But if we aren’t careful, we’ll spend a lifetime working at a misidentified problem. If we think hunger is the problem, we try to eliminate it—starving ourselves of desire, convincing ourselves we don’t need, don’t long, don’t ache.
But the hunger was never the problem. So many of us have spent years numbing ourselves, filling the silence with noise, losing hours to (de)vices. And yet the longing remains. Not because something is missing, but because something real is calling us deeper.
C.S. Lewis called it “inconsolable longing”—a desire too deep for words, too persistent to ignore.
Henri Nouwen spoke of it as restlessness, the ache of a heart that hasn’t yet found its way home.
“Restless is our heart,” St. Augustine wrote, “until it comes to rest in Thee.”
In today’s reading, Nadeau faces his hunger head-on. The moment he stops numbing himself, the ache remains. He’s tempted to believe something is broken in him, that the hunger itself is a flaw.
The hunger isn’t the problem.
You aren’t a problem to be solved.
You are cherished and the longing of your heart is holy.
It’s calling you home.
______________________________________________
I Wonder…
I wonder where I’ve been numbing my hunger instead of listening to it?
I wonder how my desires might actually be leading me toward God?
I wonder where I’ve mistaken apathy for peace?
I wonder what it would look like to be honest about what I truly long for?
I wonder where God is inviting me to rest today?
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This Reflection is Part of a Lenten Journey
This Lent, we’re making space for something deeper—reading Room for Good Things to Run Wild by Josh Nadeau. No book club, no meetings—just a daily invitation to reflect, in whatever way feels right for you.
They settle in, hands resting gently in their laps, seated in a semi-circle.
“I wonder what part of this story is just for you today?”
They lean in.
“I wonder where you see yourself in this story?”
They listen.
“I wonder what happens next?”
They pause.
“I wonder what this story tells us about God?”
The storyteller doesn’t rush to explain. Silence is given room to breathe. The story lingers, settling into their hearts. The invitation isn’t to recite what they’ve learned—it’s to listen, to notice, to wonder.
Maybe, if they sit in the quiet long enough, they’ll hear something deeper. A voice. A presence. A melody playing just beneath the surface.
For years, Godly Play shaped the way we engaged sacred stories with our children, not as lessons to be mastered but as invitations into something deeper.
Jesus once said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”Matthew 18:3
“The more I considered Christianity, the more I found that while it had established a rule and order, the chief aim of that order was to give room for good things to run wild.”
— G.K. Chesterton
Somewhere along the way, we stopped playing. We stopped wondering. We started reaching for certainty, mistaking explanations for faith.
Josh Nadeau writes about this too—the slow erosion of wonder. About how, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the magic goes quiet. The world gets loud, and the hunger for something more gets buried beneath routines, responsibilities, and survival. He confesses how he learned to settle—how he numbed himself rather than risk being awake.
And yet, even after all that, the wonder isn’t gone. It waits. The music has never stopped playing.
So today, let’s not rush to explain or analyze. Let’s sit with the questions. Let’s practice wonder.
I Wonder…
I wonder when I started settling for answers instead of questions?
I wonder what I’ve been avoiding that’s actually an invitation?
I wonder how much of my life has been shaped by fear rather than love?
I wonder where I’ve mistaken certainty for faith?
I wonder what, or who, awaits when I stop running?
I wonder if I’ve mistaken comfort for peace?
I wonder what part of me I’ve lost that God is trying to restore?
I wonder what grace would feel like if I actually let myself receive it?
I wonder what God is doing in the places I least expect?
This Lent, we’re making space for something deeper—reading Room for Good Things to Run Wild by Josh Nadeau. No book club, no meetings—just a daily invitation to reflect, in whatever way feels right for you.
The wilderness has always been part of the journey. The Israelites wandered in it. Jesus was led into it. And again and again, we find ourselves there too.
The wilderness wakes us up to the truth: the things we relied on can no longer hold us. But it’s also where we come undone, where we feel lost, where we grasp for what’s familiar—even if what’s familiar was destroying us.
Nadeau describes his own moment of reckoning—the choice to leave behind what was numbing him, knowing it would force him to face what came next.
“I left the bank so I could stop drinking. But then there was the wilderness.”
