The Holy Life of a Pink Pony Girl

Finding God in Joy, Generosity, and Everyday Goodness

“The believers devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, to the community, to their shared meals, and to their prayers.
A sense of awe came over everyone.
God performed many wonders and signs through the apostles.
All the believers were united and shared everything.
They would sell pieces of property and possessions and distribute the proceeds to everyone who needed them.
Every day, they met together in the temple and ate in their homes.
They shared food with gladness and simplicity.
They praised God and demonstrated God’s goodness to everyone.”
— Acts 2:42–47 (CEB)

This scripture is really one that has called to me and I hold on to when I need reminding about what God’s people are supposed to be doing. This passage has always struck me as less about obligation and more about overflow. These weren’t people following rules. They were people caught up in joy. They broke bread and told stories. They looked out for one another. They worshiped not with long faces, but with glad and simple hearts.

Their life together made the goodness of God visible, not as something heavy or hard, but as something vibrant and alive.

We are still called to gather, to pray, and to give in God’s name, but maybe the Spirit is teaching us to see that holiness can take root in more places than we expect. What does that kind of church look like today? Where do we see people sharing what they have, creating safety and joy, and revealing something holy in the way they live?

Lately, I’ve been finding glimpses of it in places that don’t call themselves sacred, in concerts and community groups and songs sung for the sheer love of it.

“A Sense of Awe Came Over Everyone”

At Chappell Roan’s homecoming concert in Kansas City, joy looked like thirty thousand people dressed in pink. Sequins caught the light. Strangers sang to each other. It felt like being swept up in something bigger than yourself, something alive with color and care — a kind of holy chaos, a glimpse of what it might mean to live like a “pink pony girl,” fully free and unashamed.

Halfway through the show, Chappell paused and said something like,

“Showing up however you want, wearing whatever makes you feel joy and beautiful, and being welcomed into a safe space, that’s freedom.”

You could feel that freedom, not just in the clothes or the dancing, but in the way people looked out for one another. At one point I was carrying food and drinks, weaving through the crowd, trying to find my group. A man offered to help. He introduced himself, pointed to his wife, and told me to take the drinks so I wouldn’t have to worry he’d slipped something in them. He walked behind me while I found my group and waved bye to return back with his. It was simple, but it stayed with me.

That small act of kindness, of safety freely offered, turned the whole space into something sacred. It reminded me that awe doesn’t always arrive with thunder and lightning. Sometimes it’s as quiet as a stranger’s care or as simple as a crowd singing the same line together.

Acts says they “shared food with gladness and simplicity.” That’s what this felt like — people gathered around music instead of a table, still sharing, still glad. Not because they were the same, but because they were free.

When Chappell looked out and said how good it felt to come home, it felt true for all of us. That’s what awe does. It turns strangers into neighbors. It turns a concert lawn into a kind of homecoming. It makes you believe that even a pink pony girl can be a preacher of freedom.

“They Shared Everything”

The book of Acts says, “All the believers were united and shared everything. They would sell pieces of property and possessions and distribute the proceeds to everyone who needed them.”

I see that spirit alive every day in my local gifting group online. It’s just a simple Facebook page, no bylaws, no offering plates, no formal mission, but it hums with generosity. People post pictures of things they no longer need: a couch that won’t fit in a new space, a pair of outgrown shoes, leftover groceries before a trip. One week someone even gave away a fishing boat.

No money changes hands. There’s no keeping score. It’s just people saying, “I have more than I need, take some.”

There’s something quietly sacred about that. It’s not about guilt or duty, it’s about joy. The same kind of joy Acts describes, where sharing comes as naturally as breathing. Where the question isn’t, What’s mine? but Who else might need this?

Scrolling through those posts, I see a reflection of the early church, not perfect or polished, but full of people who believe there’s enough. They don’t wait for someone to organize a program or launch a ministry. They just give. And somehow, it works.

It makes me wonder if generosity might be one of the simplest ways to reveal God’s goodness — not through speeches or slogans, but through open hands. When we share what we have, we’re saying to the world that there’s enough grace to go around. That too is part of the holy life — a life generous enough to spill over.

“They Praised God and Demonstrated God’s Goodness”

Acts says the believers “praised God and demonstrated God’s goodness to everyone.” I love that phrasing — not explained God’s goodness or defended it, but demonstrated it. They lived in a way that showed what joy looks like when it’s set free.

