Showing posts with label simple living. Show all posts
Showing posts with label simple living. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 25, 2023

on the banks of lake tahoe

   
      To the bird on the branch—
                     we are alike, you and I.
       You flit from twig to twig
       just as I flit through the day,
       each searching for the surprise blessing
              that awaits,
       discovering with delight the God who is
              the whole tree.
 
To the chipmunk in the rocks—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Exploring, enjoying, making our way
       around boulders and in shadowed nooks,
       anxious to be our whole selves
              and do our work
       just as God made us to do,
       though all we can see is the next right step.
 
To the two jays, brightly blue—
              we are alike, you and I.
       You converse in high and low pitch,
       back and forth in endless squawks,
       just as I seek to be heard in relationship
              to the ones I hold most dear.
       We learn and converse uniquely,
       and find that God is the space between
              and in all we have to say.
 
To the lake, shining and full—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Sometimes blown by the wind,
              stirred and anxious in the chaos around us;
       sometimes settled and serene,
       inviting our Creator to see into the depths
              he created,
       and show us ourselves, colored as a mirror by heaven.
 
Jesus—
              we are alike, you and I.
       Wholly and holy human,
       Beloved before God the Father,
       seen and known for all that we are, and in communion
              with every grace-filled breath,
       alive by the Spirit who is the wind and fire of God
                    in every living thing.

Tuesday, November 30, 2021

gratitude in a pandemic

It’s been a hell of a year, right? (Or should I say nearly two nowcan you believe it?!)  I’m pretty sure that at the start of 2020 none of us thought to ourselves, “I wonder if we’ll get hit with a global pandemic this year that’ll stagger the economy, isolate us from our loved ones for months, and cause us to wear masks everywhere and hoard rolls of toilet paper because they’ll be sold out at Costco…” 
 
It’s easy in some ways to look back and make jokes (and we almost have to for our own sanity these days), but in all seriousness this whole experience has been terribly hard.  I know so many folks have lost their jobs and their homes.  I know many of us have struggled with fear, loneliness, and general fatigue.  I’ve literally sat in hospital ICU rooms with people who had to make decisions about taking their loved ones off of ventilators due to COVID-related illness and complications—not to mention the other hundreds of thousands who got sick but made it through.    
 
I think this must be why there’s so many psalms of lament in the Bible.  God knows we need to rage and question and cry sometimes.
 
And yet, we’ve returned once again to a season of Thanksgiving.  What has that been like for you this year?  Difficult, I imagine.  But perhaps in some ways more meaningful…?  It certainly has for me.
 
A year or so ago, a pastor friend of mine challenged his congregation to make a regular practice of gratitude.  It’s something Scripture encourages over and over:
 
“Sing praises to the Lord, O you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name.” -Psalm 30:4
 
“O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures forever.” -Psalm 136:1
 
“…give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” -1 Thessalonians 5:18
 
Not to mention, if you do an online search for “the science of gratitude,” you’ll find that dozens of institutions have researched how the practice of gratitude contributes physically and emotionally to the well-being of our lives.
 
So, taking that to heart, I started making a semi-regular habit of journaling about what I’m grateful for.  As it turns out, there has been a lot in this past year.  In the spirit of fostering collective gratitude as much as collective grief, I wanted to share a few that I’ve written down:
  • For my husband… he is the best human and companion I could ever ask for (11.9.20)
  • For the people who are doing the hard work for racial justice (11.12.20)
  • For heaters that allow us to do safe family dinners outside in Jen and Ty’s carport (11.13.20)
  • For opportunities to preach at MOPC and in Richfield (11.18.20)
  • For Matt bringing me coffee in bed (12.8.20)
  • For getting my first COVID vaccine shot! (1.6.21)
  • For warmth and a safe place to live (2.17.21)
  • For my parents and the ways they love me and my siblings (2.19.21)
  • For my CPE group and all the insights and wisdom that come out of our time together (3.3.21)
  • That I am learning to accept limits and boundaries, to have grace, to be vulnerable and genuine, to listen well and not always “fix” but sit compassionately with pain… even my own (3.31.21)
  • For hugs from my dad and laughs with Jess all weekend (4.26.21)
  • For a walk with the dogs yesterday with Karina and Sher (5.30.21)
  • For my amazing job at FPC and all the great people there (7.23.21)
  • For the friends we have and the ones we have yet to make (7.27.21)
  • For our D&D group and having other adults in the world who love to just PLAY (8.20.21)
  • For the peace that comes with trusting God and knowing that where I am in this moment is exactly where I’m supposed to be (8.30.21)
  • That Matt and I have enjoyed 9 wonderful years of marriage! (9.23.21)
  • For fall weather and yellow leaves (10.29.21)
  • For the love of God and all the ways he blesses my life with gifts—seen and unseen (11.30.21)
There have been many, many more… and it’s good for my soul to look over them from time to time.  It reminds me that even in the stress of the last twenty-one months, God is still present and giving me many reasons for joy.  I hope you’ve found that to be true as well!
 
