Today, I tried to be more present.
Not in a big, dramatic way—there was no retreat, no journaling marathon, no perfect playlist humming in the background. Just five minutes. Five quiet minutes to sit still. No phone. No noise. No pressure to produce or plan. Just me, my breath, and the subtle sounds of the world moving around me.
It’s wild how hard that was.
My mind tugged at me like a restless child—pulling me back into to-do lists, unread texts, undone laundry, and conversations I needed to finish. But I stayed. I kept breathing. And slowly, the stillness didn’t feel so awkward. It started to feel… sacred.
In those quiet minutes, I remembered something I forget too easily:
God doesn’t need me to be busy to be loved.
I don’t have to earn rest.
I don’t have to perform peace—I just have to practice it.
And that’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since.
Peace isn’t a place we arrive at after we’ve accomplished enough.
It’s a posture.
It’s a habit.
It’s something we practice, five minutes at a time.
And maybe that’s what faith looks like for me right now—not certainty or productivity, but trust. Trust that five minutes of quiet matters. That the Spirit shows up in the stillness. That I don’t need to do more to be enough.
Today, I didn’t figure everything out. But I remembered how to be still. And that feels like enough.
Breathing Room, Part 2: Making Space for Each Other
Sometimes, the hardest part of practicing peace is not the practice itself—but giving ourselves permission to pause.
After writing about taking five minutes to simply breathe and be still, I realized how easy it is to let days slip by without doing it again. And that’s exactly what happened. I hadn’t made space for that kind of quiet since Wednesday.
But this morning—Saturday—something shifted. I was organizing our one-year-old’s room when the house grew unusually still. One of the kids was still sleeping. The others were downstairs with my husband. I stood there, hands full of toys, and noticed something I hadn’t felt in days: silence.
Without even planning it, I sat down right there in the nursery and breathed. No phone. No plans. Just presence.
It didn’t last long. But it didn’t have to. It was enough.
Then I realized—my husband hadn’t had five minutes either. So I asked him if I could take over with the girls so he could have his moment of peace. Five minutes to breathe. To reset. To just be.
Because this practice isn’t just about making space for ourselves—it’s about making space for each other.
We are all holding more than we say. And while we can’t always change each other’s circumstances, we can offer one another a few sacred minutes of margin. A breath. A pause. A small, holy gift of grace.
That’s the heart of this season for me. Learning not just how to sit still, but how to share the stillness.
Because peace is more than a personal practice—it’s something we extend to one another. And maybe offering five minutes to someone else is one of the most faithful things we can do.
Post-Easter Reflections: From Holy Chaos to Holy Rest
Easter always seems to arrive in a whirlwind—and this year was no different. Between the joyful celebration at church, the buzz of family coming together, and the chaos of trying to coordinate it all, I find myself exhaling a little deeper today.
This Easter was extra special for our family. Not just because of the hope we celebrated in the resurrection, but because of the moments that made this season feel full—sometimes a little too full.
Work didn’t slow down, and like many of you, I tried to juggle the to-do lists with the heart work of preparing for Easter. There’s always that mix of sacred reflection and practical prep—getting food together, cleaning, planning, and trying to make it all feel just right.
One of the sweetest surprises this weekend was an unexpected visit from our college-aged daughter. She came home just in time to join in the family festivities, and seeing all of us together felt like a little Easter miracle of its own.
The little ones had their fair share of Easter egg hunts (yes, plural)—we hopped from one to the next, baskets overflowing and smiles growing wider. And let’s not forget the matching dresses for the two youngest girls—because you know we had to get that perfect family photo. Or at least, as close to perfect as we could between giggles and wiggles.
By Monday, I was more than ready for rest. Honestly, I needed it. I wasn’t feeling my best after all the activity, and taking a quiet day to just breathe was exactly what my body and soul needed. The laundry was finally done—well, at least until tomorrow—and I found myself relaxing in bed, catching up on some anime, letting the noise of the weekend fade into something softer, slower.
Easter reminds me that life is both full and fragile. That joy can coexist with exhaustion. That resurrection doesn’t erase the hard—it transforms it, gives it meaning.
So here’s to the holy chaos of family, the sweet surprises, the joy of matching dresses, the laundry that never quite ends, and the grace of Monday rest with a little anime to unwind. Christ is risen, indeed—and we’re all still rising, too.