Sincerely Sophi

Sips of warm, rich coffee soothe my throat. Sniffles and an ache at the back of my chest remind me that I am still weak. Recovering from sickness. But the energy to write and think…even a little bit reminds me of the grace of God. What a gift it is to be healthy at all!  Illness can be a frustrating, fickle thing. It grows and changes…you heal and then you don’t. It doesn’t discriminate and it usually doesn’t care how positively busy we are. But then again, is there ever really a good, convenient time to be sick? I suppose it must strike eventually. I have found myself sick at the worst of times during my time at Fox. Sophomore year I caught covid and had to finish my semester quarantined at home, seven hours from campus, missing several crucial musical rehearsals, the opportunity to direct my ten minute play in person, and endless group projects.  And yet, God was still good. And I saw abundant blessings in the access to vitamin protocols and medicine to help with my sickness. I saw a

              Something I wrote in the week leading up to Romania and my passport appointment: Lord, would you prepare my heart for Romania.  I prayed this, not fully knowing what I was asking of God. I know it is something to pray for. To ask others to pray for. I know I want to be prepared. I want God to work and grow my heart. But I had no idea what that might look or feel like.  This past week has been incredibly hard. But in the midst of the anxiety and struggle I have become more aware of God. More aware of His presence. His goodness. His provision and protection and peace. His control over all things.  There seems to be a constant battle. Waves of peace wash over me and then something happens that threatens to drown me in grief and anxiety. I feel as though I’m breaking to pieces but then I feel a soft assuredness in God who is holding me together.  I knew the process of going to Romania would be one that would stretch and grow my faith from the moment I committed to the trip. B

It has been a childhood dream of mine to be a “regular.” To show up to some place and have the barista or waiter ask, “your usual?” only to hand me the anticipated drink or food item before I even pull out my card and sit in my everyday seat.  Today that dream came true, mostly. I walked into Chapters Books and Coffee, a coffee shop my friend Emelia and I regularly attend. I pretty much order the same iced oat milk latte every time. Today I came a bit early by myself. I had earbuds in, which is unusual for me when walking, but I was having a hard day and listening to Shane and Shane’s “Psalm 46” on repeat. A declaration of scriptural truth I need to hear right now. I set my stuff at a table and walked up to the counter where my favorite barista asked, “Are you getting your latte today?”  I was surprised. She remembered? “Yep! My iced oat milk latte please, oh with cinnamon!” She also asked how I was doing.  “Not too great, but I’ll be okay, what about you?” I asked. She said she

There’s something sacred about this coffee shop we find ourselves in over and over again.  The tears spilt in stress over words to be fit perfectly on a page.  A public space so full of vulnerability, like I've never known. Safety amongst strangers.  I’ve met community between these walls.  Old women asking me, a twenty year old they’ve never met, for help on their computers.  A warm greeting between myself and a classmate, seeing each other for the first time outside of class. Seeing more glimpses of who we are.  Meeting again over coffee and tea and discovering what makes each other get up and live each day.  A theatre as ministry class spilling in, accepting the gracious gift of coffee, and crowding around chairs and sofas to create our own safe, sacred, circle within this boisterous building of life. Deep conversations on art and faith. Reflections on our show. On grace. On Beauty. On forgiveness. On failure. On our good God and his abundant love.  Shelves of children’s books h

I am from sitting by the weathered, brown, baby grand piano coloring and sitting in the sound of my mom practicing worship at the piano’s keys. I am from admiring my Mama’s glass Little Women dolls, one for each of us daughters.     I am from Barbie dolls, littlest pet shops and polly pockets. I am from American doll tea parties and sleepovers with neighbors.  I’m from childhood schemes with our neighborhood besties…of lemonade sales, practicing for homemade Fourth of July shows, dressing up as boys and pretending to be spies, and running around washing our neighbors cars for a few bucks. I’m from secret meetings in the neighbors play structure, playing survival in the front yard, sneaking through the fence connecting our backyard with our neighbors, and eating meals as two families together. I’m from warm, safe, and loud.  I am from oak trees we pretended were horses. Oak trees which lent their limbs to a beautiful swing my dad made, which we spent hours swinging on. I am from a m