I’d love to hear what you’re season of Thanksgiving has been like as well.  What are you grateful for this year? 

Thursday, April 15, 2021

birds and bells

I sat in bed this morning with my journal to have some quiet time with Jesus.  This has become a healthy habit for me over the last several years—something a mentor of mine recently likened to “taking out the garbage,” or letting the emotional clutter escape the body into prayer on a page.  That image works for me.  And I’ve had plenty of clutter lately to think about, like nearing the end of my CPE internship at the hospital… writing my final evaluation… prepping to teach an upcoming Sunday School class… planning a trip to Washington soon to see my family for the first time in nearly a year… among many other, smaller things.
 
As I opened the blank pages, I had a random song stuck in my head—one from a movie I watched days ago that wasn’t exactly conducive to quiet, reflective moments (it’s always the worst ones that get stuck on a loop).  I grabbed my phone off my nightstand and found the Peaceful Hideaway playlist on Spotify to quiet the mental clamor.  That oughta help.
 
Slow piano tunes mixed with birdsong began to play softly.  I lifted my pen, creased the journal pages open, and flipped my devotional book to the scripture for today.   
 
It took me a second to realize that I was now hearing bird chirping not just from the phone to my left, but also through the window to my right.  I reached over to pause the music and peaked through the cracked blinds.  Sure enough, several tiny birds sat on top of the bushes outside, chattering up a storm.  Birds from further away chattered back.  I hadn’t noticed at all until now.
 
Then bells rang in the distance.  I have no idea which nearby church they echoed from.  I glanced at the clock—it was 9 AM—and I listened to the bells.  I couldn’t believe I’d never heard them before.  Why hadn’t I heard them before?
 
I looked down at the text in front of me.  “…with minds alert and fully sober…”
 
There it was.  Heavy on the clutter, missing the alert. 
Pretty simple, actually:  I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening.  I was distracted.
 
We’ve lived in this apartment now for eight months, and I’ve never once heard those bells.  Apparently, I’ve had other things on my mind.  The TV has provided background noise.  My brain has routinely glazed over looking at my phone screen.  In and out of these walls, life runs along in a perpetual state of diversion and thinking about “the next thing.”  Presence and paying attention are oft-neglected virtues.

I took three deep breaths while the bells faded out and the birds chirped on.  Those simple sounds were good for my soul.  How many other unassuming, yet God-given moments was I missing on a daily basis?  I live in a spacious world, but regularly only occupy the portion of it that exists between my ears—and that area gets cramped quickly.   
 
I copied the words into my journal: “with minds alert and fully sober.”  At 32 years old, I hope I have a lot more life to live… but heaven help me, the time goes by fast, and I rarely inhabit the moment I’m actually in.  I’m more anxious than alert, more distracted than engaged.  The future comes sooner than expected and the past gets blurry. 
 
There’s no way to change the time that has already come and gone.  But perhaps a prayer for today will suffice:  God, help me to see, hear, feel, and appreciate the abundant gifts you offer—the birds, the bells, and everything else—rather than miss those little moments of grace simply because I'm too distracted to pay attention.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

that time we marie kondo'd our condo

I’ve noticed a trend over the past few years, and that trend is this:  when I walk into our house and things are dirty and cluttered, it stresses me out. 

The formula is pretty simple really.  Clutter = stress.
I brilliantly figured this out by my own trial-and-error (also known as my ability to accumulate lots of stuff and inability to keep it all nicely put away).  But as it turns out, studies are beginning to suggest that this is actually a thing.  I’m not the only one!

