The act of making breakfast this morning was the most sacred moment of my week by far. Maybe of the last month. Nothing fancy, just the usual buttered toast and scrambled eggs (salted please, Mommy).

That’s not generally the way I would describe cooking with a 3 year old alongside “helping,” but once again, I’m learning things in the least expected of places.

“Can I stir the eggs, Mommy?”

My insides wince, knowing that will mean twice as long and extreme supervision because – toddlers + raw eggs + glass = no good outcome ever – but I surrendered.

Surrendered to patience.

Surrendered to mess.

… Surrendered to j o y.

The simple kind, similar to that you would find in the first bloom of spring, or the first quiet hours of the morning when everyone else is still asleep, or finding a coupon for a free espresso beverage at the bottom of your purse (and every mother of tiny people said AMEN).

Joy in the simplest of places – why am I always caught so off guard, as if it’s not a lesson life teaches me over, and over, and over again?

It wasn’t until the food was plated and I carried it to the table that it hit me, the beauty of that moment. The frustrations of yesterday still looming, the chaos of life still very real, stress still rearing its hideous head and wreaking havoc on our souls more often than it should.

But in this moment, we stopped, my little side kick and I. We stopped to break bread. A meal we prepared together, with our own hands. We slowed down enough to nourish both our bodies and our souls with simple things like toast and the presence of each other.

And today, that is more than enough.

It is the first day of spring, but it has been creeping up on us for weeks it seems, so close I’ve been able to taste it. I can feel it beckoning me outside every opportunity it gets.

Birds chirp in what was just weeks ago the dead silence of winter.

Fragrant, breathtaking flowers bloom on recently bare branches.

The sun – comforting, crisp, warm – beams down on my face.

I am thankful.

The kind of thankful that doesn’t have words or reasons, it’s just there, filling my soul in ways that only spring can.

I’ve longed extra deeply for sunshine this winter, for the warmth of its rays and the beautiful aftermath it leaves in my garden. Particularly, its symbol of promise and hope.

I love spring because it reminds me that death does not have the last word. It reminds me that no matter how long the winter, the promise of those breathtaking cherry blossoms still remains. It reminds me that there’s nothing that can stop the sun from eventually coming out, from bringing beauty to the blank space of winter.

The fact that you can literally watch the bare branches of winter morph into beautifully adorned limbs lining every street in town, completely unprompted yet perfectly timed, is one of the most holy things on earth.

Perhaps what fascinates me most about spring is the tangible example it is of change. It is a reminder that there is an allotted time for everything in life: laughter and mourning; joy and sorrow; celebration and loss. We don’t just know the sweet smells of spring; we know the bitter cold of winter, too. Without the quiet, bitter, colorless chill of winter, the warm colors and smells and sounds of spring would not be as profound, as powerfully life-giving.

To know spring is to know winter. It is to understand that there are seasons in life, some full of joy and laughter, some full of mourning and heartache. I don’t know that you can have one and not the other in life. But the beauty about seasons is that each one cultivates a deeper gratitude for the others. By the time winter rolls around again next year, I’m sure I’ll be ready for it, too – whether I know it or not. My soul will be full after soaking up every moment of spring, summer, fall.

Of course, there is certainly something to say for the fact that when those autumn leaves begin to fall off the trees and we begin to head into the winter months, I’ll be ready for that bitter chill, too. Once again, winter’s predecessors prepare and strengthen my heart to take on the frigid winter months of quiet, still reflection. They refill my reserve to brave the cold, figuratively and literally.

But for today, that glorious sunshine is calling my name. And I can’t get enough of it.

This week marked a turning point after two weeks of sickness in our home. Sickness is monotony at its finest – especially when kids are involved.  It has a way of making time obsolete. Two weeks, but really, it felt like one continuous day that simply built on itself every 24 hours. Not only is every day slow and repetitive, but there is a seemingly gargantuan lack of sleep mixed in all the snot and body aches and fevers and fussiness.