It’s one thing to step away from what numbs us. It’s another to face what surfaces in its absence.
Facing Ourselves in the Wilderness
It’s easy to think of wilderness as a single, defined season—forty years for Israel, forty days for Jesus. A moment to endure before moving on.
But if we’re honest, wilderness is never just once.
The Israelites returned to it again and again. The disciples faced it after Jesus’ death. The early church walked through it as they stepped into an unfamiliar world. Wilderness isn’t a detour in the spiritual life—it’s a place we return to.
Lent comes around, year after year—forty days, again and again, pulling us back into the wilderness.
We know this, too.
There’s the wilderness of early adulthood, when we leave behind what’s familiar but don’t yet know who we are. The wilderness of grief, when life no longer makes sense, and we can’t go back to what was. The wilderness of doubt, when the faith we inherited no longer holds, and we’re left searching for something truer. The wilderness of loss, transition, failure—threshold moments between what was and what will be.
Wilderness often marks a threshold. It strips away illusions, leaving us to wrestle with the question: Who am I, really?
The Ache for Home
The wilderness exposes our deepest longing—the ache to be whole, to be at rest, to be at peace.
We spend so much of our lives striving, proving, holding everything together, afraid of what will happen if we stop. But in the wilderness, there is no more hiding. No more distractions. No more escape.
Just the truth of where we are.
And in the stillness, God meets us there.
Again and again, God meets people in the wilderness—Hagar, Jacob, Elijah, the Israelites, the disciples. Again and again, God meets us there. Not once we’ve found our way out, but right there in the middle of it.
And beneath all the striving, beneath all the fear, beneath all the noise—there it is. The longing we’ve been trying to outrun.
“And, oh God, I just want to go Home.”
I Wonder…
I wonder what I’ve been avoiding that the wilderness is trying to show me?
I wonder where I’m resisting change because I fear what comes next?
I wonder if I’ve mistaken control for security?
I wonder how I might recognize growth in my faith as I walk through the wilderness again and again?
I wonder what it would feel like to trust that God meets me here?
_____________________________
This Reflection is Part of a Lenten Journey
This Lent, we’re making space for something deeper—reading Room for Good Things to Run Wild by Josh Nadeau. No book club, no meetings—just a daily invitation to reflect, in whatever way feels right for you.
Some lessons can only be learned by doing—taking the hits and showing up again anyway.
“This is the path for all of us,” Nadeau writes. “It’s not just boxing; it’s all kinds of things. It’s dancing, it’s painting, it’s plumbing. It’s pregnancy and childbirth. It’s fatherhood. It’s being a true friend. It’s learning that to develop real skill or strength in life, to grow and change, we need to admit our weaknesses and face them.”
We don’t get to skip the hard parts. We don’t get to bypass the struggle. Saints aren’t made by avoiding pain but by pressing into it, by letting it shape us instead of destroy us.
We don’t walk this road alone. We stumble forward together, side by side, sometimes carrying each other, sometimes just keeping pace—reminding one another that nothing, not even this, can separate us from the love that holds us.
“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
A few years ago, a friend and I were talking about faith—what it means to keep going when so much was unraveling.
His voice got quiet, and he said, “I need elders in my life.”
Something in me opened as he said it—like hearing the faintest notes of a song I’d forgotten. He was naming something I needed, something I longed for.
But what unsettled me most was this: others were looking to me to be an elder.
I was helping usher others through their crisis of identity while in the midst of my own.
Then Came the Wave
The kind that unsettles everything, that pulls you under.
These moments return, stripping away what cannot hold—making space for something deeper.
Failure itself becomes the invitation.
What Holds?
The truth is, anything we build our lives on—self-sufficiency, institutions, even other people—will shift beneath us.
And when it felt like everything was giving way, I wasn’t left with answers.
I was left with silence.
But the silence wasn’t empty.
It held something I had forgotten.
Everyday Saints and Struggling Well
Josh Nadeau writes about heroes—but not in the way we usually think of them.
Not those who have mastered life, but those who have lived it in a way that calls something deeper out of us.
The same is true of how he speaks about saints.
Not distant, untouchable figures, but ordinary people whose lives reveal something holy.
I keep coming back to the idea of struggling well.
