I sit down to work after dropping off my son. Daycare is a new thing for us. He’s my first, so every decision feels tender and overwhelmingly important. I remind myself I can change my mind, that if it doesn’t feel right to continue working I can stop. I say this when the guilt consumes me.

The guilt of still pursuing work I love in the thick of motherhood.

Will it always feel this way? Like maybe who I am and how I’m made doesn’t matter all that much anymore? That I might have to fight for that and hold onto believing my soul matters in this season too?

Seasoned mothers tell me gently – yes, yes it might.

I look up at the clock and down at my list. There’s no way I’ll get it all done. With defeat close by, I begin what I know I can’t finish. It’s a mantra I’ve adopted since becoming a Mom.

But something within me feels different. I begin moving through each task in record time. I’m not so distracted and confused. I’m bursting with energy. My heart feels light.

This isn’t how work feels lately. Often, it’s messy and disorienting. Inspiration is there but the ability to produce something, from start to finish, feels impossible. My brain is often foggy. I’ll grow discouraged and bail and become frustrated at what hasn’t gotten done.

It all leads to an unhealthy spiral ending in comparison.

How do other moms do it? How does she blow dry her hair and produce art?

But this morning was different. I could have ignored it when it was time to pick up my son. Chock it all up to being an oddly good day. Assume my coffee was brewed just right.

But it wasn’t my coffee. It was something else, and I had to uncover it.

So that’s what I did, I retraced my steps.

Wake, scoop up my son, change his diaper, nurse. The sequence of events was familiar. As he drank, an idea simmered to the surface.

Place him on the floor to play. Grind the beans. Boil the water. Check to make sure he hasn’t toppled over.

He hasn’t.

Again, the idea simmers.

Find clothes that fit us both, wash my face, put him down for a nap.

The idea comes back. There’s a basket of unfolded laundry and dishes in the sink. Shoes scattered across the floor. It’s clear what should get done. But I don’t do any of these things. Not right away at least. Because the thought pierces my side again and won’t let me go. It’s on the Eucharist and birth and becoming a mom. The metaphor pinches a nerve I’ve never felt.

I could get weepy just thinking about it.

I walk past the dishes to my desk and write. I write every little thing I hear. I’m a pressure cooker about to pop that suddenly gets released.

The thoughts have a place to live. I empty, only to be filled back up.

That was it.

I uncovered the thing – writing. That’s what was different. The pivot in a familiar sequence of events.

I wrote for twenty minutes. Not because I had to but because I wanted to.

And what marked the moment was this: the writing turned into a conversation with God.

It always does.

Those twenty minutes changed the trajectory of my entire day. It changed my work and my time with my son. It changed how I treated my husband.

Writing for me is nourishment. It’s like bread and water. It’s always been the thing that keeps me well. The thing I do to release and receive and how I find clarity and direction. It’s where I talk to God.

And in the talking, I feel connected to who I am and how I’m made.

There’s nothing small or insignificant about that.

And yet, I can so easily dismiss this truth, calling it child’s play or selfish rather than an act of worship.

Could it really be so simple? That the very things that keep us well might actually be important to prioritize and practice, no matter the season or the growing to-do list.  Could it be that taking the time to do what keeps me well helps me be better at work and at home?


Yes, I think it is.

What is it for you? What lights you up, helps you breathe, and connects you to the Maker?

Maybe like me, it’s pouring words onto a page. For you it could be a walk, brush strokes on canvas, reading an old book with worn edges. Maybe it’s pressing your hands into soil.

Whatever it is, let’s make room to do it. To find rest and call it what it is – an encounter with God. Because He dwells inside every little thing.

Both the pages I read about Him and the pages I sit down to write.

When you practice what keeps you well, see what comes of it. Notice the change, acknowledge the difference. Resist the urge to ignore what is happening within you, the mighty work at play. The things that keep us well are nothing to scoff at. They remind us of both our smallness and our significance. They tether us to the Spirit and help build a solid foundation.

Writing is my mountaintop experience. It helps me notice and pay attention and witness God in all things. It’s an act of worship and obedience, with effects that always trickle down throughout my day.

It makes hard things easier.

It makes God feel extra close.

And that might be reason enough to do it again and again.