This past week was full—typical, in many ways. Just a quick note: these reflections now cover the seven days leading up to Tuesday (so if you’re reading this on Wednesday, it’s fresh off yesterday’s Sabbath). Honestly, the hardest part of writing this each week is simply remembering what happened! Sometimes I can’t even recall what I had for lunch the day before.
This week’s Sabbath was a little different—it was also a travel day to Kauai. I’m grateful for the chance to spend these final days of summer with Joshua before he heads back to college. We’re planning to visit Hanapepe where my parents grew up, take in the beauty of Waimea Canyon, spend time with family, show Joshua where his Oyadomari grandparents are buried, and of course, enjoy some outdoor adventures and good eats in Lihue and Kapaa (yes, we have a list).
If I felt any “resistance” this week, it came not from spiritual discipline but from my natural tendency to pack too much into the schedule. It reminded me of a recent trip to Disneyland. I remember when a visit there meant casually strolling the park, enjoying food, characters, music, and catching a ride or two when the timing worked. But on our last trip, everything revolved around app alerts, Lightning Lane reservations, and optimizing the number of rides. It didn’t feel like magic—it felt like managing a schedule. Maybe I’m just getting older, but I miss the slower pace.
Kauai is reminding me there’s beauty in the unhurried. There’s spiritual value in intentionally meandering—leaving space to notice, to listen, and to be present. May we all find that kind of grace in our days.
The Spiritual Delight of Being Present
One of the unexpected gifts in this new season of life—stepping away from the pace of corporate work—has been the joy of reconnecting with people. I’ve found myself with more margin to be fully present in conversations, unhurried and undistracted. It’s one of the clearest benefits of this transition: having the freedom to sit with pastors and friends, talking deeply about spiritual practices, and watching the Holy Spirit quietly at work in their lives. It’s humbling—and incredibly encouraging—to witness their journeys of formation up close.
Another gift has been the freedom to follow where I feel led, rather than being bound by a calendar full of meetings and task lists. I’m able to linger a little longer, to ask one or two more questions, to listen with my whole attention. Looking back, I realize that in previous seasons, I may not have been fully present—pulled instead by the quiet pressure of deadlines or the ticking clock in the back of my mind.
But now, presence feels like its own spiritual practice. Being truly with someone—not multitasking, not preoccupied—is a form of worship. It’s a way of loving. And it’s a reminder that God is not in a rush with us, either.
May we all find moments this week to slow down and delight in the sacredness of simply being present.
God is Enough
I’m sitting under a tree on Wailua Beach, near the Sheraton, sharing this beautiful day with Tammi and Joshua. Tammi is sitting along the shoreline, soaking in the sun. Joshua is nearby. And though I’ve never been to this particular spot before, the rhythm of the waves feels deeply familiar.
It takes me back to long summer days of my youth—days spent in the water, then resting on the sand, just watching the surf roll in. Back then, it was enough. The salt air, the gentle breeze, the steady sound of waves breaking on the shore—these simple, sacred things spoke of God’s presence. I didn’t need a screen, a show, or a stream of content to feel full.
And here, on this Sabbath, I’m reminded: I still don’t.
En route to our accommodations in Waimea, we stop in Hanapepe “to touch dirt,” as Uncle Bill Tamaoka says. Hanapepe is where my parents grew up, and it’s Joshua’s first time here. I share the family lore—stories passed down to me about this small but meaningful place. Joshua and I crouch down, scoop up the famous red dirt, and let it sift through our fingers. In that moment, we’re connected—through soil and story—to three and four generations of Oyadomaris who first settled here from Okinawa.
Again, God’s goodness is on full display. And this—waves, wind, roots, and red dirt—is enough.
God’s creation—unrushed, unfiltered, and unedited—is enough.
God’s presence—uncomplicated and always near—is enough.
Maybe that’s the invitation today: to remember that we were made not for endless noise, but for quiet wonder. And in moments like these, we rediscover that God truly is still enough.