As a bit of back story, we’ve lived in Seattle for almost five years now.  We massively downsized our belongings before we moved from Salt Lake (down from two bedrooms to one), but somehow we’ve still managed to accumulate more than our 515-square foot condo can handle.  And when a woman is expected to come home from work only to have to sit down and do grad school homework, a messy kitchen, cluttered coffee table, and overflowing books, craft supplies, clothes, etc. are not conducive to a focused study environment.  I’m telling you, emotional breakdowns have occurred over two-day-old dirty dishes.

And the truth of the matter is, I don’t want to be a person who owns a bunch of stuff.  Because when you have “stuff,” you have to have a place to put it all, and you have to take care of it.  I need more time to take care of myself and the people I love… not my stuff.  [Not to mention the fact that humans go through inordinate amounts of the earth’s resources to produce it all.]


I found this little gem of a book at Costco a few years ago.  I had already come across a few blogs that had mentioned it, and was curious.  Long story short, I don’t necessarily endorse all of her philosophy around decluttering, but I have very much appreciated the idea that we maintain a “relationship” of sorts with our stuff—we interact with our possessions on a regular basis, they (ideally) support our lives, and they provide us with a sense of who we are as a person.  Therefore, we should only keep around those things which bring us joy.  I need my home to be a peaceful, restorative space.  As William Morris once said:

“Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

So at the beginning of this year, I got Matt on board to do some major decluttering.  We Marie Kondo’d our whole place (yes, it’s a verb.)  We didn’t do everything in the exact order she suggests, but we did pull all of our things in each category out at a time and went through them one by one—kind of like shopping, but from our own home.  It was brutal to see how much “stuff” we owned, but such a valuable experience!  We documented for proof (but mostly for fun).

We started with our books (my most difficult category)...

Our books "before"
Our books "after"

Then we moved on to board games (Matt's most difficult category)...

We pulled them all out onto the floor...
...and ended up with these on our shelves!

We tackled our clothes by pulling them all out onto the bed (which ensured we'd get through them by the end of the day)...

This was eye-opening... so many clothes in one closet
My side of the closet afterward

And we eventually went through papers, kitchen supplies, craft supplies, decor, and other miscellaneous things...

These were from grad school binders



A few things coming out of our kitchen

















Having gone through the long process, I’ve seen several benefits:
  1. We’ve gotten to the point where we’ve been able to put our condo on the market—yay! 
  2. Because there is less in the house, it’s easier and quicker to clean. 
  3. I get to look around my home and see only the things that I love. 
Don’t get me wrong… having to clean my house is still a thing.  Getting frustrated by dirty dishes is still a thing.  Not making my bed, or putting all my books away, or wiping down my table is still a thing.  (The words “life changing magic” were used rather liberally in her title, I’ve found.)  That said, I did start to wonder how our culture as a whole might change if we all decided to redefine what it is we “need” in our homes.

Would we be less stressed and more content?
Would we have more financial freedom?
Would we appreciate the things we have even more?

These things have started to become true for me.  And I honestly could part with more than we initially gave away, not to pare down for the sake of paring down, but because it leaves Matt and I free to own only the things we love.  Because at the end of the day, we have more than enough.

Friday, August 10, 2018

dialogue in the woods


Matt and I are spending the weekend up at my bosses’ cabin in the Cascades.  We woke up this morning with the sun peeking through the trees into our bedroom.  Matt pulled the covers up over his face while I got up to slip on my sweatshirt, reheat a cup of coffee, and take our tiny dog Lucy outside. 

I’ve spent the last couple of morning hours tucked into an old brown recliner.  Lucy is asleep on a blanket in my lap, which also happens to be right in the path of the sole streak of sunlight beaming into the living room—no matter how hot it is inside, she always wants the sun.  I’ve got my cup of coffee and my copy of Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies that I picked up at Powell’s bookstore last weekend in Portland.  I love flipping through used books… especially when I’m looking through timber beams at old, worn pine trees.  It’s grounding and slow, like time when you think about it. 

At the end of Lamott’s overture, she tells a story about a lost little girl saying to a police officer when she sees her church, “I can always find my way home from here.”  My eyes got teary when I read it.  I don’t even know why.  It’s just a lovely thought, I guess.  The kind of thought that squeezes my heart and reminds me why I love Jesus’ messy, broken church.  It’s like coming home. 