That’s what comes to mind when I think about Taylor Swift lately. After years of heartbreak ballads and reinvention, her newest work feels different — lighter, more open, full of gratitude. In interviews, she’s talked about finding happiness again and letting herself share it. She’s choosing joy, and that joy has become contagious.

It’s easy to underestimate how powerful that can be. We live in a world that’s often suspicious of happiness, like joy is something naive or unserious. But the early church knew better. Their joy was their witness. They didn’t have wealth or influence; they had songs, meals, laughter, stories — and the way they lived together told the truth about a generous God.

That’s what I see in Taylor’s joy — not a performance, but a kind of permission. She’s showing that gladness can be holy. That sharing what’s good doesn’t cheapen it, it multiplies it.

And when I hold these stories together — a crowd singing under pink lights, neighbors giving away what they no longer need, an artist opening her hands to share joy — I start to see a pattern. These moments are small, but they hum with the same energy as Acts 2. Awe. Generosity. Gladness.

They remind me that God’s goodness isn’t meant to be locked inside a sanctuary. It’s meant to spill out — into music and meals, online posts and shared stories, into any place where love moves freely. Maybe that’s the heart of a pink pony girl life — one that dances in gratitude, gives freely, and doesn’t hide the holy in plain sight.

“They Shared Food with Gladness and Simplicity”

The story in Acts ends with a simple image.
“They shared food with gladness and simplicity. They praised God and demonstrated God’s goodness to everyone.”

That’s what all of this brings me back to, not the grand gestures, but the everyday ones. The kind of faith that looks like kindness in a crowd, like neighbors giving what they can, like joy that doesn’t apologize for itself.

Maybe the church for today looks more like that.
Maybe it looks less like trying to preserve what we’ve always done, and more like finding God again in the ordinary.

Maybe it’s sitting beside someone in their joy and calling it holy.
Maybe it’s making space for people to show up as they are, no dress codes, no pretense, no pretending we have it all figured out.
Maybe it’s building a kind of religious safety, where people can question, explore, and belong before they believe.

Maybe it’s not about filling pews, but about filling streets, tables, living rooms, wherever people already are.
Maybe it’s not about guarding what’s sacred, but about recognizing that the Spirit keeps breaking loose.

If the church in Acts was defined by awe, generosity, and joy, then maybe the church today is being called back to those same things — to the kind of community that looks less like an institution and more like a meal shared with glad and simple hearts.

And as we do, we remember that these moments of kindness, freedom, and joy only become holy when we live them in God’s name. It’s not about leaving faith behind, but about carrying it with us, into concerts and comment threads, grocery aisles and neighborhood porches, until every part of our lives becomes a place where God’s goodness can be seen.

Maybe worship isn’t always a liturgy or a hymn. Maybe it’s telling each other what’s bringing us joy, or what’s breaking our hearts, and trusting that God is somewhere in both.

I think that’s the kind of church the world is waiting for.
A church that feels like Chappell’s concert, free and safe.
A church that gives like my gifting group, open and generous.
A church that sings like Taylor, full of gratitude, eager to share what’s good.

A church where God’s goodness isn’t just told, but demonstrated.
Where every act of kindness becomes a kind of praise.
Where we stop asking how to get people inside, and start asking how to meet them where they already are. That’s what the Spirit did in Acts, and still does now.

Maybe that’s what holiness looks like today. Not set apart, but woven in. Not confined, but dancing — the holy life of a pink pony girl.

Let’s Imagine a Different Way to Church Together

What if this is what church looks like now, not something that happens once a week in one place, but something we make together, moment by moment, in God’s name?

Here, in this shared and asynchronous space, we can practice it. We can name the good we see. We can tell stories about concerts that felt like communion and Facebook threads that looked like Acts 2. We can share the songs that carry us, the sorrows that stretch us, the places where joy caught us off guard, and we can point to God in the midst of them.

Maybe that’s how we church now, by noticing. By blessing what’s already holy. By showing up for each other in whatever spaces we have, even this one, with hearts turned toward the One who gathers us.

It doesn’t have to be perfect or polished. The first church wasn’t either. They just devoted themselves to teaching and community, to meals and prayers, to glad hearts and generous hands.

We can do that too.
Here.
Now.

We can let awe catch us again.
We can live generously.
We can share joy without apology.

And as we do, we can name the One who makes it all holy.

And maybe, as we live this way, someone else will look at us and say,
“That looks like church.”