We were homebound with sickness, quarantined from pretty much everyone except our pediatrician. The kids had double ear infections, and I had the flu—or some other demon virus intent on making us all miserable. I was also five months pregnant, but I looked and felt like a full-term mama whale. And aren’t whales pregnant for like a year?

Did I mention it was the twins’ second birthday? The day almost passed us by, if not for the family and friends who wished them a happy birthday from a distance. We traded forkfuls of cake for syringes filled with medicine, and I never got around to getting their gifts. They’re only two, I reminded myself. They won’t remember.

They won’t remember we canceled their party and saved the tiger-striped plates and zebra-print napkins for next year. They probably wouldn’t have noticed the adorable zoo-themed party decor I ordered, anyway. The flour, sugar, and butter sat unused. I hope they won’t remember the unfulfilled promise of cake, because the only meals consumed involved dry crackers and chicken soup.

This week, I’m finally reentering the online world. I took about a month off from blogging and social media, and gosh, it was so, so needed. I’m excited to be back—and a little nervous.

I finished 2019 feeling worn down and weary in my soul. That’s probably not a good place to be when my aim is to help you find nourishment for yours. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been reflecting, goal setting, and praying through how to move forward in my writing, speaking, and online life. I wish I could tell you I had a vision from God telling me the next ten steps to take and exactly how to move forward in 2020.

I wanted to come to you today having written some insightful new post for Advent. I wanted to come with reflections on Isaiah or Luke or Matthew and bring a word of comfort and joy in the season.

But the truth is...I’m tired. Not just physically tired but soul tired. This year has probably been the most growing and stretching of my life spiritually and emotionally. For that I’m grateful—but because of that, I’m also worn out. I planned to take the week between Christmas and New Year’s off from doing any blogging or social media, and I’m realizing I need to start that break earlier than originally planned. I don’t want to be part of a weary world that’s too busy to rejoice. 

Every Thanksgiving, I set out a dish with cranberry sauce the way my grandmother used to make it—right from the can, ridges in tact. It reminds me of her and helped us find joy in the midst of grief during one particular Thanksgiving. Of course, I like to include some homemade cranberry sauce, too, like this version with pomegranate and orange.

My husband took a day off of work this week. The morning began as normal, but by 8 a.m. it spiraled into kids crying and me taking a timeout behind my locked door. I needed help, space, an extra set of hands, and someone with the dose of patience I lacked.

As I watched him take the kids to the park, make their lunch, and put our two-year-old down for a nap, I felt guilty that I didn’t contribute and guilty that he carried the load of two parents. Rather than being grateful for my husband and his flexible job, I resented needing the help.

I’ve said it before, and it’s still true. Motherhood has revealed my own need to me more than any other experience in my life. I have never felt so in over my head than I have in the last five years. I overanalyze how I handle my twins’ fighting, I beat myself up for too much screen time, I fear the thousand more important and life-altering decisions to come in the next 15 years. And I’m just so tired. 

We haven’t had a hard road to growing our family. We haven’t even had hard babies for the most part. Sure, having two newborns at the same time proved quite the challenge. But even the most ordinary of parenting experiences puts me on my knees.

There’s so much I carry in my head. Most of it would seem useless to many people. But I can tell you exactly which stores have two seats in the cart and how prices of diapers on Amazon compare to prices at Costco. I remember my son’s fire truck pajamas need to be washed because otherwise the tears will flow at bedtime. And, not that you’d ever want to know this, but I could tell you the last time each one of my three kids pooped.

Somehow over the years the practice of memorizing Scripture has been pushed aside in my brain to make room for remembering where my twins’ shoes are or that I need to take the meat out of the freezer in time for dinner. But a couple year ago, a few friends and I slowly memorized Romans 8, and it was nothing short of life-changing—especially during the most wearying days of motherhood.

A couple years ago, I called my dad to check up on him while he was in the hospital. I can’t recall what sent him there this particular time, but he picked up the phone, light-hearted and positive as ever. “How you feelin’, Dad?” I asked. 

“Everything’s all good,” he told me. “I’m perfectly healthy.” 

I rolled my eyes and recounted to him his current ailments. The “perfectly healthy” part was an exaggeration, to say the least. And was he really “all good”? 

I made my skepticism clear, to which he retorted, “Well, this is nothing compared to being shot down in the middle of a war.”

Okay, well played, Dad. I don’t know what it’s like to fly a helicopter and get shot down. Even so, I shook my head, both annoyed at my dad’s apparent denial of his poor health and wondering how he could be so upbeat in a hospital bed.

My husband and I collapsed on the basement couch after making the bedtime rounds. We wanted to spend time together but after work days and diapers and tantrums and laundry and all the normal chaos of life, we felt completely depleted. We opted to watch Harry Potter, a regular entertainment choice when we want to escape without venturing somewhere too terribly intense.

There’s a scene in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone when Harry comes upon The Mirror of Erised. As he looks into the mirror, he sees who he eventually recognizes as his parents who died when he was a baby. He brings his friend Ron to the mirror, hoping Ron can get a glimpse. Ron looks and sees not Harry’s family but himself as head boy and Quidditch captain. Harry later finds his way to the mirror yet again, only to run into Professor Dumbledore who explains that the mirror shows the “deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.”

I grabbed the remote, hit pause, and turned toward my husband. “What would the mirror show you?” I asked.