I don’t know why I felt compelled to write after that either.  I told Matt (who by this point is on the couch avidly working on his dissertation) that I was ready to take a break and do a workout, but then I changed my mind and said I needed to write instead.  Sometimes I get frustrated with myself for wanting so badly to have something to say, something to blog about—because it feels so good and fulfilling to collect meaningful thoughts and communicate them—but then coming up empty.  It’s like having wood, but no fire.  I start comparing myself to people who actually do have significant things to say, and I end up always wanting to write about someone else’s thoughts and ideas.  But today I’m realizing that that’s okay.  Brand new things can be shiny and beautiful, but so can old things—like aging trees or worn-in recliners or books that make you want to write as if you’re dialoguing with old friends.  I’m in the dance of human experience that draws each of us into something bigger than ourselves.  We’re meant to be mirrors of meaning to one another, and to reflect on that which makes life worth pondering in the first place.  So I don’t have to do it on my own.  I can sit in quiet spaces with authors and musicians and pastors I’ve never met and be welcomed into what a professor of mine would call the “Grand Conversation.” 

So thank you, Anne Lamott, for telling us about tide pools and alcoholism and feeling cracked and long walks on Belvedere Island and the gospel music that softened your soul.  And I’ll tell you in turn about sitting in a Snoqualmie cabin with my rescue puppy who’s finally sleepy and calm and how your stories remind me of my own home and Jesus and the Church that I love. 

Sunday, July 9, 2017

sustainability and stewardship

Buzzwords:  green, eco-, sustainable, organic, homemade, simple, healthy, local… you see where this is going.
                           
Matt and I live in Seattle, where there’s no shortage of this kind of language.  And though I have yet to literally hug a tree, we feel right at home in the ecocentric Northwest. 

I was not always on board with the “environmentalism” paradigm (not that I was “anti-” either… I just hadn’t truly given it much thought).  As a kid, my parents raised me to love Jesus and love other people as well as I could.  And as I’ve gotten older, I’m learning just how integral caring for the earth is to both of those things.  There are a mind-boggling number of scientists, documentaries, and even small island nations that will tell you how dangerous climate change and resource exploitation are to humanity.  I don’t need to rehash those details here (if you’re curious, I’ve added some links below).  If you disagree, that’s okay—I hope we can still have this conversation anyway. 

I’ve had some interesting discussions on faith and ecological responsibility since starting my grad program at Fuller, and this culminated most recently at the end of last quarter when I wrote my final exegetical paper on a section from Romans 8.  Starting in verse 18, Paul writes…

“I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory about to be revealed to us.  For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.” (NRSV)

If you read through the entire text, you’ll find that there’s an “already-but-not-yet” element to Paul’s understanding of adoption and redemption.  Jesus inaugurated something great, but the Church he set up is bridging the gap between the Spirit that is already at work and the Kingdom that is yet to be fully realized.  I have heard the theory that the earth was given to humans to tame and to use; and that our rightful place is in heaven one day—so what difference does trying to save it make?  Paul (in my own humble understanding) seems to disagree.  There is a place for creation—all of creation—alongside the redemption of the children of God.  Might I even go so far as to suggest that we are called to be instrumental in breaking that “bondage to decay” that the world is experiencing?  John does say that God so loved “the world,” right?  Perhaps we should be doing more on its behalf. 

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31)

What if God, in creating humans in His image, intended for our “dominion” over the earth (Gen 1:27) to look more like stewardship than conquest?  In Ancient Near Eastern traditions, bearing the ‘image’ of the king meant bearing the stamp of his authority to rule, and doing so in the same manner the king himself wouldThe ‘image-bearer’ is a representative.  How are we, those of us who call ourselves Christians, representing the care and compassion of God to our natural environment and the other species sharing it?  Because we know now that what we do to creation, we do to ourselves.    

