To be invited as a contributor to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lent Book — “Dancing to the heartbeat of God” — was, for me, an unexpected and deeply humbling honour. Lent is a season that asks us to look both inward and outward — to examine our lives, and to rediscover our place within the wider story of faith.
To offer words that might accompany others on that journey felt like being entrusted with something both fragile and profound.
In my own contribution, I found myself returning again and again to the landscape that shapes life and ministry here on the Prairies. There is something about that vast openness — the place where horizon and Earth seem to meet, where the line between them feels almost like a thin veil — that invites contemplation.
It is a space where distance and nearness co-exist, where the eye is drawn outward even as the heart turns inward. That “thin veil” has become, for me, a metaphor for ministry itself: the sense that the boundary between the earthly and the divine is not fixed or distant, but shimmering just at the edge of perception.
This Prairie vision inevitably shapes how we understand our calling. Ministry here is not confined to buildings or bounded spaces; it stretches across distances, carried in relationships, in quiet acts of care, in communities that gather faithfully even when separated by kilometres.
The horizon reminds us that we are always looking toward something more, something beyond ourselves — yet never disconnected from what is immediately before us.
What made the experience of contributing to the Lent Book even more meaningful was the knowledge that it was not a solitary voice, but part of a chorus drawn from across the Anglican Communion. Contributors from different countries, cultures and contexts each brought their own perspective, their own landscape, their own lived experience of faith.
And yet, together, those voices formed something cohesive — a shared witness to our connectedness as one body. It is a powerful reminder that, however varied our contexts may be, we are bound together in Christ, participating in a common life that transcends geography.
That sense of connection found a vivid expression in the recent installation service of the new Archbishop of Canterbury. It was, in many ways, a moment that spoke to the “macro” level of our life together: a visible sign of unity across the Communion, a gathering of voices and traditions held within a single act of worship.
To see that role described and embodied as an instrument of unity was both reassuring and inspiring. It speaks to a calling that is not about uniformity, but about holding together a richly diverse family with grace and faithfulness.
Yet what struck me just as deeply was the “micro” level of connection — the way in which Archbishop Sarah Mullally’s own life story continues to shape her ministry. Her background in nursing is not simply a chapter left behind; it remains an integral part of who she is as a leader in the Church.
There is something profoundly theological in that continuity, a reminder that vocation is not erased but transformed and carried forward.
I am particularly moved by the story of her nurse’s belt buckle, now used as the clasp that holds her episcopal cope together. It is such a simple, tangible detail, yet it speaks volumes. Here is an object shaped in one context of care and service, now quite literally holding together a garment that signifies her episcopal ministry.
It is a visible sign that what we bring from our lives — our skills, our histories, our callings — does not stand apart from the Church, but becomes part of its very fabric.
In many ways, that small symbol mirrors the larger truth expressed in the Lent Book itself. Each contributor brings something distinct, something rooted in their own place and experience. Yet when those offerings are gathered together, they reveal a deeper unity — a connectedness that is both gift and calling.
For me, the Prairies, the horizon, and that thin veil between Earth and sky have become a way of understanding this mystery. We stand in our particular places, shaped by our own landscapes and lives, yet we are always reaching toward something greater. And in that reaching, we discover that we are not alone.
We are part of a communion that spans the globe, held together not only by shared belief but by the countless ways in which our lives, like that simple belt buckle, are offered and woven into the life of the Church.
To have played even a small part in that shared expression, through the Lent Book, is a privilege I will carry with gratitude — and with a renewed sense of hope for the future we are being called to embrace together.