Palm Sunday always carries a certain weight to it. Not heavy… but meaningful. The kind of day that asks you to slow down whether you planned to or not. And tonight, I find myself settling in with a hot cup of Egyptian licorice tea, the house finally quiet, the hum of the day softening into something I can actually feel.
Today was simple. Quietly beautiful in the way that doesn’t try too hard.
I woke up slowly, coffee in bed, the back door open, letting the morning come to me instead of rushing out to meet it. The birds were loud, the waterfall steady, a soft breeze moving through the house like it belonged here. I was tucked in next to Craig, not saying much, just being there. Those are the moments I’ve come to understand matter more than most of the ones we chase.
We made our way to Mass, and it was packed. Palm Sunday tends to do that. Standing room, restless energy, kids shifting, noise that teeters on chaotic. And yet there was something grounding about it too. Being there together. Showing up. Not because it’s always easy, but because it matters.
Afterward, we went to one of our favorite little local pizzerias. Nothing extravagant, just familiar. A crisp glass of Italian vino, good food, laughter that doesn’t need to be forced. At one point, I looked around the table (Craig, the boys, the energy of it all) and I felt this wave of gratitude rise up so naturally I couldn’t ignore it.
So I said it out loud.
I thanked them.
For going to church even when it felt chaotic. For their attitudes. For the connection. For the way the day felt.
And then I looked over at Craig.
And his eyes were leaking.
Yes… leaking. You know, that thing men don’t do. That thing that isn’t supposed to happen.
But there it was.
Not dramatic. Not performative. Just real.
The kind of emotion that doesn’t need words because it speaks louder without them. There is something about being seen in your appreciation, in your presence, in your gratitude… that reaches a place nothing else can.
It marked me for a moment.
Because it reminded me how easy it is to move through life and not say the thing. Not acknowledge the goodness. Not name what’s right in front of us.
And how powerful it is when we do.
We came home, and the day kept unfolding in its own rhythm. Nap. House chores. The reality of living in a home that is still under construction, where projects seem to move from one side of the room to the other, back and forth, waiting for their turn to be finished.
Craig started working on the office shelves, cutting wood, getting things lined up… and then suddenly, water starts pouring in from a spigot that broke.
Everything stops.
Of course it does.
That’s life.
It doesn’t ask if the timing works for you. It just happens.
And yet, even in that moment, nothing felt off.
Cars still got washed. Laundry still got done. Food still got cooked. There was laughter (real laughter) from roughhousing, from racing, from being together in a way that doesn’t need to be curated.
Just life.
And it felt… blessed.
Not perfect.
But full.
And there’s a difference.
Friday was my grandson Dameion’s seventh birthday. Our little heart warrior. And if you’ve followed his story at all, you know what that means. You know what he’s walked through, what he’s overcome, what he carries.
It’s been five years since his transplant.
Five years.
There are no words that fully capture what it’s like to watch a child almost leave this world… and then be given back.
To hold that kind of fragility in your hands and realize just how thin the veil can be between here and not here.
And then to watch him now…
Radiant. Alive. Full of joy that doesn’t seem to have been dimmed by any of it.
His face glows. It really does. Not metaphorically. You can feel it when you’re around him.
He has this way of pulling you back into what matters without even trying.
Every day with him humbles you.
Reminds you.
Grounds you.
His mom has been sending pictures all weekend, little glimpses into his birthday celebrations, and every single one carries that same energy — pure love for life.
We’ll see him tomorrow, and I already know it will shift something in me again. It always does.
I was talking to the boys today about testimonies.
They asked what that even meant, and I realized how important it is that they understand this now, not later.
A testimony isn’t just a story you tell after something hard happens.
It’s evidence.
It’s the imprint left behind when you walk through something that could have broken you… and instead it builds something in you.
It’s the place where faith becomes real.
Not theoretical. Not borrowed.
Yours.
And I reminded them of Levi. Of that moment a couple years ago when we stood on the edge of losing him. When everything stopped. When breath felt like it had to be chosen with intention because it didn’t come easily.
They were there.
They saw it.
And what I witnessed in them during that time… the way they held faith, the way they stayed anchored when everything around them said to panic… it was profound.
That’s a testimony.
Not that something hard happened.
But that in the middle of it… they chose something higher.
That stays with you.
That becomes part of your foundation.
There’s a verse that has been echoing in me today, one that feels aligned with everything I’ve experienced this week.
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
Be still.
Not strive more. Not push harder. Not control every outcome.
Be still.
There is something about stillness that opens the door to grace.
And grace… I’ve been noticing more and more… follows surrender.
Not defeat.
Not giving up.
But letting go of the grip.
Letting go of the need to force, to control, to orchestrate every detail. Forgiving where forgiveness is needed. Others, yes… but also yourself. Releasing the weight of what was, so you can actually stand in what is.
Napoleon Hill said, “Every adversity, every failure, every heartache carries with it the seed of an equal or greater benefit.”
I’ve lived that long enough to know it’s true.
But you don’t see the seed when you’re gripping the pain.
You see it when you soften.
When you surrender.
When you allow life to move through you instead of constantly resisting it.
And Robert Schuller said it in a way that feels fitting for today, “Tough times never last, but tough people do.”
I would add to that…
Aligned people glide.
Not because life stops bringing challenges, but because they’re not fighting everything that comes their way.
They’ve opened their sails.
And when the wind comes (whether it’s gentle or strong) they move with it instead of against it.
That’s what this season feels like right now.
Not perfect.
But aligned.
There is a sense of God’s favor, and I don’t say that lightly.
Favor doesn’t mean nothing goes wrong.
It means that even when it does… it doesn’t take you down.
It moves you through.
With grace.
With steadiness.
With a kind of quiet confidence that isn’t loud, but it’s undeniable.
And I can feel it.
In the way this week unfolded. In the new friendships. In the growth. In the education. In the alignment. In the flow.
It’s not accidental.
It’s cultivated.
Through surrender. Through faith. Through showing up. Through choosing presence over pressure.
So tonight, as I sit here with my tea, reflecting on a day that on the surface looked simple…
I see it differently.
I see the thread running through all of it.
Gratitude spoken out loud.
Love felt deeply.
Chaos that didn’t derail anything.
A child who reminds us what life really is.
A family choosing connection.
And a quiet, steady knowing that we are being carried… not just by our efforts, but by something greater than us.
And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this.
Not to chase more.
But to recognize what is already here.
To name it.
To feel it.
To honor it.
Because when you do…
You don’t just live your life.
You experience it.
What’s a moment in your life that became part of your testimony?
I’d love to hear it — share below.
And if this touched you, send it to someone who’s walking through their own story right now.
As always loving and praying for you and our world,
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Rene’ Schooler(Author)
