About Summer


Listening to your stories over a cup of tea, I’ve learned a thing or two.


I’ve learned that all of us are messy and broken and supremely beautiful. That’s my story too. I’ve lived most of my life thirsty for approval before finding the all-consuming, glorious love of God and learning to live looking into His eyes.

About me? Pump up the volume and I’m that car dancer in a minivan in front of you. I’m a word lover, a poet, and a church history nerd with three kids named after saints.  My husband and I got married as babies, 18 and 20, and then grew up together. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss any one of those years.

After I finished an English major at Asbury college, Andrew and I traveled to the Swiss L’Abri for a semester experiencing the hospitality of tutors who ministered to us and then fed us from their gardens. After Andrew’s B.A. in philosophy from Calvin College, we went to Virginia Theological Seminary together, graduated with an MDiv together, were ordained to the diaconate together, and then were ordained to the priesthood at the churches where we were serving. We spent ten years having kids and serving a small church together on the edge of Lake Michigan. Andrew now serves the Archbishop of the Anglican Church of North America as his Canon for Communications and Media Relations. I classically homeschool our three, do spiritual direction and lead an inner healing ministry at Holy Cross Cathedral. I write in the cracks and crevices of a full life.


I believe the more rooted we are in God’s abundant love, the more we are able to serve with abandon.

I believe when we are living aware of God’s Presence, we are inviting Him into every room we walk in.

I believe the more healed we get, the more love we are able to give.

I believe that we’re all thirsty for God, our heart’s true home.


Contact me to speak or lead retreats @   mtrsummer(at)gmail.com


Kintsugi Pottery

by Summer Gross

In Japan,

when a pottery bowl shatters

it’s not meant to be swept up, scorned,

and carried out with the trash.

It’s gathered and cradled by the maker

who then creates poetry

from a hundred jagged pieces.

His base clay craft becomes radiant art,

with molten gold as glue.

Branching metallic capillaries

are sealed tight to once more carry water or broth,

this time fit for an emperor.

It is shimmering beauty;

scars turned to glory.

And brokenness then feeds

a more luminous self

as strength weaves through

in veins of pure gold.