Pastoral Letter: Holding One Another After the Fall

Dear Simsbury UMC Family,

These days, our children have been practicing handstands at home. I’m not sure where they first saw it or what sparked their curiosity, but they practice often—sometimes against the wall, sometimes with the older one holding the younger one steady. They lay down a blanket or a mattress. They pull over a pillow. They prepare for falling as carefully as they prepare for standing.

Soon the house fills with thuds—feet against the wall, hands landing on the floor—and with the sound of two voices negotiating: “Hold me like this.” “No, a little higher.” Listening from the next room, I sometimes find myself thinking, half-serious, half-tired, “Will this only end when someone cries?”

Then a few days ago, it happened.

I heard a sudden crash—one of those sounds that makes a parent move before thinking. I ran to their room and found them tangled on the floor, rubbing their arms and shoulders, trying to laugh and wincing at the same time. “Are you okay?” I asked.

They started explaining right away—almost too quickly. They weren’t fighting, they said. They were trying to help each other. They slipped. They bumped into each other by accident. I think they were afraid I would say, “That’s enough. Stop.”

What stayed with me was not only that they fell, but what they did after they fell. They didn’t try to “win” the moment. They tried to stand back up. One reached for the other’s arm. They steadied each other. In that small scene, I saw something simple and honest: falling is not always avoidable, but the way we hold one another after we fall can be learned.

I don’t like hearing my children fight. What parent does? Even the sound of a conflict tightens something in me. And if someone gets hurt, a surge of anger rises quickly—partly from fear, partly from love, partly from the helplessness of not being able to prevent every harm.

In those moments, I do what most parents do. I check first: Is anyone injured? Only then do I start listening. And as I listen, I realize something again and again: sometimes the line between right and wrong is clear. But often it isn’t. Sometimes, no one is “the villain.” Sometimes a conflict isn’t only about what just happened, but about what has been quietly building for days—or what was never resolved months ago. What looks like a sudden explosion is often a long story finally coming into the open.

If this is true even between children, how much more is it true in conflicts between communities, religions, peoples, and nations? The scale is different. The weight of loss is beyond comparison. And yet, watching my children, I was reminded of something we often forget: conflict rarely begins out of nowhere. It is often the moment when something that has been struggling within us for a long time finally becomes visible.

Scripture speaks with remarkable honesty about where conflict comes from:

“Those conflicts and disputes among you, where do they come from?
Do they not come from your cravings that are at war within you?”
(James 4:1–2) 

The Bible does not place the entire cause of conflict on “the other side.” It names what happens within us—desire, fear, the need to control, the insistence that I must protect what is mine at any cost. When those inner forces collide, conflict begins.

And Scripture does not stop there. The story of God’s covenant people is a long, stubborn lesson in learning a different way—not the way of empire, but the way of God’s Kin-dom, God’s reign of belonging and life. Again and again, the Law and the Prophets press the community away from domination and toward a life that protects the vulnerable and honors the image of God in each person. 

“Do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor…
Open your hand to the poor and needy.”
(Deuteronomy 15:7–8) 

And the prophets keep returning to the same center: justice that is inseparable from mercy, and humility that refuses to turn power into an idol. 

“What does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, love kindness,
and walk humbly with your God?”
(Micah 6:8) 

The apostle Paul gathers this way of life into a clear, demanding vision for the community of Christ: 

“Do not repay anyone evil for evil…
If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all…
Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”
(Romans 12:17–21) 

Dear friends,

When we hear news of conflict and violence around the world, different reactions rise within us. Some of us feel most urgently the need for safety and order. Others feel most urgently the need to protect civilians, the vulnerable, and those living in fear. These concerns do not have to be enemies. They can both come from the same place: a deep recognition that human life matters.

The danger is what happens when those concerns are translated into the language of retaliation, contempt, and dehumanization. In moments like these, the church is invited to learn to speak again—not in the language of political camps, but in the language of God’s Kin-dom.

If I could offer one sentence for us to carry together this week, it would be this:

The peace of God’s Kin-dom is the way of discipleship—choosing life, and learning to let love reshape the desires and fears within us.

That is why I want us to hold on to the voice of our Lord: 

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”
(Matthew 5:9) 

Peace is not denial. Peace is not passive silence. Peace is the disciplined refusal to mirror the harm we oppose—and the steady commitment to protect life without surrendering to hatred.

And so, in the midst of endless arguments about who is right and who is wrong, we return to a deeper confession: 

Christ is our peace.
(Ephesians 2:14) 

If these headlines feel heavy for you—if they stir anxiety, grief, or old wounds—you are not alone. Please be gentle with your own heart. Part of faithful living is knowing when to breathe, when to pause, and when to ask someone to pray with you.

Political slogans, policies, and diplomatic negotiations can feel far beyond our reach. At times, what we can do may feel small. But the church has always been called, in moments like these, to return to the deepest place first: the place of prayer.

Prayer is not escape. It is where our words are purified. It is where our anger is kept from hardening into hatred. It is where our fear is kept from turning people into problems. It is where our hearts are turned again toward life.

So I invite you into prayer.

Let us pray for those who are mourning loved ones.
For those who are wounded in body and spirit.
For those who have lost their homes and their daily safety.
And for an end to violence, so that no more lives are taken.

Let us also pray for those tasked with enforcing order and making decisions—leaders, policymakers, and all who carry responsibility—asking God for wisdom, restraint, clarity, and the courage to protect life.

And as we look toward the future, I hope we will pray and teach—not only ourselves, but also our children—to live not by the logic of violence, but by the justice and mercy of God’s Kin-dom.

May the Spirit grow within us the fruit that shapes a different kind of life: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
(Galatians 5:22–23)

In recent weeks, as I write these pastoral letters to you, I find myself moving slowly between words and sentences—carrying grief, lament, and carefulness in my heart. And yet I do not let go of hope.

Just as we wait for spring at the end of winter, I pray that we will hear news of peace again.

The world falls often—like children practicing handstands. The scale is not the same, and I do not pretend it is. And still, I pray that falling will not become our final pattern, and that war will not have the last word. Just as my children reached for each other’s arms and tried to stand again, may God lift us and guide us back onto the path of peace—patiently, firmly, and with love that refuses to let go.

May the letters we write and the prayers we offer be filled less and less with the language of war, and more and more with the language of healing and hope—in Christ Jesus.

Grace and peace,
Pastor DH