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.

I remember a couple years ago, I made a batch of soup for a friend who had a baby. She returned my plastic containers to me not long after. Side note: when you bring a meal to someone, if possible bring it in a container that doesn’t need to be returned. The last thing someone who’s sick, stressed, or caring for a newborn needs is to keep track of Tupperware.

I should have taken my own advice, of course, but this particular time that faux pas turned out well for me. My friend returned those containers stocked with her own homemade soup. It was an unnecessary but delightful surprise.

The poet, Christian Wiman, writes, “Lord, suffer me to sing these wounds by which I am made and marred.”

****

Only a few days remain in the year, and I stand singing on a Sunday morning.

This world is a weary place, brokenness marks every face.
Dear ones are lost and bodies languish, divisions drive our souls to anguish.
Injustice mingles with the soil, we eat the bread of anxious toil.
Hear our cries, show us favor, we need hope, we need a Savior.

My voice trembles, and I feel my jaw tighten. The notes ring in my ear, but not as loudly as the words. Weary. Brokenness. Injustice. Anxious. I hear those words scrape at my soul, tearing away at the armor I clothed it in when I stepped into the church.

We need hope. I fumble through that last line and try to blink back the emotion flooding my face. The voices around me carry the lyrics I can’t seem to say. It seems a fitting way to end a hard year—a song of desperation sung with a shaking voice, a few tears, and a community who cries out with me.

More input. Less output.

That’s the phrase I repeated to myself this past month. Maybe it sounds selfish, I suppose, especially coming off a season when I’d taken steps back and said no more than a few times already. 

But somehow, as the decade wound down, so did the strength of my soul. I felt dry and worn and hungry. That’s the only way I can describe it. Putting my words out into the world felt like giving those last few crumbs of bread away. I had nothing to say, nothing of substance to offer. I needed, well, nourishment for my soul—the thing I talk about as the tagline for my own work.

If you love some good fungi, you’ll enjoy this recipe for Balsamic Sautéed Mushrooms. It brings out the rich, deep flavor of mushrooms in the best way. The sweetness of the balsamic complements the earthiness of the mushrooms. The recipe only takes a few minutes to make, so you can even whip it up at the last minute if you feel like whatever protein you're serving needs a little something extra.

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. 

I’ve been studying Psalm 120 over the last few months, and tried my hand and writing a prayer related to that psalm. I debated all day about posting it here, because I’ve never written any sort of prayer like this. It’s definitely a work in progress. But I thought I’d share it with you hoping you might find encouragement in praying through this passage of Scripture.

Looking for cooking inspiration this Christmas? I’ve got a roundup of 8 of my favorite recipes to make this season, including cocktails, cookies, appetizers, and family favorites like homemade eggnog and Swedish Tea Ring!

Many nights, I lay my head on the pillow and the quietness of the evening makes my thoughts all the louder. I scroll through questions in my mind from mundane to meaningful. Did we close the garage door? Did I just hear the kids call out? Was my friend offended by what I said? Shouldn’t I be doing more about all the problems in the world? Why does God allow such suffering? What if my daughter’s fever gets worse? Do my kids have to bring a snack to preschool tomorrow? It’s like the questions are ping-pong balls flying through my brain. Even if I answer each one, another comes flying back at me.

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.

The last couple weeks have been filled with all the normal chaos of life—sickness, things in our home breaking or needing to be cleaned, a two-year-old very vocally voicing his opinions, skipped naps, and pediatrician appointments. It’s not been anything completely out of the ordinary—just tiring. But I find myself frustrated that I can’t seem to get ahead on tasks and annoyed at the inconveniences of life.