We’ve both been doing it lately—Daniel and I— saying things like, “it’s been a challenging few weeks,” but then I look at a calendar and do the math and, sure enough, it’s been longer than that. Taken alone, most of the issues register as nothing more than an inconvenience. Four weeks of care taking followed by the death of a grandparent, six weeks of living in a partially demolished construction zone, coupled with the loss of a close family friend, two weeks of company, failing appliances, disrupted sleep, and ongoing, nagging illness for all of us.

​They are all benign. We are all fine, but disgruntled. Frustrated. Worn thin.
 
My initial coping strategy—to keep my head down and push through it—worked for a while. It worked when I thought it would all be wrapped up within a couple weeks. But when the contractor’s schedule started slipping, problems compounded, additional expenses stacked high, when our “tough weeks” stretched into “tough months,” my resolve started to wobble. Daniel and I couldn’t see each other through the frustration of just one more thing going wrong. Small annoyances would set either of us off—not at each other, not yet—but in each other’s general direction.  “Can anything just be easy?” One of us might have (dramatically) said, when faced with another unexpected setback.
 
When I keep my head down, things get done, yes. But other things get missed. Things like opportunities to learn, moments of rest with my children, marveling over my son discovering so much so quickly, friends in the fringes, trying to lend a sympathetic ear—and, most of all—joy and gratitude. If, as we always say, “comparison is the thief of joy,” that must not only refer to comparison to what others have, but also comparison to how I think things should be going. We’ve been comparing our circumstances lately, not to those of others around us, but to those we think we’re entitled to. It’s been useless at best and potentially dangerous at worst.

On the phone with my dad, a month into this stretch, I said, “I’m just waiting for things to get back to normal,” which he met with a hearty laugh.

“Oh, honey,” he said, “there is no normal.” I flushed with annoyance.
"Sure there is," I argued. "It’s usually more settled than this."​

I stood at the bus stop with my neighbor, whose two kids are each at least a year older than my eldest two. I was probably gulping an iced coffee, pushing a stroller and staring down the hardest part of my day. She talked about 5:00 dinner and the piano lessons, girl scouts and swim lessons coming up for her daughter that day.
 
“We are not there yet,” I might have said, when what I probably meant was, “I hope we never get there.”

For my first four years of motherhood, I commuted and worked full time. A solid 10-12 hours of my every day was spent working, preparing for work or recovering from it, while my husband worked longer hours, finished school, worked six days a week and, eventually, traveled half the time. Life was chaotic, and I felt like I never saw my kids. When I came home I vowed it would be different, and mostly it has been. We are intentional about what we do and don’t do. I say no sometimes, even when I’d rather say yes, but I rarely say yes when I mean no. It’s been a major change.
 
Friends and family insist I will not always get to control our load the way I have so far. “Once your kids get older and into activities, you’ll understand,” they might say. I’m a recovering know-it-all who really doesn’t like being told what to do, so I’ve always prickled at that kind of thing. What if the way you’re doing it isn’t the only way? What if my priorities for our family can survive their getting older?
 
Our daughters are  7 and 5, our son is 1, and this is the first year we have committed to long-standing activities. We have done it without reservation. We explained each child got to choose one activity per season. So far, this hasn't been difficult to enforce, though I recognize we may be forced to reconsider as they get older. Mirabella thoughtfully decided on dance; Emerie has found that “kwae tron do” is exactly as much fun as she thought it would be. Both represent a lengthy commitment, and one is quite expensive. Now, two days a week they rush home from the bus stop, snack in the car and I shuttle from a dojang to a studio, then back again to try to catch the board breaking, home to stir dinner, and back to the studio. I know some friends would probably laugh that that sounds like a light day, but here’s the thing: I am not interested in winning the contest of who is busier. I don’t want to play that game at all, and if I have to, I’d just as soon lose.

“Trust the Earth to support you,” he says, “notice any sensations that arise in the body, acknowledge them without judgment, and let them go.” I exhale deeply, settling into Savasana, our final resting pose. I am not laughing.

A decade ago, when I first started practicing yoga and Pilates, I could be heard telling people while rolling my eyes, “I like yoga, but I’m not into all that meditation stuff. All that ‘check in with your hamstrings,’ and zen business. I just want a workout.”

