A Note from Rev. Kelly C...

As ministry is a whole person vocation, and because it is not only myself, but also my family that is a part of FUS, I have personal news to share with you all. Dan and I made the decision to end our marriage and we completed that process earlier this year.

Our friendship has been with us for 31 years and our marriage has lasted for 26. I was 18 when we met and we truly grew up together, supporting each other through schooling, living in three different states, and becoming the people we are today. We have two amazing children together. We consider our shared journey an incredible success. We still care deeply about one another and are committed to raising our children well as a family that remains connected through the bonds of love, memory, and great devotion.

This is a big change for us and naturally has contained difficulty, sadness, and loss. Our family appreciates your thoughts and trust that you will hold this news in love and compassion. Through conversations over the past few months, I know that many of you are experiencing transitions in your lives as well. Please know that I am holding you close, too. May love be our guide as we move forward through all the transitions and may we all be led into healing, wholeness, and joy. ◊

Notice on Masking During Worship

As of May 28, 2023, we will move to being mask optional in our worship services throughout the summer. That Sunday marks the beginning of our Summer Services when we move to one service per weekend at 10 am on Sundays. We will reassess masking during worship for the fall in August. We know that there are many views on masking living in the congregation and we continue to encourage you to make the best choices for your health and the health of your family. We also want to remind everyone of the importance of respecting the choices of others and that extending compassion is at the core of religious community and our life together here.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

Ada Limón, 2018