Oh, what a glorious hot mess we have been over here. And yet, as usual, out of the the most strenuous and exhausting times come the most valuable lessons.

“And all of a sudden, what’s valuable is not the multitasking, but the single task – being with [her], only [her], doing nothing else.” – Shauna Niequist, Savor

There could not have been a more timely reminder; not just in the midst of this awful flu season, but in all of life.

Presence.

The mundane matters. It matters more than productivity, efficiency, responsibility; this is the hardest lesson I’ve learned, perhaps.

Appreciating this season for what it is, for all the “inconvenience” that having a two year old brings with it. Because maybe the “inconveniences” are not inconveniences; maybe they are in fact the good stuff and our lens just needs to be adjusted.

Reading all the books again.

Again.

Again.

Slowing down enough to let her into my everyday instead of trying to orchestrate her around my “everyday,” even if it means accomplishing less.

Because sometimes we need to slow down. Do less. Juggle less – sometimes less truly is more.

More for your soul.

More for your mind.

More for those closest to you. I guarantee that the people you share a home with are more concerned with a joyful you than that perfect life rhythm you seem to be chasing – so why aren’t you?

Contentment where we are is such a hard lesson to learn.  And by the time we do learn it, it’s often too late; our opportunities to enjoy the moment for what it is have already come and gone. I think there are two secrets to contentment in the present:

The first is that there is no such thing as the “perfect” life. In every season, even the best ones, there will always be something we wish we could change.

Secondly, the perfect life does not equal the “good life,” anyway.

These two principles change everything. Contentment is learning not only to be satisfied and grateful with the imperfect, but realizing that maybe the good stuff is the imperfect.

It’s the slobbery kisses.

It’s the unwanted interruptions; one day they won’t need you for everything anymore. And while that’s a good thing, you won’t miss it any less.

It’s reading Corduroy for a billionth time (no hyperbole there); when they’re older, their love for books will implant a hunger for learning that will drive them their entire life, yielding an invaluable depth to their human experience – and to the people around them, for that matter.

It’s all of the cuddles that come with being sick because the cuddles get fewer and further between as they grow.

It’s the little bubblebath footprints all over the bathroom that won’t always be little.

It’s flour covering every inch of the kitchen; one day that mess will become some of your most cherished memories (and theirs, too) and what you’ll remember is not how much longer it took to make those cookies or how much lumpier they turned out because you let tiny hands do the mixing.

Sure, teaching them along the way is important, but it’s not more important than creating a fertile ground for connection. For relationship. For gratitude. It’s much easier to teach a child how to clean up a mess or do their own laundry than it is to teach a child the significance of patience, of love, of gratitude – of the good stuff. What good is a perfectly ordered life if the latter are not the foundation of it all?

What if we could learn to refocus our lens? What if we could see what seems like inconvenience now through the lens of what it may look like 10, 20, 30 years from now?  What does it look like to be content in the “now,” that precious “now” that we will eventually be wishing we had back?

The answer is easier said than done, but it is simple:

Learn the sacred secret of joy.

Learn the art of cultivating an inner groundedness that is not based on being happy, but being grateful. Learn to be thankful for every glimpse and glimmer of good that God is whispering through his good world. Cherish every second of the life you have been given. And remember that everything lasts only for a season – which can be bittersweet, depending on the context.

In the bitter, may we remember that morning will come again and that there is always good to be found in the meantime – we may just have to look extra hard to find it.

But yes, it is there.

In the sweet, may we remember to slow down, soak it up, and enjoy every second.  It will come to an end too, as every season does. And when that end comes, you’ll want to look back with gratitude that it happened, not regret that you let that time slip right through your hands.

Happy New Year, dear ones!

I realize I’m a little late to the resolution game, but that doesn’t mean there’s been a lack of some serious reflection.

