Rest. Pause.

There’s a particular kind of tired that doesn’t come from one long day, but from a long string of full ones. That’s where I’ve been living lately.

The last few weeks have been packed—beautifully, meaningfully packed—with the kinds of moments that remind me why I love this work. Holy Week and Easter unfolded with all their depth and wonder. There were gatherings that felt sacred in that quiet, unmistakable way. We celebrated in a delightful way with building partners at a dance. There were gatherings that felt sacred in that quiet, unmistakable way. Laughter in fellowship halls. Conversations that mattered. The kind of ministry that doesn’t always show up on a report but leaves its fingerprints on your heart.

At the same time, life outside the sanctuary has been just as full. The move is starting to take shape in real, tangible ways. Piles in preparation for the move are in every room of the house and my church office. Boxes are being mentally packed, if not always physically. Lists are everywhere—some written down, some just living rent-free in my brain. And of course, there is a quiet (and sometimes not-so-quiet) effort to “leave well,” to make sure that what I’ve been entrusted with is cared for, tended, and handed off with intention.

And that’s its own sacred work, isn’t it? Ending well.

It’s also complicated.

Because while I’m trying to hold all of that with grace, I’ve also got my family who are very much on their own emotional journeys right now. Big transitions don’t just happen to me—they ripple through our whole family. Some days feel like we’re all doing okay. Other days? Let’s just say the struggle bus is crowded, and we’re all on board. There are tears, frustrations, questions that don’t have easy answers. There’s a lot of holding space, a lot of deep breaths, a lot of reminding myself that faithfulness in this season looks like presence more than productivity.

Still, the lists keep calling.

Tick this off. Follow up on that. Send the email. Finish the plan. Start the next thing.

And the “next thing” is already beginning to take shape. Our house closes in a week. Yikes. Paperwork will be signed this week, finalizing our financial commitment to the loan on the house (double yikes). I find myself sketching out summer worship for a congregation I haven’t even fully met yet. Imagining rhythms, themes, possibilities. There’s an energy building there—a quiet excitement about what’s ahead, even as I’m still standing in what’s now.

It would be easy to just keep going. To push through. To convince myself that rest can wait until everything is settled, everything is done, everything is “in place.”

But here’s the truth I’m trying to honor: Everything is never all in place.

So I’m pausing.

In the middle of the chaos, in between the lists and the logistics and the emotions, I’m stepping away for a few days. Every few years, my two best friends and I carve out time for a girls’ trip. It’s not fancy. It’s not elaborate. Once we went to Disneyland, which was its own kind of magic—but more often, it’s something simpler. This time, it’s an Airbnb next to a river within a short driving distance of two of our 3 houses. What matters isn’t where we go. It’s who I’m with.

These are the people who knew me before so many of the titles I carry now. Before “mom.” Even before “spouse.” They’ve seen so many versions of me, and somehow, they’ve loved me through all of them. They are my grounding. My remembering. My deep breath.

And so, I’m choosing—intentionally—to step out of the noise and into that space.

Not because everything is done.

Not because I’ve earned it by checking every box.

But because I need it.

Because rest is not a reward for finishing; it’s a practice that makes faithfulness possible. Because in a season of transition, pausing is not falling behind—it’s how we stay rooted.

There is still so much to do. There are still goodbyes to say, details to tend, new beginnings to prepare for. The lists will be waiting when I get back.

But for a few days, I’m setting them down.

I’m choosing laughter over logistics.

Presence over productivity.

Connection over completion.

And trusting—deeply trusting—that the work will still be there… and that I will return to it a little more grounded, a little more whole, and a lot more ready for whatever comes next.