Not avoiding hardship. Not numbing it.
But moving through it with faithfulness, with honesty, with an openness to what might be revealed.
This is what elders, sponsors, and everyday saints do.
They don’t hand us easy answers, but they show us what faithfulness looks like in the questions.
And this is why we need them—not just once, but again and again, at every major crossroads.
Sponsors need sponsors. Elders need elders. Disciples need disciples.
Lent Isn’t About Rushing to Transformation
It’s about what happens when the running stops.
It’s about sitting in the silence long enough to realize we are not alone.
It’s about noticing what is real—not forcing change, but allowing something to surface.
It’s about learning not to escape Sheol, but to listen there.
What’s Crumbling—And What’s Being Renewed?
The structures that once upheld the church’s power have crumbled.
And whereas it doesn’t feel very good, that doesn’t mean it isn’t.
The houses of faith we’ve built are crumbling because that’s what happens when we build on what cannot hold.
When we build on power instead of presence, on status instead of faithfulness.
But Jesus builds the church. We make disciples.
And in place of what has fallen, a familiar way is being renewed—one that can withstand the weight of love, truth, and grace (Matthew 7:24-27).
And we don’t find our way alone.
The People Who Show Us the Way
The voices of elders—both living and gone—help lay the foundation.
Cecil and Charlotte are just two among a long line of the great cloud of witnesses, guiding me in ways they’ll never know.
I think of Boyle, Nouwen, Palmer, Brooks, Buechner, Colbert, Lamott, Brown-Taylor, McLaren, Rohr, Friedman, Kaur, Thurman, Willard, Weller, and so many others—voices I encounter in books, in podcasts, in stories passed down. Their wisdom steadies me.
But more than anything, we need people we make eye contact with, people we walk alongside. In their eyes, we see recognition—the quiet knowing of someone who has been here before. We see steadiness, not because they have all the answers, but because they’ve learned they don’t need them.
We see grace. We see the way forward.
And the pattern continues.
Sponsors need sponsors. Elders need elders. Disciples need disciples.
Those who guide us are also being guided.
Those who pour into us are also being poured into.
This is the way wisdom moves, the way faith is formed—not in isolation, but in relationship.
We need those we can trust—who remind us, again and again, that grace is real.
Who are the voices shaping you?
A Question for Reflection
Who are the voices shaping you?
Who are the everyday saints pointing you toward life?
Lent is a season of remembering. A season of learning how to let go, how to be held, how to be raised into something new.
It is not a season of escape, but of transformation.
And somewhere along the way, in the silence, in the stillness, in the presence of those who have walked before me and those who walk alongside me now—
I rediscovered my faith in Jesus.
Maybe we don’t need all the answers.
Maybe we just need to pay attention to those who are showing us the way.
There comes a point when the running stops—not because we’ve figured things out, but because we’re too exhausted, too exasperated, too worried, to keep going. The distractions don’t work anymore. The noise dies down. The silence overwhelms. And there we are.
I can think of multiple times in my life when I’ve found myself in Sheol—that ancient word for the place of the dead, a place of silence, distance, and unknowing. A place that felt like deep absence. And while I may not know exactly what the psalmist envisioned, I know what it is to feel like I am there. Hitting bottom. The pit. The place where you stare at the ceiling at 2 a.m., wondering how you got here.
And if what those further along on this journey—the everyday saints who have walked this road before—say is true, I have every reason to believe I’ll find myself there again. The same is true for you, just as it has been—and will be—for all of us.
And every reason to believe God will meet us there also.
Josh Nadeau found himself there too. He ran, numbed himself with work, poured another drink, kept busy—until he couldn’t anymore. Then came the silence. First unbearable, then something else. Because somewhere in that silence, he began to hear it—the faint, steady presence of something deeper. The Hidden Music, playing underneath it all.
“The Hidden Music resounds, has resounded, as long as time itself, and longer, whether we have ears to hear it or not.”
– Josh Nadeau
At first, all there is is silence. Silent absence. Sheol. Then, if we sit long enough, if we resist the urge to fill the void—for a moment, for a day, maybe even for a whole season—something shifts. A presence once forgotten. A love we thought we had to chase down, only to realize it had already found us.
And that is where grace begins. Again. And again. And again.