In 2015, I started recognizing how unsuccessful big, lofty goals can be come the beginning of a new year. Before you deem me as a pessimistic skeptic, let me dig a little deeper.

Goals are good. They are helpful and they are vital for our growth. But what I pondered at the beginning of 2015 was if there was a better way to execute goals so that they are actually attainable, rather than the kind you make on a wimb when you’re feeling motivated by the “January 1st” deadline and then find yourself failing miserably at come, say, “March 1st”. So that year, I decided to take tangible steps in practicing gratitude. I called it my “Year of Thankfulness.” What began as an incredibly optimistic goal turned into an amazing opportunity to put my money wear my mouth was – 2015 was the hardest year of my life, with various things I found seemingly impossible to be thankful for, at the time (a story for another post).

The irony of this goal of gratitude amidst some of the hardest days and months I’d experienced was tremendous, in certain moments. Simultaneously, however, the fact that my goal was something that could be interwoven into every second of my simple, everyday, life activities was strangely beautiful and comforting.

It was more of a theme, an anthem that I sang internally over the big picture of my life. It kept me going on my worst days, and it sank in in such rich, deep ways on my best days. Some of my most joyous moments were also in 2015.

My baby girl was born.

My friendship with my husband deepened in ways I didn’t know it could.

My faith both unraveled and expanded in such beautifully messy ways.

I learned a multitude of things that had you told me I was going to learn, I would have tried to run full force in the opposition direction (and had you tried to stop me, I would have fought you kicking and screaming).

But as 2015 came to a close and 2016 was underway, I realized something: 2015 was the first year I had even come close to achieving a goal I’d set on any New Year’s in the past. It was hard, but it also felt more doable for the duration of the entire year, rather than feeling doable for only as long as the hype of that January-March window typically does. I realized that this method was something that worked on my best days, on my worst days, and on my mediocre days.

Because that’s what we (humans) need, isn’t it? Something attainable. Something that seems possible and tangible and doable regardless of our life circumstances. The reality is that life is beautiful, messy, amazing, horribly painful, mediocre, extraordinary, and ordinary – all on the same token. It is unpredictable. You never know what you are going to be handed to juggle on any given day, in any given hour.

So, come 2016, I decided to proceed with the same strategy of taking something specific I’d wrestled with over the past year and make that my theme, focus, and “goal” to practice growing in over the next year to come. I love this idea because it is all of those things; it is tangible – it can be as specific or vague as you want – and it is also doable, even on the days when I fail in epic ways at being human. I also love this because I think that it’s something every human can resonate with – we all fail in epic ways and we all succeed in epic ways, depending on the season we are in – oftentimes, depending on what day of the week we are on. But this type of goal-setting: this theme, this anthem, this one focus, can be practiced in both the lowest valleys and on the highest mountaintops, regardless of what word or theme you choose.

2017 was my year of valuing the gift of being present (both on the good days and the hard days) over the hustle of constantly trying to earn my “perfection” label (thank you, Shauna Niequist; you changed my life).

{Seriously, drop everything and read this book if you haven’t already. Talk about perspective.}

And once again, as 2017 came to a close, I found that image of my kicking and screaming self as I imagined what my response would have been had I known all that 2017 would entail (again, a story for another post: http://alhanson.org/368-2/), along with some unforgettably sweet moments, too. And, once again, in the midst of this pish-posh of reflecting, I realized that I’d somehow managed to somewhat achieve my second consecutive New Year’s goal of 2017.

As 2018 rolled around, the glaring word I felt the need to focus on was authenticity. Once again, my theme came from a book I finished right at the tail end of 2017 called The Gifts of Imperfection. Brene Brown’s words in this piece have made a pivotal impact on my worldview and have reshaped how I see God, myself, and others. (Again… drop everything. Click the link above. Best $8.99 you’ll spend this year – promise.)