So here’s where I land on this:  global and national policies need to change.   I firmly believe that Christians should be the first advocates willing to speak up in our private and political spheres for the protection of the earth.  However, while my voice makes whatever impact it may, I need the ins-and-outs of my daily life to reflect those values and convictions as well.  There are other tangible things I can do.  Things that may both (a) make an impact on the shalom of creation (even if it’s a very small one), and (b) regularly remind me that God gave us good gifts to hold and care for, not to use and lose.  Enter #sustainabilitygoals

Some of these are practices Matt and I are currently trying to put in place, and some are challenges that we hope to tackle in the near future.  Either way, here is a start to some small things [I think] we can do to steward well:

·         Using re-usable over disposable products.  Water bottles, coffee mugs, shopping bags, produce bags, napkins and paper towels, straws… the list here can get pretty substantial.

·         Buying in bulk.  The bulk section that is:  grains, beans, baking supplies… bring your own containers and skip the excess packaging.

·         Cooking more at-home meals.  You’re more likely to spend less, waste less, and consume more real food products.  Plus, there’s always more to learn!

·         Considering a minimalist approach // learning to declutter. Decrease ‘stuff,’ decrease stress.  We generally have more than we need.

·         Thinking about our traveling ‘footprint.’  Do you walk, bike, take public transportation?

·         Eating less meat.  It takes a lot less land and water to produce veggies.

·         Recycling and composting.  Even biodegradable materials become toxic in landfills.

·         Unsubscribing.  Paper and internet junk mail?  Don’t need that.

·         Practicing consumer consciousness.  This includes clothing and household items—ethical and high quality products do exist.

·         Planting a garden.  Producing healthy food + connecting intimately with what we eat = overall win. 

·         Reducing household energy use.  Turning off lights, unplugging appliances and accessories, and turning off the water each take just a quick second. 

If you’re already doing some of these things, I’d love to hear how they’re going!  Or if you have new ideas, please share and we can add to the list.  I know it’s easy to feel like a small fish in a big pond when it comes to changing the system.  But as Bob Pierce (the founder of World Vision) once said, “Don’t fail to do something just because you can’t do everything.”


Christ has no body on earth but yours,
no hands but yours,
no feet but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which
Christ’s compassion for the world is to look out;
yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good;
and yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.
-St. Teresa of Avila


Additional resources on climate change:
-          From NASA:  https://climate.nasa.gov/evidence/   
-          From the EPA:  https://www.epa.gov/climate-indicators   
-          Documentary on the islands of the Maldives:  http://theislandpresident.com/

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

baking bread, breaking bread

If you haven’t watched the Netflix documentary mini-series Cooked yet, go do it now.  Seriously – go binge it immediately.  Take a friend with you.  Then (please) come back and read this. 

Cooked is the visual rendition of Michael Pollen’s new book on the way the four elements of nature—fire, water, air, and earth—have influenced the history of human cooking and culture.  It is fascinating.  Now that you’ve watched it (because of course you did... 😉), you will undoubtedly understand my strong desire of late to bake my own bread, and lots of it. 

Have you ever pounded the palm of your floured hand into a ball of yeasted dough?  Or smelled a fresh free-form loaf come out of the oven, when you can still hear the crust crackling?  Have you broken warm pieces amongst friends and family at the dinner table, sipping red wine or perhaps dipping them into a bowl of homemade soup?  Store-bought bread is great, and I still enjoy picking up local artisan loaves when I need to.  But pulling your own homemade bread out of the steaming oven and letting the smell waft through the kitchen as people walk in asking, “You baked bread?!”… that’s pretty heavenly.  Now I can even more fully appreciate when Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.”  Sustenance for the body, yes; but sustenance for the spirit too.  The baking and the breaking of bread is an entire joyous, communal experience.

Case in point:  We spent the last full week of June this year with our family in Utah.  At Bear Lake, in fact—near where Matt and I got married almost five years ago.  It was wonderful.  In six days I got to bake ten loaves of bread for 19 people.  On three separate occasions, I made two loaves of honey oat bread for toast and sandwiches (Cora and Josh expertly spread the honey on top)...  



And on Thursday night, four simple boule loaves came out of the oven to go with Matt’s signature gazpacho.  (These have been a hit at work, too – the kids I nanny have christened them “Bre Bread”… though I’m fairly certain anyone can mix together flour, yeast, salt, and water.  That’s literally all there is to it!).

    

I loved when everyone got excited about a fresh loaf and could hardly wait for it to cool to cut into it.  I loved that people asked about the baking process.  I loved when the kiddos got their hands sticky with dough and honey.  I loved toasting a piece and eating it with peanut butter and coffee in the morning. 

