In September, I received devastating news that my good friend, Sam, passed away in a car accident. I sat in disbelief for several minutes, trying to convince myself that I was reading the words on my screen wrong before the grief finally washed over me. Sam and I met in theology school. He was a Franciscan brother whose gentle spirit helped me come to know St. Francis of Assisi in his own way.

Over the years, Sam shared with me about his experiences in religious life. He had a deep love for his parishioners and he was dedicated to his work of caring for immigrants at the southern border. Sometimes he was reluctant to do what others considered “big” things, like when his community nudged him toward ordination, which he eventually followed through with. But it was his presence in small ways that seemed to make the biggest impact: listening, serving, and simply showing up with love. That is how so many of us experienced him.

In my unconscious imagination, Sam was supposed to grow old. Or, if I heard that he had given up his life for someone else, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But a car accident did not feel fitting for his story. It wasn’t a death that seemed to belong to the life he lived.

For many reasons over the last year, I’ve found it much harder, and more stressful, to imagine the future the way I once did. When I turn on the news, it often feels like I’m living in an upside-down universe, unsure of what I’ll encounter next. Threats of climate collapse, civil and global wars, and technological overreach make life feel increasingly unpredictable and fragile. Growing old feels far less guaranteed.

I don’t write this to convey despair. I still see hope everywhere, radiating through people like Sam and communities that are working tirelessly toward peace and justice. I also see hope when a small sprout pushes its way through the soil, and when my garden produces abundance in a society that tries to train us to live with a scarcity mindset. I find the will to live each day when I watch tree branches that still dance in the wind, or notice how a sunrise continues to make art even in the grayness of my feelings.

And still, losing Sam is a sobering reminder that life can be taken from us unexpectedly, and often through unnatural causes. All we truly have is the here and now.

We live in a culture designed to pull us out of the present moment: work now so you can vacation later, plan endlessly for retirement and milestones down the road. Yet none of this is promised to us. At the same time, there is so much competing for our attention, especially through the media, that it’s easy to feel helpless or like we are never doing enough.

But we didn’t evolve this way; we evolved in villages taht were self-sustaining systems. People learned from one another, and naturally cared for each other across the span of a lifetime. A person’s worth wasn’t defined by their job. Each individual mattered simply because they existed as part of a larger whole.

When I think about this, it feels right in my body. I feel a deep longing to be living in it. And when I look out at the rest of creation, I see this same truth reflected everywhere: wholes within wholes. Many of us are moved to tears by an orchestra or a choir, by the way diverse parts come together in harmony. Earth’s ecosystems mirror this beauty, as do our own bodies. There are no hierarchies here. Every part matters for the whole to function with grace. Every decision we make in the present moment ripples outward and shapes everything else.

We’ve also been conditioned to “think big” in ways we haven’t evolved to sustain – big futures, big careers, big paychecks, big ideas… But when something gets too big, or too overgrown, it becomes toxic for the environment. The Earth teaches us that it’s okay, even preferred, for life to be small because the way we show up in the world has the greatest impact. When I feel overwhelmed, I’m trying to remember this. I try to take in less, loosen my grip on planning, and return to the present moment.

When I “think small” by simply being present, I notice more and I feel more connected. I notice the beauty of creation, but I also notice the ways we’ve become more disconnected and my hands want to mend those gaps. Being present helps me to not only notice trash on the ground and pick it up, but also find ways to be more creative and consume less. I notice the importance of sister water in the garden, and how she is a sister not only there, but in every encounter, shifting the way I interact with her on a daily basis. She does not belong to me simply because she comes out of my faucet, she belongs to everyone. I notice the cracked sidewalks in my neighborhood and feel the impulse to break them open to let the Earth breathe. I feel meant for the small work that, when done collectively, has a big impact.

Frankly, Sam’s life was too short and I don’t think there’s some mysterious God-willing reason behind his death. But I know Sam’s life was a full one, and I’m so proud of him. I think creation keeps inviting us back when we live more in our bodies, and through our senses so we can lean into the “small work”. In watching the fleeting glow of a sunset, in the sound of geese flying overhead, in the scent of spring flowers, or the sharp chill of winter air. In the face of grief and uncertainty, like losing Sam, creation reminds me that life is not something to be mastered or planned from a distance. It is something to be inhabited one small, sacred moment at a time.