And so, we enter this season—a season of resisting the urge to fill the void. A season of sitting in the silence long enough to hear what has been there all along.
This Lent, we’re making space for something deeper—reading Room for Good Things to Run Wild by Josh Nadeau. No book club, no meetings—just a daily invitation to reflect, in whatever way feels right for you. You can keep your reflections private, or if you feel compelled to share, there will be a few simple ways to do so online.
Learn more, access the reading calendar, and join the journey here:
The sermon emphasized that spiritual growth is not a one-time event but a continuous journey. Baptism represents the ongoing pattern of dying to our false selves and rising with Christ, over and over. Paul calls us into a lifelong relationship with God that demands daily surrender to grace.
Quotes:
“Grace isn’t just for our past sins, but for the ongoing process of transformation in our lives.” — From the sermon
“Spiritual growth is a journey, not a moment. It’s an ongoing invitation to trust in grace.” — From the sermon
Reflection Questions:
Where in your life do you feel called to surrender more fully to ongoing spiritual growth?
How might viewing your faith as a continuous journey change the way you approach daily challenges?
2. Baptism: A Continuous Journey, Not a One-Time Event
Baptism symbolizes more than a one-time moment of salvation. It’s an invitation to participate repeatedly in the death and resurrection of Christ. Paul teaches that we don’t leave behind sin in a single act, but we live in a daily pattern of surrender and renewal.
Quotes:
“Baptism isn’t a ritual of finality. It’s the starting point of an ongoing journey with God’s grace.” — From the sermon
Reflection Questions:
How does your baptism (or your understanding of baptism) inform your current spiritual practices?
In what ways can you more intentionally participate in the “death and resurrection” pattern of spiritual growth in your everyday life?
3. Sin as Disconnection from God
Sin is not just a list of wrong behaviors, but an expression of our disconnection from God. It’s a failure to trust in God’s love and provision. Paul invites us to go deeper than surface-level morality and look at the spiritual root of sin—our distance from God.
Quotes:
“Sin is not about being bad; it is about being disconnected from God, and grace is the connection that heals and restores us.” — Greg Boyle
Reflection Questions:
How do you typically understand sin in your own life? Do you tend to focus more on behaviors or the deeper issues of trust and disconnection from God?
What steps can you take to reconnect with God in areas where you feel distant or mistrustful?
4. Idolatry and Fear-Based Living
The root of sin is a failure to trust in God’s sufficiency, leading us to live out of fear. We create idols—control, success, or security—when we feel uncertain. Living in fear keeps us from relying on God’s provision and invites us to hold onto false securities.
Quotes:
“The root of sin is our failure to trust in God’s sufficiency. Instead of trusting God’s provision, we rely ultimately on ourselves.” — Mark Biddle, Missing the Mark
Reflection Questions:
What idols (e.g., control, success, security) do you find yourself clinging to in times of uncertainty?
How can you shift from a fear-based way of living to a life more rooted in trust and surrender to God’s provision?
5. The Tug of Grace: A Moment-to-Moment Decision
We are continually pulled by fear, the root of all sin. The tug of grace is what gets our attention, but it’s not enough to keep us from being pulled under. It’s the invitation to decide: will we allow fear to drown our true selves, or will we let go of the rope, die to self, and let God’s grace drown our false selves?
Quotes:
“The tug of grace is God’s invitation. It’s not about resisting fear through our strength but about letting go and trusting in grace.” — From the sermon
Reflection Questions:
Can you identify moments in your life where fear has pulled you away from trust in God? How did the tug of grace invite you to respond?
What would it look like to let go of the rope and fully surrender to grace in a specific area of your life?
6. Dying to Self and Living in Christ
Paul teaches that true spiritual life comes through repeated death to self. We are called to continually surrender our false selves—our fears, pride, and need for control—and trust in God’s resurrection power. This ongoing death and resurrection is what allows us to live fully in Christ.
Quotes:
“We are called to ‘just keep drowning.’ It is in dying to our false selves that we can truly live.” — From the sermon
Reflection Questions:
What aspects of your false self (e.g., pride, control, fear) are you being called to surrender in this season of life?
How have you experienced spiritual resurrection after moments of dying to self? What new life emerged from those experiences?
