J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote a short story called “Leaf by Niggle.” The main character, Niggle, is a painter. He envisions painting a grand tree set against a countryside and even a forest in the picture, along with mountains and birds and the tree's deep, strong roots.

But he keeps getting interrupted in his work by neighbors, the needs of others, and the responsibilities of everyday life. Those around him don't understand why he even bothers painting at all. There's far more important work to do. And so despite Niggle's best efforts at painting, he can't quite make the image on the canvas match the image in his mind. Parts of it are barely completed, “and only so so, at that.”

It’s 11am on Friday morning, and our mastermind group has already exchanged several Voxer messages. Most days, Sonya, the East Coaster, starts us off with a “Good morning, how is everyone?” message, often peppered with commentary about the car in front of her or how people can’t park. Her day is in full swing, and when I see the notification on my phone that I have a message, I can hardly wait to hear what’s going to be said. Also, I’ve never found someone’s verbal road rage so endearing.

I’m in the Central Time Zone, so sometimes I’m next up, although Ashlee and Katie, the West Coasters, are more disciplined than me about waking up early. They often beat me to replying, but I catch up eventually. I have serious FOMO if I miss a message. For the rest of the day, we leave each other Voxes about everything from book marketing to health updates to marriage and kids to what we ate for breakfast. These messages are among the most meandering, delightful, sometimes hard but always grace-filled, conversations I’ve had in my life.

We’re a few weeks from the end of another year. As I look back over the last 12 months and take stock of what’s happened in the world, it’s easy to grow discouraged. Personally, my year has been exhausting and full, but relative to other years, it’s not one that’s been particularly marked by grief. Yet when I lift my eyes and consider so many others in my community around me and in the world at large, this year has overflowed with suffering. Just glance back at the headlines, and it’s obvious that suffering runs rampant.

I love when my husband makes me coffee in the morning––and I love really good, black coffee.

I love homemade bread with plenty of butter and a pinch of sea salt, sunny fall days, and unexpected acts of kindness.

I love fresh flowers and good quality candles, a big mug that feels comforting––like a well worn sweatshirt.

I love people who love my kids, cozying up under a soft blanket, and donning an oversized sweater. I love afternoon thunderstorms and leafing through beautiful cookbooks with doable recipes.

I love listening to my kids laugh, their giggles and grins spreading joy through the whole house. I love when they crawl into my lap first thing in the morning, sleep still in their eyes as they nuzzle their way into my chest.

Like many people, I started baking a lot more after the pandemic started. While I have yet to jump on the sourdough bandwagon, I did find myself mixing flour and sugar and butter together on a much more regular basis than I used to. When I’d scroll through my Instagram feed, it was obvious I wasn’t alone in that practice.

Why do we do that? Why do we find ourselves with a big mixing bowl and a spatula and a newfound desire to use our ovens?

Science, so I’ve heard, has a lot to say about what sugar and carbs do to our brains and bodies (like increasing dopamine levels, which brings us pleasure but is also why practicing moderation is necessary). Yet then why do we sometimes find satisfaction in baking, even when we’re not the ones to eat the fruits of our labor? Why does the act of making cookies or bread or whatever else seem to bring some sense of comfort?

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.

We’re in some crazy times, aren’t we? I’ve been addicted to reading the news, fighting anxiety, and struggling to focus. It’s easy to grow more discouraged and weary, and I think we have to actively battle that by finding things that nourish our souls.

Here are a few ideas and resources I’ve collected this week. I hope they’re helpful, and I pray we can all remember that God is still good even in the chaos.