I don’t know about you, but as helpful as technology is today and as thankful as I am for all the enrichment that has undoubtedly come from it, the unending insecurity and pressure to hustle, gain approval, and fake it ’til you get the amount of likes that everyone else has with filters and edits and emojis – I mean ’til you make it – is wearing so heavily on my soul (especially in motherhood – can I get an “amen,” fellow mama’s?)

One of my reflections at the end of 2017 included the painful realization that more of my time than I’m willing to admit was spent on social media every day; and it didn’t take long to make a connection between that and my deeply rooted insecurity as a wife, mom, friend, and human. Life is too precious to spend in a constant state of comparison. Social media was not the only root of this insecurity and self-doubt and comparison, but it certainly didn’t help as much as it hindered in that area, either.

So here’s to authenticity. To deeply rooted connection via coffee dates or shooting friends a text asking how they’re doing instead of checking in on all of them on the screens we hide behind. To loving hard, even when we’re not always loved back. To wearing our favorite ugly sweater, even if it isn’t trendy. To being seen for who we really are, instead of the perfect versions of ourselves we construct for everyone to see. To less filters, even with our uneven skin tones, wrinkles, extra 10 unwanted pounds of postpartum baby weight, dark circles that scream lack of sleep, etc.

{Again, please don’t hear me bashing social media – it is not 100% bad. I’m not even saying farewell to it, myself. It’s simply an example of one way I’m choosing to practice this next year of authenticity: by cutting back from, say, multiple times a day to a couple times a week and seeing the ways my soul comes to life.}

So if you get more texts or calls from me this next year than you’re used to, you’ll know why.

Growing up, my childhood best friend (still one of my most cherished humans on the planet) was (and still is) one of the most creative people I know. I remember we would sit in her room as young girls and each draw pictures of dance costumes for imaginary dances that we choreographed, or pictures of what our wedding dresses would look like one day. Her’s would always turn out so stunning and beautiful and.. creative, while mine were always sorry attempts at dance costumes I’d worn in previous recitals. Not only could she draw, but even at age 11, she already had such a charming sense of style and and eye for interior decor. Her room looked like a shot straight out of a vintage 50’s magazine. It was innate; it was in her veins; it was apart of her; it was like her second layer of skin. She was incredibly inspiring to me then and she still is today.

Another close friend of mine started her own business not long after becoming a mom. That’s right – on top of mastering the crazy, full time job of newborn mom life, she also quickly began crushing it as the founder, entrepreneur, and designer of a company selling hats for littles (seriously, they are the cutest: https://kinshipcap.co). But again, it’s second nature for her. Her life would not be complete if she didn’t have creative outlets that brought life not only to her, but to others.

Then there’s my beautiful friend who started a company (https://www.amazon.com/handmade/WoodntItBeNicePdx) making stationary with pictures that she photographs herself, along with adorable burlap banners for any occasion you can imagine. She, too, does this on top of her full time gig as a stay at home mama. Her free time is poured into her passion of capturing beauty in everyday things and artfully curating it into a product that allows people to pass it along to others in the form of words.

And then there are people like me who thrive with step-by-step “how to’s.” They’re my jam. Words like “creative” or “innovative” make me literally crumble and hide.

I have a system for just about everything and the thought of giving myself the space to not have a system, but to explore and consider something other than what is already safely placed right under my nose, immediately triggers anxiety, fear, and insecurity. Literally – if it weren’t for Pinterest, my wardrobe would scare people, my house would look like twenty seven people – all with different styles – tried to decorate it, and my recipe box would either be empty or filled with nasty, inedible recipes that would cause anyone I fed in my home to make a B-line for the closest restaurant in town.

So you could see why, then, after years of comparing my friends’ knacks for artistry and design, I deemed myself as simply not gifted in this area called creativity. I had other gifts and talents and that was just fine. Not everyone is gifted in the same way, and that’s the beauty of life, right?

Not quite. The thing is, it all comes back to how we define “creativity.”