Quotes for Further Reflection
“Grace isn’t just for our past sins, but for the ongoing process of transformation in our lives.” — From the sermon
“Sin is not about being bad; it is about being disconnected from God, and grace is the connection that heals and restores us.” — Greg Boyle
“We are called to ‘just keep drowning.’ It is in dying to our false selves that we can truly live.” — From the sermon
“The root of sin is our failure to trust in God’s sufficiency. Instead of trusting God’s provision, we rely ultimately on ourselves.” — Mark Biddle, Missing the Mark
“When we live out of fear, we are essentially choosing self-reliance over grace, and in the end, that will always pull us under.” — From the sermon
TBC Richmond
Reflection Guide: Romans 6 and the Pattern of Dying to Self
We were the only two in line, strangers waiting for the pharmacy to reopen. It took her little or no time to begin to openly share her story with me. As she spoke about her journey through illness and healing, her hands told the story as much as her words.
She gently touched her head, right where the tumor had been, explaining how peace first entered her life—something she grasped intellectually after the surgery, as she processed what she had been through.
Then, she placed her hand over her heart, describing how that peace deepened, becoming something she could feel more fully.
But it was when she placed both hands on her stomach that her voice softened, and she said, “But now, I know it here.” This was peace she carried in her gut, a knowing that had grown through suffering, endurance, and the long journey now behind her. And she couldn’t keep it to herself—the peace had become too real, too profound, not to share.
Her testimony brought to life the very words of Paul in Romans 5. He speaks of suffering producing endurance, endurance shaping character, and character leading to a hope that does not disappoint. There are no platitudes here—no quick fix for pain. Paul is sharing the journey that he, and so many others, have walked: through suffering, into endurance, and into a hope that transforms us from the inside out. This is not about earning anything—it’s about receiving the grace of God, who walks with us and delivers us through every trial. God is with us every step of the way.
As we sang together at the end of last Sunday’s sermon,
“Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come;’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, And grace will lead me home.”
The suffering we endure becomes the very path through which God leads us into hope. This journey isn’t about mere survival—it’s about discovering a peace so deep, a hope so life-altering, that we are never the same.
It was a practical choice—a hamper— Elena had chosen it from the assortment of freebies offered on Saturday. As cars were being loaded, Carmen, another neighbor, walked up, her eyes lit up when she noticed the hamper. “Where did you find that?” Carmen asked. “I’ve been looking for something just like that for my house.”
Without a second thought, Elena smiled and handed the hamper to Carmen. “Then it’s yours. You’re my friend, and you need it,” she said, as though giving away something she had wanted for herself was the most natural thing in the world. There was no hesitation. In that moment, her focus wasn’t on her own needs but on her friend—someone deserving of love, care, and generosity.
The beauty of this moment stood in sharp contrast to how things had been months ago. Elena had been visibly frustrated, feeling it was unfair that others not present would be served before her. In that moment she felt a need for control, a need to ensure there would be enough to meet her own needs. She was carrying a heavy weight, reacting from a place of scarcity and self-preservation.
Somewhere along the way, Elena’s heart softened. She discovered that there was abundance—abundance in God’s provision and in the relationships she was building in the community. Through this change, she became a vessel of grace, letting go of her need to grasp and instead embracing the love that flowed between her and Carmen, a friend she had made while waiting around the table.
Each of us has, at one time or another, been that person struggling for control, feeling the need to protect what we think we deserve. We’ve all experienced that moment when we’re afraid there won’t be enough or when someone else’s gain feels like our loss. That desire to be first, to secure something before someone else takes it, is a familiar reaction born out of our own insecurities and fears. But oh how beautiful, when we begin to see those around us not as competitors, but as friends. Instead of viewing someone as taking what belongs to us, we recognize their needs and their humanity. We see Christ in them. And in that recognition, the act of giving and sharing becomes a reflection of God’s love—abundant, overflowing, and full of grace.
What a gift to SEE the transformation from Christ’s love, to recognize it when it happens around us and in us. May we continue to practice seeing— To Pay Attention, Be Amazed and Tell About It.
