There are seasons when we reach for what has always sustained us — prayer, community, meaning, hope — and come up empty. The practices that once filled us feel hollow. The certainties we relied on have cracked. And the spring rain becomes flood waters.

Every tradition has a name for this. The Psalmist cried it. Rumi’s reed flute wept it. The Buddhist teacher points to it as the ache at the heart of being human.

Rev. Christe will explore: what is the water table beneath the dry season? What holds when our usual sources fail us?