of light. Advent waits just around the corner—with all its longing and courage and expectation. But maybe before it arrives, we stand in this holy pause we have been given, and we can try trusting the gifts of this slow turning. We can try to honor the sky before it brightens, and recognize that God is already here in the half-light, whispering us forward. So this week, friends, try not to rush the in-between. Notice it. Let it slow you down. Let it tell you something true about your life and the God who walks with you—long before the clarity of the next thing, the next event, the next challenge, or the next day comes. On the in-between journey with you, Pr. Melissa  When I went to my mailbox here at the church on Sunday morning, I found a surprise waiting — a tiny purple turtle pinned to a card that read, “You’re turtley awesome. I know it, you know it. Tenny Turtle is always here whenever you need a little cheer.”
There was no name on the envelope and no note with it anywhere. There was just this quiet act of kindness from someone who thought I might need a reminder that I’m not alone. I’ve kept that little turtle close by these past few days, giving perhaps more thought to it than the giver intended. The more I thought about it, I became convinced that this little turtle and card were special--not because they are fancy or elaborate gifts, but because they are covenant in miniature. In the United Church of Christ, covenant is the sacred promise that holds us together — not a contract with conditions, but a relationship built on faithfulness and care. It’s the invisible thread that says, "You are not alone in this work, in this joy, or in this struggle." A few weeks ago during worship, Jennifer Cohrt — who serves on the Iowa Conference Board of Directors — shared her reflections with us after attending the Conference’s Annual Meeting. Her biggest takeaway was that the Annual Meeting was a great reminder that we are not alone. Even when it feels like we’re just out here in Oskaloosa, trying to make a way by ourselves, we are part of something much larger. We belong to a wider covenant — a network of people and congregations holding one another up across Iowa and beyond. And this weekend, we’ll be reminded of that again as we welcome our Conference Minister, Rev. Roberto Ochoa, to worship and to fellowship. His visit isn’t just a guest appearance — it’s covenant embodied. It’s one more way we remember that we are connected, encouraged, and supported by the wider Church. That’s the beautiful thing about covenant — it doesn’t always show up in grand gestures. It’s often much smaller, quieter, and more subtle. It’s a simple check-in call with someone who’s been missing worship lately. It’s a shared prayer that holds space for each other’s griefs and hopes until we’re strong enough to hold them again ourselves. It’s a small purple turtle left in a mailbox — something that says, I see you. You’re not alone. In the end, that's one of the main reasons that I'm still a part of the Church. Because while I have witnessed moments when the Church and her people have been at their absolute worst, I've also seen them at their absolute best--through intentional choices to choose community over isolation. Through slow, steady acts of love that keep us showing up for one another and on behalf of one another when it would be so much easier to stay home. Through covenant that stretches wide enough to hold our doubts and differences, yet strong enough to keep pulling us back toward love. That covenant is what keeps calling us back — to one another, to hope, to the hard and holy work of love. It’s what keeps us from unraveling when everything feels uncertain, and reminds us that grace doesn’t give up, even when we’re tired. So if you’ve been feeling a little worn down or far away, maybe this is the Sunday to come home. We'll see you at 10 AM - there's a place for you here. In covenant with you, Pr. Melissa  On Saturday I stumbled onto a new-to-me podcast called Good Hang with Amy Poehler. The episode I happened to play featured Law & Order: SVU’s very own Mariska Hargitay — that's right...Olivia Benson herself.
As Amy and Mariska talked, I found myself laughing out loud. I'm talking the real, from-the-gut kind of laughter that sometimes, inexplicably, can lead to snorting — that deep, physical laughter that moves through the whole body. Honestly, my response startled me a little. Particularly as I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed that hard. It's something that stuck with me. Later that evening, I found myself gravitating toward one of Tig Notaro’s comedy specials and pressed play. Her wry storytelling, her timing, the way she threads grief and absurdity into the same breath — it absolutely cracked me up...again. I laughed, and I laughed some more. And with each laugh came something I hadn’t expected: Release. Scripture has its own moments of laughter. Sarah laughed when she heard she’d bear a child in her old age — not out of disrespect, but disbelief that joy could find her again. Abraham laughed too, though his was a quieter laugh, perhaps laughter tinged with wonder. Job laughed at the absurdity of his own suffering and the smallness of human answers. Even God, the psalmist says, laughs — not cruelly, but with a knowing that sees the whole picture even when we can’t. Laughter has always lived side by side with lament. There is a reason why the comedy and the tragedy masks are always pictured side-by-side, after all. The two belong together, not as opposites but as companions. Grief reminds us what we’ve lost; laughter reminds us what’s still possible. Both are ways of telling the truth. Both help us keep going. As a community of faith, we’ve carried each other through a lot...especially lately. We’ve wept, served, prayed, and just held space for each other. All are quietly courageous acts in their own right. And yet, I can't shake the notion that maybe the next act of courage we are being called to engage in together will lead us beyond grief, prayer, and service. Maybe our next step--individually and collectively--is to let joy back in — to laugh at something ridiculous and then notice how healing sneaks in through humor. So here’s to that--to podcasts and comedy specials and holy laughter that reminds us we’re still here — still alive, still capable of joy. More than one thing can be true at once: Our hearts can be breaking, AND it's okay to laugh again. We can miss someone desperately, AND we can welcome joy when it comes. The world can feel too ugly and cold, AND bad news not the only thing that can be shared--so can laughter, so can J-O-Y. So, my friends, the prayer I'm saying this week for each and every one of us is simply this: May our hearts remember how to laugh. May our laughter become prayer. May joy find its way back into our bones, and may we be reminded that hope can (and does!) begin again and again and again. Amen. Letting myself laugh again with you, Pr. Melissa |
Pastor Melissa enjoying time on her hammock.
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen was called as the pastor of St. Paul Congregational UCC in June of 2020. Prior to her call to St. Paul, Pr. Melissa worked as a hospice chaplain in the Ames, IA area, following pastorates at rural churches in Central Iowa and Southern Illinois. Pr. Melissa is a second-career pastor with a background in agribusiness and production & supply operations. She received her M.Div. from Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis, MO, and holds a MA Ed. in Adult Education and Training, and a BA in Organizational Communications. Archives
December 2025
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