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Some people walk through life alone.  Some grow older with no family nearby—some never married, others lost spouses, and many never had children for any number of reasons. Some are unhoused, some forgotten, and some simply feel invisible.

When I was a child, I often wanted to sit with people who were alone. I was drawn to them, sensing they might need someone. But my mom would gently remind me, “Maybe they want to be alone. Maybe they don’t want to be bothered.” I understand her concern now—teaching a child to respect space is important. Still, something in me couldn’t shake the pull toward the overlooked.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always had a heart for those on the margins. My systematic theology professor, Dr. Joerg Rieger, once wrote about me, “I remember Tracy well as a compassionate person who cared for others, including those on the margins who are often overlooked.” That has stayed with me, not as a compliment, but as a calling.

I never wanted anyone to feel like they didn’t belong. I’ve moved many times in my life, and fitting in hasn’t always come easy. Even now, as an adult, I sometimes feel like an outsider. But the one constant—the gift that steadied me—has always been the church. Wherever I went, I found a church family. I never feared walking through the doors of a sanctuary. Even in hard seasons, even when church hurt, it was still a place I could return to, a place to be found.

The church, at its best, is where strangers become siblings. It’s where meals are shared, burdens are carried, and no one has to sit alone unless they choose to. I’ve seen beautiful moments—people rallying around someone who is ill, or a quiet soul being noticed, included, embraced.

But here’s a question we must ask ourselves: How many times do we notice the people around us? The ones sitting alone? The ones who slip in and out quietly? The ones who don’t make a fuss but are carrying a heavy load? Sometimes we get so caught up in our routines or our own circles that we miss those who are right in front of us, longing to be seen.

And yes, I’ve seen when the church has failed, when it pushes out people or wounds instead of heals. That grieves me deeply. I pray often that, as a pastor, I never contribute to that kind of pain. I want people to know—whoever you are, wherever you’ve been—you are valued. You are wanted. You are loved by God. And I see you.

To see each other means we don’t try to “fix” one another. It means we ask what is needed. Helping and being there for one another means we listen and respond to the need they have—not the one we assume, not the one we’re most comfortable meeting. Real love requires humility and presence, not just action.

Even when people have come and gone from my life, if they were alone and needed someone, I’d do my best to show up. That’s what community does. That’s what we do.

We were never meant to walk this life alone. The church is not just a building—it’s a family of God. And like all families, we have our ups and downs. We challenge one another. We disagree. But we keep loving, because Christ keeps loving.

So if you are reading this and feeling on the outside—please hear me: you belong. There’s a place for you here. You don’t have to do life alone.

Let’s strive always to see the invisible, welcome the lonely, listen well, and love like Jesus.  See you Sunday!

“For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.”

—Romans 12:4–5 (NRSV)

Peace, Pastor Tracy