Used to be – that the Sunday morning flow of life was just another version of something that happened last week. Like folding laundry or dishes to wash, there was a sameness and redundancy that sadly, I had resigned to. Rather than remembering the rhythm and potentially peaceful meditation of the “chores” that I was blessed to have before me, all I saw and felt was the burden of what I foolishly had come to believe were tasks – not blessings.

And then we got turned upside down by crisis. And now, we are slowly – carefully – finding a new balance that includes joy born from grief, courage despite fear, faith more determined than cancer, and learning to celebrate the small chores – because they are the stuff that awake hearts are made of.

Sunday morning. The house is quiet. My lover is  off watching his favorite football team with a buddy. My two older kids just tossed their soccer boots on the front porch and grabbed their little sister to go out for a bagel. Dishes are in the sink, clean towels are piled nearby – waiting to be folded, dough is rising for homemade pizza later; this life is full, messy, deliberate and real. Thank goodness.