Stopped In My Tracks

Wednesday, February 18, 2026
written by Rev. Erik Khoobyarian

Last year, I planted a lemon tree.

It felt like a small act of optimism. I have never grown a fruit tree before. I did my research, chose the tree, tended the soil, and hoped for the best. The tree arrived with some lemons and the first harvest came, and then through the long months that followed, it mostly just… sat there. A few new leaves. Some subtle growth. Nothing dramatic. If I’m honest, I occasionally wondered whether it would ever really flourish.

This morning, I stepped outside and stopped in my tracks.

The tree is covered in buds.

Not one or two tentative signs of life, but dozens of small, luminous promises stretching from nearly every branch. And to my surprise, I felt emotional. I stood there longer than I expected, just looking at it. Something about those fragile blossoms caught me off guard. They felt like a gift. Like grace.

It struck me that growth often happens quietly, invisibly, beneath the surface long before it ever shows itself in beauty.

And when it finally does appear, it can surprise us.

I think that is true not only in gardens, but in congregations.

At Pinnacle Presbyterian Church, so much of what God is doing among us unfolds in ordinary, steady ways. People show up. They serve. They pray. They sing. They teach. They cook. They visit. They give. They listen. They try again. Week after week, season after season. It can feel simple, even routine.

But then, suddenly, there are blossoms.

A few weeks ago, someone who went on one of our regional pilgrimages to the Navajo nation, commented that when she comes to worship, she’s now greeted by name by several people with whom she ventured. This has been a huge shift for her! Not only was the pilgrimage a wonderful experience, but it has also transformed her connection with others at church. She took the step of branching out.

I love that image—branching out. It feels so appropriate.

She signed up for a pilgrimage, not necessarily knowing what would come of it. She invested her time, her energy, her openness. And in doing so, something new began to grow. The fruit wasn’t just the experience itself; it was the deeper relationships that followed. Now, when she walks into worship, she is known. She is greeted. She belongs in a new and tangible way.

That is a blossom.

And it didn’t appear overnight. It grew from shared meals, shared work, shared stories, shared prayer. It grew from taking a step.

As we approach our annual meeting on Sunday, I find myself thinking about all the quiet ways God has been at work in 2025. The ministries that have stretched us. The new connections formed. The risks taken. The prayers whispered. The ways we have tried to be faithful together in a world that often feels uncertain and divided.

Annual meetings can sometimes feel like reports and numbers—and those matter. They tell the story of stewardship and sustainability. But underneath every line item is something much more organic and alive: people investing themselves in shared ministry.

Every committee meeting.
Every youth gathering.
Every mission project.
Every choir rehearsal.
Every pilgrimage.
Every Sunday morning welcome.
Every hospital visit.
Every meal delivered.
Every classroom conversation.

Each one is a bud.

Some of those buds we can see clearly. Others are still tightly wrapped, their beauty not yet visible. But they are there. God is growing something among us.

And here’s the thing about lemon blossoms: they are delicate. They require tending. Water. Sunlight. Attention. You cannot force them to bloom, but you can cultivate the conditions in which they thrive.

The same is true for our life together.

Connection doesn’t just happen by accident. It grows when we take steps toward one another. When we sign up. When we show up. When we risk introducing ourselves. When we serve alongside someone new. When we say yes to an invitation that nudges us just a bit beyond our comfort zone.

The woman who shared her pilgrimage story didn’t know that signing up would mean being greeted by name on Sunday mornings. She simply took a step. And God did something beautiful with it.

I wonder what buds might be waiting in your life within this congregation.

Is there a ministry you’ve been curious about?
A group you’ve considered joining?
A pilgrimage, a class, a service opportunity that has quietly caught your attention?

Perhaps this is the season to branch out.

As we gather for our annual meeting, my hope is that we won’t only look backward with gratitude—though we absolutely should. We have so much to give thanks for in 2025. But I also hope we will look forward with anticipation. Because if the lemon tree has taught me anything, it is this: even when growth seems slow, even when nothing dramatic appears to be happening, God is at work beneath the surface.

And then one morning, there are blossoms everywhere.

That is the joy of shared ministry. We plant. We water. We pray. We serve. We trust. And God brings the growth in ways that surprise us.

Standing in my yard this morning, I realized that the emotion I felt wasn’t just about a tree. It was about hope. It was about the quiet faithfulness that precedes visible fruit. It was about the beauty of something living and growing.

It was about you.

It was about this church.

It was about the God who delights in meeting us in the midst of our everyday lives—turning ordinary acts of service into sacred connection, transforming small steps into deep belonging, coaxing blossoms from branches we feared might stay bare.

The lemon tree is just beginning its season.

So are we.

May we nurture the buds God has already given us.
May we have the courage to branch out.
And may we be surprised, again and again, by the beauty that blooms among us.