Easter is not about a people who have it all together. It’s about a Savior who knows we don’t—and came anyway.— Unknown
I grew up in the Catholic Church. These days, I practice Presbyterianism. But regardless of denomination—and I know this will make my mother proud—I carry a deep and abiding faith. It has been a cornerstone in every season of my life and remains so now.
That said, I’d be remiss not to acknowledge that this season—of motherhood, of marriage, of life—is often marked by an awkward tug between faith and questioning. Not from a lack of belief in myself or others, but rather from my natural tendency to wander in worry. I do the same in wonder.
Maybe you do too. Or maybe you’re someone who makes peace more easily with life’s uncertainties. Either way, I like to think Easter is, in its own divine way, a celebration of our hot messes—of the weird, the wonderful, the breaking and the becoming.
And while I don’t expect any religious leader to quote me from the pulpit, I think that might just be the most honest place I’ve ever prayed from.
A few years ago, I wrote a list of things I hoped to accomplish in my forties. I’m not sure why lately I’ve been so fixated on the feeling of being behind. But as always, the timing feels strangely perfect—arriving just when I need it, and when I’m finally ready to meet it halfway.
I make lists the way only a dreamer can—anchored in a little practicality, but mostly rooted in curiosity and adventure.
This Easter weekend, I’m holding space for that. For the divine within this messy, meaningful journey. For the quiet belief that what awaits me is not just possible, but purposeful. And for the truth that every pause—whether it’s mine or someone else’s—belongs to the story too.
The Forty Files 