“I think we need to be friends.”
Those were the first words out of my mouth when I introduced myself to Rev. Hilda Covington. We’d just finished a county meeting of nonprofit mental health and social service agencies. She was the presenter that month.
We almost didn’t meet because Hilda arrived an hour and a half late to a two-hour meeting.
I later learned that Hilda moves through the world in her own time. That meeting was not the first she was late to, nor the last. But she lit up that room when she introduced her agency, SisterHood, or “Sisters in the Hood,” as the founders named themselves when they decided to serve the families in their neighborhood who were often overlooked or dismissed by traditional systems.
I was immediately taken by her light-hearted, warm-hearted, big-hearted way.
Having spent so many years with communities society loves to marginalize, I recognized a kindred spirit. I went up to thank her for her humorous and honest presentation, and those unexpected words just came out. I’m forever grateful they did.
Fast forward 27 years.
By now, I’ve learned to listen when something unexpected tumbles out of my mouth. Time and again, I’ve watched the Soul guide me into the right moment, the right person, the right doorway. You know how that works — the quiet nudge that opens a relationship that reshapes your life and deepens your understanding of yourself and the world.
Becoming friends with Hilda did exactly that.
We live very different lives. Our beliefs about the bigger picture diverge. Our thinking was shaped by very different worlds. Our ways of serving look similar on the outside but arise from distinct lineages and lived experience.
We speak an entirely different language.
I grew up with a felt sense of safety she never had access to. We were raised a generation apart, with differences in race, class, neighborhood, education, and economic stability.
These differences have paved the way for deep, often uncomfortable, always meaningful conversations.
My mother used to tell me a story from when we lived in Germany. I was a preschooler playing in a sandbox with a little girl who spoke an entirely different language. We chattered and played as if we understood every word.
Lunch with Hilda feels like that sandbox.
I walk in unsure what the conversation will bring — seeking her counsel, planning a project, or checking in about a neighborhood need — and I always end up on a winding path through delight, discomfort, insight, and truth.
She shows me the world I cannot see. I do the same for her.
With Hilda, I could bring both my knowledge and my ignorance.
I could let myself be disturbed without collapsing. I could grow beyond the ideas that once kept me small. I learned to listen past the familiar and allow my Soul to point toward the beliefs that needed to be uprooted.
To be fully accepted — and to offer that same acceptance — is a rare grace.
Despite all our differences, we share the same kind of heart. And thankfully, the same sense of humor. That lightness has carried us through years of challenges, tragedies, and triumphs in her community. It is often through her laughter that my eyes open just a little wider.
A few years ago, I called to wish her a happy birthday. Quarantine had kept us from our lunches, but she was still tending to her community and her flock. (Yes, she’s also a pastor.)
“Kathy! Your people collected so much food!”
Turns out it wasn’t my volunteer contact who told her about our Sidewalk Food Drive. It was the neighborhood.
“Pastor! Your friend delivered food. Name brands!”
I didn’t understand at first.
Hilda laughed and shared story after story about the excitement of receiving name-brand groceries — not the cheap knock-offs typically stocked in dollar stores or donated to poor families. Her joy carried an edge of truth that cut straight through me.
The inequity of our neighborhoods, our expectations, our lived experience landed in my body.
When our call was done, the tears came. Gratitude mixed with heartache.
Another glimpse into a world I don’t live in but care about deeply.
For 27 years, our Soul Sanctuary community has supported SisterHood families in countless ways. What started as a small intention — easing the financial burden of economically disadvantaged parents so they could have a little more room to breathe and be with their children — has rippled far beyond anything I imagined.
A bit of relief. A moment of peace. A chance to read, play, or talk together. Small shifts with long-term impact.
I could tell so many stories of how your generosity helped parents and soothed children, but those stories belong to them. What I can say is this:
When you show up for people, they become “your people.” Period.
Next week, my family will deliver a few car loads of toys and gifts to SisterHood volunteers for the Holiday Giving List — 450 children and teens this year.
My basement looks like the North Pole and an Amazon warehouse had a love child.
This Sunday (12/14), we’ll gather at Soul Sanctuary’s Holiday Open House and collect any last-minute gifts you feel called to offer.
Last week, my husband and I took Hilda and another SisterHood founder, Linda, out to celebrate Hilda’s 80th birthday. We laughed, reminisced, and honored the years of shared work, heartbreak, joy, and community.
So as we wrap up this year’s Holiday Gift Drive, please receive the gratitude of Hilda, the SisterHood volunteers, and the families whose lives you touch.
The greatest “brand name” you can offer another human being is to call them sister or brother — to recognize their belonging in your human family.
For every way you show up, in any neighborhood, for any people, in your own authentic way,
Thank you.
The world needs exactly what you bring.
Keep giving.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
Learn the one essential skill that allows you to face any challenge with confidence, sturdiness, and inner calm.
More than a technique. It’s a game changer.
I walked out of the gym one morning into a cold, dreary New Jersey rain.
After my challenging workout, I gingerly lowered myself into the driver’s seat. Taking stock, I felt cold, damp, and hungry. My butt muscles hurt and I didn’t think my packed lunch was sufficient to fuel my entire work day.
I was driving home with my daughter when we noticed a large snapping turtle crossing the roadway. It was a tiny back street lined with a small pond.
I recently found myself thinking about activism. About the many ways we show up for what matters to us.
As I considered this, three memories arrived. Rapidly, as if they were part of my contemplation.
The first was a conversation I had with a woman in my town. She was giving me an update on her recent gathering with other mothers protesting against gun violence. I was interested as we had explored what mattered to her as she approached retirement. Protecting children in schools and on street corners mattered, so she joined with other moms who cared about the same.
Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.
I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.
I fell in love.
Eight years ago, I traveled to Costa Rica for a week-long retreat centered around ayahuasca, breathwork, yoga, and deep inner exploration.
Like many people who are drawn to these experiences, I went seeking something. You might call it a Divine encounter. You might call it awakening. You might call it healing.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I only knew there seemed to be a place people spoke about. That place beyond ordinary life.
The women who arrive in my classes, retreats, and therapy sessions are sincerely looking for healing, expansion, clarity, or sometimes just a little room to breathe.
They are thoughtful women, deeply engaged with the people and work they love. Rarely do they arrive because they want another spiritual philosophy. Most are carrying something much more ordinary.
A life that has become full. Beautiful in many ways, but crowded.