Please, please, even just once, try baking your own bread.  And while you do it, think about what a small miracle it is.  The wheat grows, and then it dies.  The yeast ‘brings it back to life’ and it grows again, and then we bake it and it cooks and ‘dies’ again. But then, we get to eat it.  We get to break it and share it and enjoy it—around the entire globe—and because of that miracle of bread, we are imparted nourishment and life.  Death, life, death, life… sound familiar?    

Perhaps once I'm on my one hundredth, or one thousandth, loaf many years from now, the excitement will wear off.  But I sure hope not.  I hope that for the rest of my life I get to keep thinking about what a little bread (maybe, on occasion, taken with a little wine) can do. 

"O taste and see that the LORD is good..."  -Psalm 34:8

Saturday, June 13, 2015

simply, a beautiful and restful day

Since my post on hard seasons not long ago, I’ve been putting a lot of thought and prayer into simplifying.  Simplifying life.  Simplifying money.  Mostly simplifying time and how I approach and appreciate it. 

I finally decided to drop down to one class next quarter, and I can honestly say I’m sighing deeply inside with relief.  I have no less of a desire to be going to seminary, but I need the time to let it sink in, not to just “get it done”.  And it will hopefully free up space to have more date nights with Matt, read Scripture for me (not just for class), and even sleep.  I know, though, that if I’m not careful, that open time will quickly fill with mindlessness (where one minute I open my Facebook app, and the next it’s half an hour later and I haven’t moved from the arm of the couch).  I know I’ll have to be intentional about the kind of rest and fulfillment I’m looking for. 

I think today was an experiment in that, the first steps of slowing down.

Matt went out of town this weekend.  He is currently up at a cabin in Leavenworth, having a reunion with his college roommates before one of them moves across the country.  It is a great time for him to be with the people who have been so significant in his story, and for that I’m grateful.  But before he left, as I was concocting a list of all the various things I could get done while he was gone, he slowed me down and said, “Don’t make a to-do list.  Sleep in, have quiet time, go for a walk.  Do whatever you want to do in that moment.”  So… I tried that.  This is how it went:
 
I got nine and a half hours of sleep last night—a record for me in the last three months.      

Then, after I got out of bed, I ground my coffee beans by hand, boiled water in our electric kettle, and used the pour-over coffee pot to brew my morning wake-up juice.  My typical self would look for a more efficient way of completing this process—it took fifteen minutes of undivided attention—but as I listened to the roasted beans pop and break through the grinder and smelled the bold, dark steam as the water fell through them, I realized I enjoyed the pace of life that it set.  I could simply appreciate the time it took to make a simple cup of coffee.

I took this cup of coffee to the couch with my Bible, and I re-read the book of Micah.  “…and you shall bow down no more to the work of your hands” (5:13).  The last pages of my journal were filled today after contemplating that in the presence of God. 

Later in the afternoon, my wonderful friend Martha came over and we took the bus to the University Village shopping center.  We spent two hours wandering through the stores, and in the end, the only thing we purchased was a cup of Menchie’s frozen yogurt, drenched in broken Kit Kat pieces and caramel sauce.  On the bus ride home we talked about making plans for dinner (we do love our margaritas and seven-layer dip…), but as we got off, she said she might need a night at home by herself.  As hard as it is to say that to a friend, to request the end of time together for the sake of solitude, I so appreciated her wisdom in that moment.  At the close of a hard week, I am happy to see that I share life with people who know how to take care of themselves.  As adults, you would think this was common sense.  Yet, we live in a FOMO culture (“fear of missing out,” that is) and I haven’t met many twenty-six-year-olds that are better at resisting that temptation than teenagers, including myself most of the time.

So, now I’m back in my quiet condo alone.  I just finished a bowl of spaghetti after dancing in the kitchen, singing Pharrell William’s song, “Happy,” over and over in my head.  I plan to end the night reading the last few chapters of Shauna Niequist’s book, Bittersweet (a catalyst of sorts in my search for rest). 

I know not every day is going to be like this.  I know I'll see bags under my eyes, turn down shopping dates to write papers, and sprint through Starbucks on the way to important events.  But today was a first drop in the bucket, a day of sun and peace and basking in the goodness of God... and for now, I'll take it.

Photo from luxpresso.com.