I have to say, I am a sucker for the heart-shaped items that are prolific in the days leading up to Valentine's Day. This week, when visiting someone in the Heart Hospital, I delighted in the heart-shaped balloons that adorned the hallway while nurses sported hearts on their scrubs. While it's fun to think about St. Valentine and the revolutionary weddings he performed that led us to a weekend we celebrate romantic love, I was moved this way in celebration of the love of community.

This week, at the Maplewood City Council Meeting, nearly 10 people spoke in support of an overnight prayer vigil that has taken place at Maplewood UMC during the coldest nights this winter. Maplewood, a city within St. Louis County, is a quirky municipality known for wholesome festivals, good restaurants, and a supportive community. So, it might stand out that there is a restriction that prevents an emergency shelter from being set up in the City of Maplewood.

Maplewood UMC went into action. Knowing they couldn’t have a shelter, they set up an overnight prayer vigil for peace and justice to bring together anyone in the community who wanted to pray for their neighbors and pray for each other throughout the night.

In the downstairs fellowship hall, adorned with twinkle lights and round tables, the room buzzed with sweet energy of communion when I came for my first shift at 4am. In our tradition, we celebrate communion as a sacred meal Jesus shared with his friends and disciples, a time to reflect, to mourn, to pray, and to prepare for the work of community away from the table. Communion does not need wine or bread, though. Communion is about sharing hope, delight, and space to be vulnerable. When I joined the table at 4am, I couldn’t tell who was a pastor and who a congregant; who a member of MUMC and who from the community. Surely some came to escape the physical cold, looking for warmth in the middle of the night. Others came to escape the chill of the heart reverberating in our news cycles, our fears, and our nightmares. At the table, we shared everything from very personal situations to national headlines. Prayer and communion were shared in the middle of the night, a time when most of us have to face our insecurities alone. Maplewood UMC made a way for us to share them on a night when vulnerability was felt even more acutely, when the thermometer read far below zero.

Throughout the section for public comment, person after person (including our own Maplewood resident Deborah Sheperis) came forward offering loving support for such prayer vigils and told stories of love incarnate experienced in sharing a table, stories, and perhaps a nap in the middle of the night.

As we celebrate the gift of love in our community, I am heartened by the city of Maplewood, whose residents and council members are finding a way to work within the system to support vulnerable people now while also trying to change the system for more substantive support later.

How are you noticing the reverberations of love in your life?

Blessings,
Pastor Lauren

Angel of the Get Through - Andrea Gibson

August 13, 1975 – July 14, 2025

Best friend, this is what we do.
We gather each other up.
We say “The cup is half
yours and half mine.”
We say, “Alone is the last place you will ever be.”

On Monday, the world lost one of its fiercest hearts. Andrea Gibson (they/them)—beloved poet, activist, truth-teller—passed away, and the grief that followed was not quiet. It bloomed loudly, openly, in shared poems and stories, in whispered thanks and loud declarations. Queer and trans communities across the globe have gathered to mourn, to honor, and to celebrate the life and legacy of someone who gave voice to what so many of us were never sure we were allowed to say out loud.

For so many of us, Andrea’s words were the first ones that told us we weren’t broken. That being queer, trans, tender-hearted, or feeling deeply wasn’t something to hide, but something holy and something to be cherished. Their poems didn’t flinch from pain. They reached into the pain and pulled out something honest, beautiful, and deeply human.

Andrea taught me, how to live largely and love loudly. Their poetry gave permission to take up space, to feel too much, to cry in public, to dance alone in the kitchen, to love your friends and community so fiercely you can’t help but say it out loud. They showed us that vulnerability is a true kind of strength, and that community is also built through many soft moments. The soft moments that show up through shared meals, laughter, and on quiet nights when someone stays on the phone with you when you need it the most.

We build Beloved Community as daily practice. We text our friends to remind them we love them, or even pick up the phone to call them and let them know. We show up with soup when someone is sick. We forgive each other’s small (and sometimes large) failings. We create art that helps someone feel less alone, that helps our own bodies feel less alone. We organize, we listen, and we build safe havens where people can show up authentically.

We remind ourselves that Beloved Community isn’t a utopia. It’s messy and real and human. It’s built through daily care and collective responsibility. It’s the chosen family that shows up. It’s the refusal to let anyone disappear into loneliness.

So, in honor of our Beloved Andrea, we keep going, not alone, but gathered up saying the cup is half yours, and half mine. Alone is the last place you will ever be.

I say, let us hold each other a little closer. Let us keep building a world where no one has to hide, no one has to go it alone, and love is always loud.

Rest in power, Andrea. Thank you for showing us a way.

With Love,
Pastor Eli