For several years when I was a kid, my parents hosted big New Years’ Eve parties. They weren’t fancy or elaborate, but they were full of people. All of our friends and their families were invited, a mix of adults, teenagers, and younger kids in one house. About 9pm, people descended on our home to laugh, play games, drink root beer floats, eat snacks, and count down to the new year. 

I used to stay up until the early morning hours when my family got together for holidays. The night before Thanksgiving, a few of us would prepare stuffing and turkey for the next day while others chatted around the table in the eat-in kitchen. Late on Christmas nights, we’d sip leftover eggnog and eat the final few slices of Swedish Tea Ring while we laughed, cried, and told all the same stories we’ve been telling for years.

The other night, my husband and I were watching The Chosen, and one of my favorite things about this show is how it depicts the disciples wrestling with what Jesus is doing (or not doing) and why certain events and struggles happen. Why doesn't he heal everyone? Why did he allow Lazarus to die? Why did he only raise Lazarus and no one else? 

These kinds of questions have been around for thousands of years. And I'm not sure we've gotten much closer to an answer, at least not one that satisfies our human need for closure.

I recently came across a commencement speech given by New York Times columnist David Brooks. He addressed Dartmouth's 2015 graduating class, noting that for so many people, their goal in life, their vision of fulfillment, is freedom–freedom to do whatever you want, freedom to achieve anything, freedom to choose your way of life or your partner or your career.

I have never been more tired than I’ve been since becoming a mom. Nighttime feedings in the infant years, the endless needs of the toddler years, and the looming anxieties coming in the big-kid years can often keep me awake at night and anxious during the day. Trying to meet the needs of everyone in my house, much less myself, is no small feat.

It’s easy to feel like I’m running on a hamster wheel, wearing myself out while little progress is made. 

Yet I’m realizing so much of my exhaustion isn’t surface-level. It’s not always just a matter of needing more sleep, although that wouldn’t hurt. It’s much more than that, deeper than that.

I usually listen to a podcast episode or a few minutes of an audiobook at the start of my workouts to distract my brain from thinking about how much I do not want to be working out at that moment. Then, when I’m about halfway through exercising and my body loosens up, I switch to a playlist with a few bangers from my high school and college years. Nothing gets this almost 40-year-old mama’s feet moving a little faster than hits from the 90s and early aughts.

“Boys will be boys.” 

They use the phrase as a lazy defense 
of chaos, 
of tempers, 
of misogyny, 
of cruelty.

As if boys don’t have the ability to control themselves, 
as if that’s all we expect.

Last year, I worked through the Bible chronologically with The Bible Recap. If you’ve ever read through the Bible, you’ll know that at one point in the Old Testament, it seems like you’re doomed to an endless cycle of depressing narratives and prophecies about the disobedience of Israel and God’s subsequent judgment.  

These are hard passages to read. Taken on their own, these narratives usually don’t have happy endings. They’re filled with violence and gore and suffering.

My husband and I raced to the emergency room with our then two-year-old, my face covered in tears and my entire body shaking. Our son had just taken a horrible fall. He was responsive and seemed okay, but I was not. I thought there had to only be bad news to come.

The incident happened at the height of the pandemic, so only one parent was allowed to accompany him into the hospital room. While I wanted to be with our boy, I knew my own hysterics probably wouldn’t help anyone–especially him. I opted to wait in the car, my always-calm husband assuring me he’d text with updates as often as possible.

In a recent sermon, my pastor asked the question, “What do you expect when you pray?” 

It’s a good question to ask. Most of the time, if I’m honest, I don’t expect a whole lot–or I just don’t expect nearly as much as God ends up doing.

The sun presses gently on my back. It’s late spring, so the heat doesn’t feel too harsh, more like the reassuring weight of an arm resting on my shoulders. The weeds have crept their way toward the perennials in the garden bed. I stand there, hands on my hips, looking at the dirt, assessing what needs to be done and how much effort cleaning out this portion of my parents’ yard will require. I’m only in town for a couple of days, and I don’t want to leave my newly widowed dad* with a half-finished chore.

The other day, I came across an interview with Ye (Kanye West) where he talks about everything from the music industry to faith. (It's a fascinating listen, although please be mindful the language is terrible, and I obviously am not condoning his views.)

Ye said, “I have my issues with Jesus. There's a lot of stuff I went through that I prayed and I ain't see Jesus show up. So I had to put my experience…in my own hands.”

We could jump to criticize Ye–but maybe he's voiced something so many of us have felt at one time or another. Maybe you're feeling it now.