Dear Human is A Verb Community-

I poured my heart into this episode. It includes a recording I made in the weeks after ENC closed. It is raw and shows what it can look like to experience anxiety and trust, sadness and joy all in the same moment. Advent is pregnant with all the emotions — all at the same time. I hope you enjoy.

If you’ve missed the other episodes, here they are:

Episode 1: Waiting Without Turning Away, David Young

Episode 2: I Got You - Preparing for Peace in the Wilderness, Mat Thomas

Episode 4: Lean In - God with us in the Dark, John Nieson

Peace,

Julene Tegerstrand

Episode Transcript:

The day before, we had seen a lion cross a path so close that we could have reached out and touched him. He walked up onto a massive rock where a whole pride—lions, lionesses, and cubs—were stretched out in the sun. It was incredible.

We were getting ready for a second full day like that. It felt like a piece of heaven.

And at the very same time, I was finding out that my life was being rearranged.

Introduction

That was me, Julene Tegerstrand. I’m a spiritual director and the co-founder of Everyday Peacemaking.

Welcome to Waiting in Wonder, an Advent podcast—a four-part Advent miniseries for this strange season between what was and what will be. This episode is called You See Me.

In this third week of Advent, we’re listening for joy in places where life doesn’t feel joyful at all. In each episode of this series, I’ve been introducing you to a friend or colleague whose story makes Advent feel human.

Today, I’m highlighting my own story—and how I’m learning to trust that God still sees me in this long season of waiting since my job ended at Eastern Nazarene College last December.

In this episode, you’ll hear parts of two conversations: one with my husband, Steve Tumalo, and one with my mom, Becky Tegerstrand.

This episode is also inspired by Mary, the mother of Jesus, and by someone you may not have heard of before—a Jewish woman named Etty Hillesum, who died at Auschwitz.

My husband and I talked about what felt like a moment for the history books: an experience of extreme highs and devastating lows.

Safari

It was June of 2024.

We were at the tail end of a trip with Eastern Nazarene College students. Before the safari, we had been in Nairobi with a remarkable group of students.

Now we were in the middle of the savanna—elephants roaming outside our tent at night, close enough to feel unsettling.

On the final morning of the safari, I noticed a text message on your phone. I don’t usually look at your phone. You weren’t even awake yet.

As I moved it, I saw it was from Matt Thomas at Eastern Nazarene College. That struck me as strange.

I looked at the message—it said something like, I want you to know something.

Then I read it.

It’s been announced. Eastern Nazarene College is closing.

I was stunned. My first thought was you.

I didn’t know what to do. I thought it would be better if you heard it from me. So I handed you the phone and curled up next to you.

We didn’t say much at first. After a while, I said, “I normally don’t look at your messages, but I saw this one—and I need to tell you about it.”

Trust

That news, delivered in a safari tent on the Maasai Mara, began a question I’ve been asking all year:

When I say I trust God—what am I actually trusting God for?

Am I trusting God to smooth the road ahead of me? To make something good happen? To take care of us financially?

I’ve wanted that. I’ve wanted God to come down and fix things.

My commitment to the Church of the Nazarene and to higher education had been such a monumental part of my life. It meant everything to me. And when that went away, I felt completely lost.

So what does it mean to trust God when something you love—and something you were good at—disappears?

When I say I trust God, am I trusting God to make life work out the way I think it should?

Or is it something else?

I think it has to be something else.

Joy and Waiting

When churches light the third Advent candle—joy—I’m standing in a very in-between place.

It’s been almost a year since my job ended. I took a sabbatical. I’ve taught adjunct classes. I’ve sorted through options and wondered what kind of work could hold both my gifts and our financial needs.

That’s the landscape where I’m trying to understand joy.

A Conversation with My Mom

I talked with my mom, Becky, about joy—and she reminded me what joy looked like before I had words for any of this.

One of the best descriptions of joy I’ve encountered is this: joy happens when we are seen.