The past few days have felt heavy. Between the news cycle and the looming presidential debate, it’s hard to ignore the way tension creeps into our hearts. There’s a pressure that builds, a simmering frustration, and it doesn’t take much—a comment from a family member, a dismissive remark in a conversation—for that tension to spill over. I’ve felt it myself. It’s easy to snap back, shut down, or get defensive. These knee-jerk reactions often define us in ways we don’t intend—people may no longer see us as someone willing to listen or seek understanding. When our righteous anger shifts into self-righteousness, we can lose sight of the healing God is calling us to offer the world. But that doesn’t mean we’ve missed our chance. God’s grace meets us, not in perfection but in our efforts to return, pause, and try again. Each pause, no matter how difficult, is an invitation to step back into the work of healing—work we’re never disqualified from, no matter how many times we need to begin again.
This past Sunday, just before the benediction, I encouraged you to join me in practicing the Sacred Pause. It’s the space between what happens to us and how we respond. Lately, I find myself leaning into that space and discovering surprising freedom. When life throws us off balance, the Sacred Pause helps us stop reacting and start responding. As I mentioned, “Sometimes, after the pause, the response might be exactly what you originally wanted to say or do. The difference is that now your response comes from a place of peace and thoughtfulness, not frustration.” In that brief pause, we rediscover the freedom Christ offers us—not just from unhealthy reactions, but from the need to respond impulsively to every situation with anger or fear. Click here to learn how to practice the Sacred Pause.
Many great religious traditions embrace the importance of creating space between action and reaction. In moments when we feel overwhelmed by emotions, finding that space is critical to breaking the cycle of impulsive reactions. This pause allows us to reconnect with God and listen for the guidance of the Holy Spirit. I’ve been inspired by the broader wisdom found in the work of Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, whose profound reflections on human resilience and choice offer insight for anyone navigating difficult emotional experiences. Frankl wrote:
“Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
Frankl’s words resonate deeply with the Christian practice of the Sacred Pause. It’s in that pause that we make room for the Holy Spirit to guide us, allowing God’s voice to rise above the noise of our emotions. When we slow down and invite God into that space, we can respond not from fear or anger, but from a place centered in love, grace, and wisdom.
This practice reflects the liberation Paul speaks of in his letter to the Romans, where he encourages the early church to live in the freedom of Christ’s love rather than remain bound by division and conflict. And, in those moments where we struggle or fall short, we remember that God’s grace is always present, drawing us back into that space of transformation. Explore how you can incorporate the Sacred Pause into your daily life.
Returning to the World’s Tension
We live in a world brimming with tension, frustration, and conflict. In our own church life, we’ve felt it too—whether it’s during a difficult conversation in a business meeting or while serving in Community Ministry when impatience gets the better of someone. Perhaps you’ve encountered it on the road, stuck behind the guy with the offensive bumper sticker, or while watching a political talk show where contempt seems to be the driving force. These moments test our capacity to live out the love and grace we’re called to embody.
But here’s the good news: we’re growing together. Every time we lean into the Sacred Pause, we take one step closer to healing ourselves and the world around us. The Sacred Pause begins with us—giving God the space to transform our hearts. In that pause, we not only stop our own unhealthy reactions but also make room for others to be seen, heard, and transformed. When people feel understood, they too are invited into their own pause, to reconsider, and begin again. We may not always get it right the first time or even the second, but the love of God, always present and always at work, gives us the space to try again. And as we grow together in our faith, we get to participate in God’s healing project—a project that is grounded in love, grace, and reconciliation.
Together, as a church community, we have the privilege of being instruments of healing in a world that so desperately needs it. Let’s keep growing, keep pausing, and keep discovering the ways God is leading us to love more deeply, to listen more closely, and to heal more faithfully.
Yours in Christ, Rev. Sterling W. Severns, Pastor
Going Deeper:
God has used many voices to help me grow in my faith, and Arthur Brooks has been one of them. If you’re interested in exploring more about the power of the pause, I encourage you to watch or listen to the conversation between Simon Sinek and Arthur Brooks at the 92nd Street Y, where they discuss the importance of pausing before reacting. You can find the interview here or listen to the podcast here.
John Gottman’s Four Horsemen—criticism, defensiveness, contempt, and stonewalling—are harmful patterns that damage relationships, often arising when we react out of intense emotions. You can learn more about these patterns here.