What if the reason we “Uncreative’s” are using the wrong measuring stick to define whether or not we have this gift? What if we are incorrectly defining “creativity?” What if we are trying to create, to bring something out of nothing, in areas that are not the areas where we are truly gifted, and that is why we are left feeling inadequate, incompetent, and void of anything worth bringing to the table?

We have it twisted, friends. You see, being a creator is not something we do.

It is someone we are. Every one of us.

Creativity is not something we have or don’t have, but something that manifests itself differently from person to person. It is present in every human soul, it is simply embodied in various shapes and forms.

If creativity only meant being able to draw or paint or design with poise and elegance, or create the perfect aesthetic in a room, or combine the tastiest ingredients off the top of my head and create the yummiest dish known to man, count me out. So not my lanes.

But to be creative is simply this: to bring something into existence that was not there before.

That’s it.

There are no rules when it comes to being creative – and that is the beauty of it. Be it starting a business, gardening, thoughtfully giving the perfect gift, dancing, singing, writing, cooking, teaching, painting, drawing, sewing, fashion – you name it; creativity comes in all shapes and sizes.

Bringing something from nothing.

We are all creators because we were made in the image of a Creator – and a magnificent one, at that. And when it comes down to it, I believe that is why there is such deep satisfaction and joy when we create – it is who we are at our core. Anytime something is brought from nothing, creativity is born and we are our truest selves.

In all we do, may we have the boldness to do and be things that exceed what is safely accepted. May we always remember the value that art and creativity bring to the table. They are not secondary – they are central.

They are sacred. And they are found in everything.

They are where our souls come alive. They are where the mundane of everyday meet the holy, and the value of life itself is felt in the deepest, richest, most powerful ways. They are where we find the answer to the inevitable questions of, “Why are we here? What are we doing? What is this all about?”

So take up your space, beautiful one.

What do you love? What brings you life? What ways do you bring something into existence that otherwise would not be? What shoes can only you fill?

You have something to offer that no one else can. You were made for this. You have it in you – may you simply have the boldness to seek it out and bring it to life. Because here is the cold, hard truth: the world needs less cookie-cutter, safe, “socially acceptable” success and perfection and more vulnerable, real, raw, honest art – in all of its forms.

It needs more of you.

Every year since we’ve been married, I’ve saved extra clippings from our tree after cutting it down and have made them into a wreath. Now, I’ve never considered myself to be much of the creative type, so when I originally had the idea.. it was sketchy, to say the least. Four years and wreaths later, while I still wouldn’t label the whole wreath-making process a success, I will say they’ve progressed since the first, wimpy little attempt at bending pine branches into one very sorry circle.

One of the things I’ve loved about making wreaths is the idea of turning nothing into something, of taking excess scraps that would have otherwise been tossed out and turning them into something beautiful, something that brings life to my veins as I’m creating it and that brings joy to my soul as I enjoy it for the remainder of the season.

I almost didn’t make one this year, though. This Christmas season has brought with it an underlying sadness and loss.

You see, in July of this year, we found out that I was pregnant. To say we were excited is an understatement. After trying for over a year and finally seeing that second pink line, we were completely overcome and quite honestly in shock, so much so that I took three more tests after seeing the first positive – just to confirm that the first test was not a dud. (I know, OCD much?) But we had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, just to get one single line after another. I was literally one appointment away from seeing a fertility specialist, thinking perhaps I was among the few women who experience infertility even after having a child. So when I saw that faint, but very evident second line, it took a lot of confirmation for me to believe it was real.

Six days later, I began to bleed. I immediately panicked and expected the worst. I compulsively searched the internet to try to differentiate between normal early pregnancy spotting and the worst case scenario. Based on what I was reading, I had no reason to start worrying yet, but my gut told me otherwise.

Hours passed and the pain and bleeding worsened immensely. Long story short, it became so severe that it landed me in the emergency room where an ultrasound confirmed the worst.

We lost the baby.