The Psalms talk about God seeing our face—and when that happens, there is joy.

My mom said, “I remember you as a baby in your crib. You would wait expectantly. And when we came into the room, you’d start bouncing. You’d march on the mattress. You just glowed.”

That was joy.

Being Seen

When I think of joy as something that happens when we know we’re seen, I can relate to that.

There have been so many moments of fear and anxiety this year. But when I’m quiet long enough, I reach a place in me that can trust—and that knows God sees me.

That’s where joy becomes possible, even in the middle of awful things.

God also sends people who see us. People who encourage us. People who say, “Hang on. God is working.”

That’s how we’re helped into joy when life doesn’t feel joyful.

A Call Confirmed

As a college student at Point Loma Nazarene University, God confirmed my call through a woman’s voice.

I was a sophomore, sitting in Janine Metcalf’s office—the only female religion professor at the time. I told her I wanted to study Bible and theology, but I didn’t know if that was possible as a woman.

She helped me see that I could do anything—and that God saw me as a gifted woman.

Later that day, alone in my dorm room, I opened my Bible to Mary’s song in Luke 1.

“My soul magnifies the Lord,and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant…”

I felt seen.

I sensed God saying: You too can be called blessed. You too can do great things.

And I said yes.

Teaching and Transformation

Teaching has always been a source of deep joy for me.

I’m not the sage on the stage—I’m a facilitator of experience.

One practice I used with students involved fifteen minutes of silence, listening to one voice at a time, without responding. Students hated it at first.

But then something happened. They noticed themselves listening. They noticed their habits. They changed.

Watching that transformation—that’s one of the greatest joys of my life.

The Camino

In 2022, I led students on a pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago.

It was beautiful. And it was brutal.

One day, exhausted, emotionally depleted, I faced the possibility of the group unraveling. Students were considering leaving early. I felt like everything was about to fall apart.

I called my husband, crying, afraid I would react from pain instead of wisdom.

That moment became a crucible.

Later, Steve helped me see something: that moment on the Camino mirrors where we are now—building a new life and ministry together, in uncertainty.

Etty Hillesum

Etty Hillesum was a young Jewish woman in Amsterdam during the Nazi occupation. She kept a diary and wrote letters from a transit camp on the way to Auschwitz, where she died in 1943.

She wrote:

“There is a really deep well inside me.And in it dwells God.Sometimes I am there too.But more often stones and grit block the well.And God must be dug out again.”

That image has stayed with me.

The work of this season has been digging—clearing stones and grit so I can reconnect with what’s most alive in me.

A Small Practice

One day, overwhelmed with grief and anxiety, I sat in my car near our community garden.

I noticed green trees. A black fence. Yellow flowers. Tomatoes growing.

I felt my feet on the ground. My body held by the seat.

And there—quietly—I sensed God saying: You are not alone. I see you.

Closing Reflection

Mary’s life wasn’t settled. Etty Hillesum’s life wasn’t safe.

Joy didn’t come from a smooth road. It came from being seen and known by God.

So what am I trusting God for?

Not a guarantee—but presence.

Not certainty—but the grace to keep clearing the well.

If this Advent season we can make space to be seen—and to see—then whatever else happens, we will know something of true joy.

Thank You

Thank you for listening.

In a real way, your listening is a form of seeing me—and I don’t take that lightly.

Wherever this finds you, may you know yourself as seen.And may that knowing lead you into joy.

Connect and Support

To learn more about Everyday Peacemaking, explore spiritual direction with Julene, or invite a training for your community or team, visit:

www.everydaypeacemaking.org

Julene is welcoming new spiritual direction clients, and she and Steve offer online and in-person trainings that weave together spiritual formation, inner work, and everyday skills for peacemaking.

Thank you for listening, and for the gift of seeing and hearing this story.

Get full access to Human Is A Verb: Julene Tegerstrand, Ph.D. at humanisaverb.substack.com/subscribe