Dear Talmadge Hill Family,
This week marks my first month here at Talmadge Hill, and I am so grateful to sojourn among you. The initial transition and onboarding phase are now complete, and I look forward to deepening my work and continuing to learn from your stories and experiences.
The interesting contrast throughout this professional and geographic change has been the tension between my genuine excitement for this new calling and the surprising increase in my own internal anxiety. I have come to understand this not as a personal failing, but as a completely normal human response to transition: our brains are wired to keep us safe, and they do that by preferring the known over the unknown. When everything around us is new—new routines, new rhythms, new sights—our brains interpret that ambiguity as a kind of threat. Our bodies respond with anxiety, restlessness, and even exhaustion. Add to that the sheer number of decisions and adjustments that come with any significant move or change, and it's no wonder we feel tired or on edge as we navigate this "in-between" psychological space.
This journey of understanding how the process of change affects me helps me realize how change affects all of us. Our Talmadge Hill community has undergone significant change over the past year. Carter's retirement brought with it the grief of a ministry era that began with Mich—a season still mourned and celebrated more than six years after his passing. We stand now at the end of something profound, wondering what's next and how we will move forward. And here's the paradox: our instinct is to work harder, to do more, to prove we're okay. But we are being called to something counterintuitive.
This is not the time for business as usual. This is not the season to rush into big new initiatives or to demonstrate that everything is fine. Grief and anxiety cannot be managed away through busyness. This is a time to step back, to breathe, to honor what has ended, and to notice what we're feeling and what's shifting beneath the surface.
Nature herself is teaching us this lesson. As we mark the beginning of October, autumn is truly here with its invitation to slow down and let go. The trees release their leaves not as an act of loss, but as preparation for new life. They teach us that letting go is not abandonment—it is faithfulness to the rhythm of transformation.
Throughout October, our worship will walk alongside this season of letting go and liminal space:
This Sunday (October 5): We mark St. Francis Day with Cheryl preaching on Genesis 1:20-31 in her sermon titled "The Friendly Beasts." Sunday's worship also coincides with World Communion Sunday, symbolizing the oneness of believers in Christ despite differences in tradition, language, and liturgy.
October 12: We gather for a Service of Poetry followed by The 7th Annual Mich Zeman Poetry Fest—a beautiful way to honor memory while making space for what wants to emerge.
October 19: We contemplate our Mission and Justice outreach to children through the ecumenical celebration of Children's Sabbath.
October 26: We reflect on our own identity within the Reformed tradition at Talmadge Hill as we observe Reformation Sunday—a day that itself commemorates profound letting go and courageous reformation. We will make time in worship for you to name your losses and reflect on your feelings.
This is a time to let go—not of our faith or our mission, but of the pressure to keep everything exactly as it was. To release our grip on the familiar just enough to make room to rediscover our identity and open ourselves to what God might be inviting us toward. To grieve fully so we can eventually hope fully.
This past week, I've been intentionally establishing new rhythms for myself: working out regularly, meeting with a counselor, and building friendships here in Stamford. These practices are helping me navigate my own anxiety and grief as I ground myself in this new chapter of my life here at Talmadge Hill.
So here is my invitation—not just for this week, but for this season:
Name what this change has stirred in you. Where do you feel it? In your body? In your emotions? In your prayers or in your silence? What are you grieving? What makes you anxious? What small spark of hope are you afraid to acknowledge?
Share your story with someone. Don't carry this transition alone. Let it be witnessed! Tell a friend over coffee. Write it in your journal. Verbally say it in prayer.
Practice one small act of letting go. What old pattern, expectation, or way of being is no longer serving you or this community? What might it feel like to release your grip, even just a little?
Bring what you've discovered to worship on October 26. On Reformation Sunday, we will create space together to name our losses and practice letting go as a community—just as the Reformers did centuries ago when they released what no longer served the Gospel.
Let's give ourselves—and each other—permission to be in this threshold space. To feel what we're feeling. To grieve what needs grieving. To let go of what needs to be released. And to trust that God is present with us, especially when the ground feels unsteady.
Please join us this month in worship as we intentionally reflect on our grief, our anxieties, and what we are being called to release. Your presence and participation are not just welcomed, but vital and make a significant difference. We need you with us on this journey.
With gratitude and hope,
Mooi loop,
Dries