Though we only knew about this little life for 6 days and I was only 6 and a half weeks along when it happened, it was just enough time to build up the following 9 months in my mind and heighten the expectation of what each milestone would look like. I would get to tell my family in person about the pregnancy because I had a visit to California planned just two weeks after finding out, my bump would be minimal, but starting to happily peak through at the start of my very favorite time of year, I’d be starting my third trimester around Christmas, and in March of 2018, we would meet our second baby and fourth member of our little family.

But instead of announcing a pregnancy when I went to California, I announced loss. When Thanksgiving rolled around, there was no bump. And still now, as we approach Christmas, the bump is long gone.

And yet, it still feels so raw. So real. So near. This holiday season has already been so much different than I expected it would be in those 6 short days.

At first I naively consoled myself that the pain would go away with time. I was wrong. Instead, I’ve found that the further along I would have been in this pregnancy, the more sad I find myself. Each month that passes, my bump would have been bigger, reminding me that everything is healthy and that the baby is growing as it’s supposed to be. But that’s not what’s happening.

As Fall started and the holiday season began to roll in, it felt wrong to be excited about all of the typical things that I love so much about this time of year. In fact, it took a lot for me to be excited at all. Compared to how excited I would be if I were almost 6 months pregnant, the current state of my still unpredictable cycles as my body tries to regulate and re-orient itself isn’t all that exciting, to be honest.

But this year, as I play my favorite Christmas playlists, decorate the house, light my (all-time favorite) Balsam Pine candles, drink in the comforting warmth of my favorite beverages… and make my wreath, two words seem to be playing over in my mind again and again:

Press In.

The loss hurts. It hurts really, really bad. And that is okay; when moments of grief hit, I take them in and I let the tears wash a little bit more of the edge off of the pain. And one ounce of heartache at a time, this grief helps me heal a little bit more.

But in the midst of all of the loss, the good, the beauty, the all-things-new anthem I hear God’s creation singing over and over again are still there, too. I breathe them in and count each one of them as a gift, and just like the tears that come in the difficult moments, these beautiful moments, too, help me heal just a little bit more each time they come. They remind me that though loss is a reality of life, it does not change the fact that the good things are still a reality of life, too.

I believe it is in creating things that we are reminded of hope, and that all things are being made new – even when it doesn’t feel like it.  We were made in the image of a Creator; we are therefore creators of various types. I think there’s something to say for why there is so much restoration, satisfaction, and wholeness to be found when we create. It is a core part of who we are and why we were made.

And so, in light of creating something from nothing, beauty from scraps and ashes, newness from waste, a wreath hangs from our front door once again this year. And every time I look at it as I’m coming and going, I remember to press in. I remember to keep creating, both in little ways and in big ways. I remember to keep doing and ushering in the good.

Because that is where the healing is found.

Pain – we all have an aversion to it. We avoid it at all costs, both for ourselves and for our loved ones. But there’s a really big problem with having an aversion to pain:

It’s inevitable.

There is so much in life that we cannot control, so much we don’t get a say in. And when this is true of unpleasant circumstances, in particular, the load seems much harder to carry.

But as unpleasant as it is and as much as I subconsciously try to stay as far away from it as I can, I am consistently reminded that pain is one of the best teachers. As unwelcome as it is, it sure has a way of forcing itself into life and finding a way to deepen my ability to feel, to love, to connect.

Though we may not be able to see it in the thick of the hard times, what’s happening when we experience something terrible, something awful, something so raw and seemingly unbearable that all we can bring ourselves to do is simply be, we gain the ability to connect to other people in a way that we weren’t able to before.

{This is two-fold.}

As the recipient of such love, pain is a vehicle to being honest and letting others in, and that can be extremely hard to do. It’s often tempting to hide behind the day-to-day of life, to stay busy so that no one becomes suspicious of what’s happening on the inside of your human shell. But what we fail to realize is that when we do that, when we don’t let people in, we are robbing ourselves (and others, for that matter) of a beautiful opportunity to be more whole, to connect, to know the real, nitty-gritty kind of love.

