As I reflect on what UA’s 10th birthday is to me the things that simmer to the top: courageous curiosity and abundant hospitality.

In the copious notes I’ve kept since my first board meeting here at UA in 2011, I wrote down in my reflections things like:

(really profound stuff)

God isn’t a Republican or a Democrat for that matter;

thinking (in a space that focuses on BELIEF) isn’t dangerous;

how can UA be the loving alternative, the safe space, a soul feast, for the people who hate church or who’ve been hated by church?

When we’ve gathered at the table to have these discussions and meditate on God’s call ... in 2011, and every year since then…

We ask this tough question:

Is UA the loving alternative to the mainline church?

We bring refugees and asylum seekers to share their stories at Christmas time. Because that is the Christmas story.

We listen to testimonials of those who’ve experienced crises with housing, mental health, and identity.

And we don’t demand their repentance; we respond with love.

We ask for these stories because we are courageously curious.

We welcome these stories because we are abundantly hospitable.

For the first 10 years of UA’s life, we’ve honored our commitment to God’s call to love one another.

We’re turning 10 though…and that’s a big deal.

Are we still rooted in love?

Can we dream wild dreams and bring God’s ever-present love in child-like ways even though we’re turning double digits, and stuff gets real as you get older.

Billy Collins, a former US poet laureate and an incredible wordsmith: Dubbed “the most popular poet in America” by the New York Times has got this amazing poem, “On Turning Ten” - as we read this together, imagine, what does turning 10 mean for us at UA?

On Turning Ten:

The whole idea of it makes me feel like I'm coming down with something, something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light-- a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche, a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul. You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two. But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit. At four I was an Arabian wizard.

I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way. At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince. But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light. Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house, and my bicycle never leaned against the garage as it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it. This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself, as I walk through the universe in my sneakers. It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number. It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed.

Billy Collins says it just the perfectly quirky and tender way you’d expect a brilliant poet to say it. Turning Ten is tough. It means facing new realities while we remember and reflect. We look back; we look ahead.

Perhaps when we fall on the sidewalks of life, the chalk messages of love and acceptance we’ve written at our door will help stop the bleeding.

Perhaps we were never Arabian wizards or soldiers or princes - but we’ve been drag queen storytellers, sign-maker warriors, and downtown clean-up crews.

Perhaps, if we drink our coffee or tea or milk in a certain way, we will maintain the energy and fuel we need to experience many more increments of 10 year birthdays and anniversaries at Urban Abbey.

This year, and every year, may we celebrate Urban Abbey’s abundant hospitality and courageous curiosity.