It took me years to muster the courage to attend a fitness class of any kind. But Daniel had found a fitness routine that worked for him, his diligence rewarded with results, while my “squeeze it in when I can” approach wasn’t working. I started feeling resentful, and I knew that was trouble. So I began attending a yoga class that has childcare. Hallelujah, amen.

Wrangling my children to get them to yoga—or, honestly, anywhere—can be a challenge. So by the time I bust my empty stroller through the doors into the fellowship hall at the church around the corner, I am usually a few minutes late. Our instructor anticipates this, and he waits. Soon we’re settling in and finding our seats, closing our eyes and breathing deeply. “Finally, take the biggest breath you’ve taken all day, maybe all week,” he says, and I always think, i​t’s like he knows me.

It has only recently occurred to me that, in some Christian circles, yoga is maligned, due to its Hindu roots.  I have read the reasoning, and I try to get the case against yoga, but I just can’t. I see some suggest  “just do the stretching,” like younger me tried to do.

Older me, who manages a home, and work from home, and three children and three meals a day says, “honey, don’t miss out!” My muscle tone has benefited from yoga, for sure, but now that is only maybe half the reason I fight to get there each week.

I find now that practicing yoga is like worship, like prayer. What it is to me doesn't have to be what it is to you, but here is what I mean. My life is often chaotic and noisy, happily crowded, but in my practice, it is still; it moves slowly. When I focus my energy on this moment, I am unable to worry or fear. When I push my body past limits I had previously imposed on it, I celebrate its maker and the ways he is evident in me. When I fall short, I am reminded that we use the word “practice” for a reason. What a beautiful symbol for life: we are never mastering, never failing or succeeding, always practicing. When I say “Namaste,” a word with no English counterpart, I acknowledge the beauty of the spirit within me and that which is in you.  

Like so many things I had once thought were separate, maybe body and spirit aren’t meant to be so disengaged. Maybe spiritual practice and our physical selves are natural partners, just as I’m finding ministry and loving others to be. 

As we lie in that final posture, he talks us through our muscle groups, encouraging us to release tension where we find it. When he arrives at our hands, he says, “check for any clenching or grasping, notice it, and let it go.”

​I lie with mind at peace, grateful heart and open hands, breathing in the gift of this moment, hopeful I can take it with me off the mat.

​For two seasons, and into three, I tended her garden. Or maybe it was longer than that. When she arrived at my front door, sending the dog into a ruckus and waking my tiny baby, she introduced herself and wanted to know if we would replace the fence that leaned into her yard. “We can split the cost," she offered.

I wish I could tell you I liked her immediately.

“You’ll have to talk to my husband,” I sniped, “we have ten years of projects in this house, and I’m not sure where that falls on the list.”

We got to know her and her likable husband. When, on top of the sleep deprivation, I fell ill with a high fever, she insisted I bring the kids over. I shuffled next door on an 80-degree day in my pajama pants and a hoodie. She kept my girls all day and fed them dinner. “It’s organic,” she assured me, and told me to rest.

The girls asked often to play on the swing set they had installed for their grandson. They invited us to a dinner party. We traded food and stories. We embraced being neighbors.

“We need a neighbor gate,” Mirabella said one day, as she walked down the street to their house, “so we can go right over to play.” We all agreed.

While the kids played, we would talk. She wasn’t easy to get to know. She was salt of the earth and generous of spirit, but she was hard to read, unlike her effusive husband. I wondered if that was how people perceived me.

One day, as I unloaded groceries, she met me at the garage door and asked us to watch her house while she was away for the weekend. She didn’t look well. She spoke quickly, flatly. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I have cancer. And…it doesn’t look good.” Tears rolled off her stoic face and splashed onto my driveway. I rushed to hug her, awkwardly. She brushed the tears off, thanked me for watching the house, and was gone.

Right before Halloween, she told our girls “I will be dressed as a vampire, wandering out in the yard. Don’t be scared, it’s just me.” But on Halloween, she found herself in the hospital. Just for the weekend, they said, until the platelets stabilized. On her second favorite holiday, her house stood dark. The next morning, our little monarch butterfly and green fairy showed up in her hospital room. “For your favorite holiday!” Emerie said.

She smiled and corrected her; “My favorite holiday is Easter. But I like Halloween too.”