The kind of love that is inconvenient and sacrificial, but whole-hearted and rich.

You begin to feel a little more whole, a little more human, and you realize that this is the answer to the question of, “God, why?”

This.

This is why. People are always the reason why.

Love.

Connection.

Relationship.

This is always the “why” in life; this is why we were put here. To love and to be loved.

Which brings me to the second side of this coin of pain: that believe it or not, even the hardest, most horrific human experiences that we go through will yield healing. And when they do, we can then use our refined selves to be the source of comfort and love to those who need to be loved on and heard; for those who don’t necessarily need an answer, but simply a pair of ears that is willing to listen.

We are able to empathize more deeply, more genuinely. We can actively help carry each other’s burdens from experience. From being able to say, “I know what you’re going through.” From knowing what to say (or what not to say) because we too have walked that road of brokenness.  We are able to actively love those people through the trenches of their own lives and help them stand again. It is often here where depth is born in relationships and friends become family.

We’re allowing a deeper, more wholistic healing to take place, both in us and in the person grieving. Another layer of us heals as we realize that our past wounds are now able to serve those around us, and once again, we understand “why.”

Love.

Compassion.

Relationships.

This love, this connection to others in such vulnerable seasons is “why.”

I hate pain, but on the same token, I can also say that some of my favorite people in my life are the ones who have seen me through some of my darkest, most painful times. They’re also what make my life so rich and robust and beautiful. They make me a better human.

Sometimes there is no tangible, literal reason why bad things happen. I don’t believe that God “causes” bad things to happen. If that were the case, I could not also say that I believe that he is a good God (which I do). I don’t think he micromanages every part of our lives and chooses who gets to experience certain hard things and who gets to experience other hard things.

I don’t know “why.” But I know that when I look at all of the life around me – the sun that knows when to rise and set, the seasons that know when to change, the trees that sustain themselves, the life of the flowers from seeds that are now blooming in my garden, and the love that makes my heart explode when I walk through the most unbearable seasons of life (regardless of what side of the trench I’m on) – I see hope. I see beauty.

I see Jesus helping and loving us through the hardships in life and rejoicing with us when we experience the joy in life.

I see all things being made new.

And that’s enough.

“STOP, LUCY! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!”

My teeth were grated, my hands clenched her tiny little arms, my voice was loud. After telling her several times to stop tugging at the table cloth and her only response being laughing and proceeding to pull it off the table, I had had it. Beyond had it. So I lost it. Unfortunately, my point came across very loud and very clear. Instead of innocent laughter, her face now read hurt, sadness, and fear.

What had I done?

She was afraid of me – the one who’s supposed to comfort her, protect her, make her world feel safe.

I scooped her up and wept as I held her close and tried to remind her that it was still me. That she’s safe. That she’s loved and adored and far more important than a perfectly placed table cloth.

{To give you some context, we are currently in the process of moving, which means we have been living under a magnifying glass for the last two or so weeks. Moving is hard, but it’s life. It’s fun, nostalgic, sad, exciting.. all at the same time. We’ve been a bit scattered, to say the least. My point being I’m not that passionate about tablecloths; I just had a specific reason for caring if my table cloth was one inch more to the right: we needed to leave the house negative three minutes ago for a showing, and the potential home buyer’s decision would obviously hinge on a perfectly even table cloth.}

Why does this happen? How do we reach a point where we completely lose control and become the exact person we know we don’t want to be?

I can tell you it’s not because of crooked tablecloths. No, it’s much deeper.

The problem is that we fill our lives to the brim while simultaneously valuing perfection more than we value being present. I’m here to tell you that it’s time to choose between the two because they cannot coexist. Take it from a mom and wife who has spent more time than I am proud of ranting and nagging at the two people in my life who mean the most to me – certainly more than all of the things I’ve been ranting and nagging at them about. I get caught up. I go and do and overcommit and refuse to be seen as irresponsible or “less than.” And my family eats the cost.

