At the Threshold: Monthly Wonderings from Your Deacon-elect of Liturgy & Spiritual Formation
Dear Church Family,
I want to begin sharing a few monthly reflections with you—a small, quiet space where we can pause, pull up a chair, and listen together as the seasons shift.
I don’t fully know what shape these letters will take over time, but I trust that together we will discover a gentle, natural rhythm. At heart, my hope is simple: I want to know you more deeply, and I want to offer you a fuller glimpse of my own heart, so that our spiritual vulnerability can grow side by side.
I receive so much life and grounding from the shifting turns of the church year. Each season arrives not as a calendar date to check off, but as a sanctuary—an invitation to slow down, to wander, and to wonder within an ancient, sacred flow.
As we walk this path together, I plan to end each reflection with a blessing—a spiritual practice I’ve adopted from the Irish poet and theologian John O’Donohue, whose wisdom has deeply shaped my own journey. Many of these words will be born out on the pavement during my many walks around my neighborhood in Magnolia—a quiet practice of paying attention and caring for my soul that Pastor Hector and I share.
Most of all, I want to share the honest interior landscapes of my life: what I am wondering, where I am doubting, and what is sparking light in me through the books, poetry, music, and conversations carrying me through the week. And I hope you will share yours with me in return, so that we might accompany one another well.
Below is my first attempt.
October 2026: Standing at the Threshold of Samhain and All Saints
October is the true threshold of the darker months—a quiet doorway standing between the fading light of early autumn and the coming stillness of winter.
In the ancient Celtic tradition, this end-of-October threshold was marked by Samhain (pronounced Sow-win). Marking the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the "darker half" of the year, Samhain was understood as a liminal time—a threshold moment when the veil between the physical world and the spiritual world grew thin. It was a night when communities gathered around fire, gave thanks for the harvest that sustained them, honored the memory of ancestors who came before, and acknowledged the mystery of life, death, and transition in nature's unhurried cycle.
As the church expanded across these lands, this deep human need to honor memory and transition was brought into the Christian liturgical calendar. Samhain became All Hallows' Eve (Halloween), serving as the vigil for All Saints' Day (November 1st) and All Souls' Day (November 2nd). This shift invited believers to move from fear of the darkening unknown into a holy celebration of the Communion of Saints—a reminder that we remain connected across time, light, and death to all those who have walked the path of faith before us.
Even the food of Halloween carries this story of spiritual community and memory. In traditional Celtic and British customs, families would bake a special ritual bread known as Barmbrack (or Soul Cakes). On All Hallows' Eve, children and the poor would go "souling"—door to door, singing prayers for the departed in exchange for a warm cake. Hidden inside the loaf were symbolic items—a ring, a coin, a piece of cloth—offering quiet reflections on destiny, fortune, and communal care. It was a tangible way to remember that we nourish one another through the darkest nights.
Grounded in Sacred Word
When I reflect on these threshold moments and the mystery of shifting seasons, I am drawn back to the ancient wisdom of Ecclesiastes:
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted... He has made everything suitable for its time." — Ecclesiastes 3:1–2, 11a (NIV)
This passage reminds us that change is not an enemy to be feared or resisted, but a holy ordinance built into the fabric of creation. Just as the earth turns without anxiety, scripture invites us to trust that God's grace is present in the preparation and letting go just as much as in the gathering in.
Vessels of Light in the Darkening Season
As I’ve shared before, I have never been a lover of midsummer heat; summer has always felt a bit overwhelming to my body, so autumn’s cool arrival is a welcome relief. Yet learning to abide with whatever season we find ourselves in—whether the glare of summer or the long shadows of autumn—is part of our ongoing spiritual formation. Every weather has something to teach us about God and about ourselves.
October is when I begin pulling out my candles or at least, more candles. I have a deep love for Glassybabies. Back in 2019, during a season of my life that felt particularly heavy and uncertain, I found myself desperate for tangible reminders of light and beauty. I took a job working just eight hours a week at their downtown shop. Being surrounded by all that hand-blown glass and sharing simple moments of appreciation with strangers became a small, steadying sanctuary.