Schedules build up. The house needs cleaning. The laundry needs washing. Meals need to be cooked. Sweet, tiny, grimy hands and faces need to be wiped {numerous times a day}.

Groceries.

Friends and family.

Volunteer work.

Play dates.

The list goes on.. but should it? How much space do we really have on our lists before we spread ourselves so thin that we aren’t able to love and connect genuinely anymore? I’m often pressured into thinking that efficiency and productivity are what define love.

But they don’t.

They are necessary; don’t hear me saying they aren’t.

But they are not more important than carving out time to be present. They are not more important than leaving wiggle room in your life to be more patient, loving, and tender, instead of short, edgy, and irritable. They are not more important than taking the time to listen and be observant of the well being of the people who mean the most to us.

So what’s the balance?

I don’t know that there is. There’s no formula, but I think that’s the point. Formulas sometimes rob us of the very presence I’m talking about. Maybe we should just practice being aware and reacting accordingly. Maybe we should lay down our need to produce and pick up the easy yoke of loving God and loving people, and take the rest one relationship at a time.

Yes – this “balance” consists of relationships. Not productivity, not success, not efficiency; at least not the full, to the brim, overflowing versions of all these things that we have made them out to be. We were created for connection and relationship; therefore, our measure of success should be love. Everything else – everything – is second to love.

This all hit home when Lucy and I went to the park yesterday. “Mommy, play!” She kept saying. So we rolled in the grass and ran up the hill and ran down the hill. We climbed up the slide and went down the slide. She laughed and laughed; she could have done it for hours, and so could I. I realized we don’t always get do-overs, especially as parents, but it is never too late to say “yes” to being present.

If there’s one thing I took away from my horrifying outburst, it is that life is too precious and beautiful a gift to waste being obsessed with to do lists and being too busy to notice the sweet in-between moments. Lucy wasn’t some disobedient inconvenience; she was trying to be like mommy and do as I was doing. Maybe if I hadn’t allowed my mind and schedule to be so overloaded, I would have been able to see that she was innocently trying to do the right thing, according to what she sees me doing on a daily basis.. or that she’s almost 2, and maybe she just doesn’t understand the big deal with table cloths anyway.

Today is Easter Sunday. It is the most important day on the Christian calendar because it is the day that Jesus declared victory over death by rising from it.

It is the day death died. Once and for all.

And yet I am conflicted this Resurrection Sunday because I still feel the pangs of death, as though it never fully died. I believe in my head that this is not the end; I know that. But if I am honest, I don’t feel it.

I feel heavy. I feel tired. I feel sad. I feel anxious. I feel stuck. I feel doubt because hurt still happens.

Death still takes the ones we love most and never gives them back.

Racism still destroys humanity and builds barriers that few of us actually have the courage to tear down.

Friends disappoint us; people disappoint us.

Children go unloved and uncared for.

Addiction.

Murder.

Greed.

Pride.

B R O K E N N E S S.

It’s still here. We don’t have to look hard to find it.

But in the midst of the doubt, there are priceless moments of beauty that keep the resurrection flame of hope burning, even if it is dim at times.

The kindness of a stranger.

Seemingly miraculous forgiveness and healing from long time wounds.

Holding the hand of a loved one in their last days.

The tiny hands of a child grasping tightly to yours.

The hug or kiss from a loved one on your worst day when you least deserve it.

Friendship – the priceless kind that you know deep down is irreplaceable and true to the very end.

Flowers bloom.

R E S U R R E C T I O N.

It happened.

And if we have the boldness to be vulnerable enough to look for it amidst all of the doubt and the death and the brokenness, to trust that God is still present in all of it, our heads will reach our hearts, and we will realize that death is dead. That he is alive.

That he is risen.