Each vessel is individually crafted, named for an emotion, a gesture, or a grace. The founder started the company in her garage while navigating breast cancer, paying her glassblowers well and quietly donating thousands to charities. There is a profound spiritual discipline in that: committing one's energy to putting beauty and light into a hurting world.
Sitting here with a few of these small glass vessels glowing in my living space, I am reminded of October’s quiet ask: to draw inward.
I’ve been reading Katherine May’s book Wintering, in which she explores how periods of darkness and cold are not failures of life, but necessary seasons of rest, retreat, and deep transformation. Early in the book, she shares a conversation with a Finnish friend about preparing for the cold, introducing the Finnish word talvitelat—which roughly translates to being stowed away safely for winter.
We spend so much of our lives trying to outrun the dark or hurry past seasons where things feel quiet and dormant. But spiritual maturity often requires us to learn talvitelat—how to stow ourselves away safely, how to rest, and how to trust that God is working in the quiet soil long before anything blooms.
The Quiet Liturgy of Nature
This quiet interior preparation is happening all around us right now, if only we slow down to notice.
Out on my neighborhood walks lately, I’ve found myself mildly exasperated by the unpredictable October weather—layering up, getting too warm, shedding a layer, feeling a sudden chill, or realizing I left my rain jacket at home. But then I stop and look up at the trees.
There are a few trees along my route that I think of as old friends. I love watching them shift throughout the year—a quiet, unhurried liturgy of nature.
If you look closely right now, most of the leaves haven't even dropped yet. Instead, the trees are doing the quiet, invisible work of preparing. Before a single leaf falls, the tree is actively withdrawing its nutrients, sealing off connections, and turning brilliant shades of gold and amber. It isn't a sudden collapse; it is a slow, intentional process of talvitelat—stowing away reserves so it can survive the frost ahead.
The trees offer us a stunning visual sermon: preparation requires patience. Long before we physically let go of what has served its purpose, there is a quiet, hidden grace in preparing our hearts for the rest ahead.
Questions for Reflection & Conversation
As we step across this threshold together, I invite you to pause and consider these questions for your own heart—and perhaps share your thoughts with me in a text message, an email or the next time we sit down together:
What are you reading, listening to, or watching right now that is helping you gently transition into this new season?
What traditions, rituals, or small practices—whether lighting a candle, taking a quiet walk, baking, or sharing a warm drink—do you lean into to ground your spirit as the days grow shorter?
What are the small, tangible "vessels of light" or memories of saints that sustain your hope when the season shifts and the shadows lengthen?
Gathering in Community
As the daylight shortens, you’ll notice our church home filling with more opportunities to gather—concerts, worship series, book studies and classes, and shared meals designed to draw us together. We do not have to navigate the darker months alone.
Here is my first invitation: join me this coming Tuesday for a special Sacred Pause. In addition to our usual First-Tuesday-of-the-Month noon gathering, we will gather again at 6:30 PM—just as dusk settles over the rushing life around us. It is meant to be a quiet refuge on your way home, a place to sit in the soft, warm light of the chapel and catch your breath. Never underestimate the simple, holy power of showing up just as you are.
And a second, deeply personal invitation: on Saturday, October 24 at 2:00 PM, we will arrive together at another sacred threshold—my ordination to Word and Service in the ELCA. This is not just my milestone; it is a day for all of us to gather and bear witness to a holy, shared rite. During the service, we will share some of the profound scriptures and stories that have held me, sing the hymns that have shaped my soul, and celebrate the immense village that formed me for servant leadership.
You are such a big part of that story, Trinity Faith Family. I hope you will be there alongside my blood family, chosen family, lifelong friends, and new companions. Thank you for this moment, and for this calling we are stepping into together.
An October Blessing
May you step across the threshold of this new season without fear,
trusting the wisdom of the shortening days and thin places.
May you pause before the trees that are preparing to rest,
and learn from them the holy grace of quiet trust.
May the small lights you kindle—
a flame, a prayer, a shared bread, a warm sanctuary—
remind you of the great cloud of witnesses surrounding you.
And as the earth cools and draws inward,
may you know yourself deeply held
in the ancient, sacred flow of divine love.
Amen.
In Christ,
David Horton
Deacon-elect of Liturgy & Spiritual Formation
