As the sun rose over Jerusalem, remnants of palm branches remained on the streets. A girl no more than five picked a branch up out of the dirt and waved it in the air just like she had seen her older siblings do the day before. A fresh squeal of “Hosanna” filled the morning air.

Worry is a thief. It creeps in at the most inopportune times, threatening to strangle our joy and siphon our peace. It clothes itself in questions that chip away at our confidence. When my son moved 1200 miles away to Canada for an internship, worry invaded my thoughts.

Better. Stronger. Faster. Prettier. Smarter. Taller. Skinnier. Wealthier.

Someone will always be something “er” more than you and me. It’s lethal to fix our eyes where we feel we lack and focus where we feel someone else has something in spades.

I won’t lie; it was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. After 20 years as a full-time worship pastor, God asked me to trust Him and transition into a new season. My initial reaction when God asked me was hesitation: “God, are you sure?”

“What year is your Cadillac,” he asked curiously.

“Umm, I’m not really sure. Would you believe it was a gift!” I said politely, albeit preoccupied while attempting to place my sandwich order in the line at Subway.

Undeterred, he continued, “Well, you know next year they’re coming out with flashers.”

Humility.

It’s fast becoming a lost character trait. Our society encourages self-promotion and getting ahead at all cost, trampling humility under ambition.

The words tumbled out casually amidst a flurry of conversation. She continued on, unaware that the simple phrase landed with a thud in my ears. After a few seconds, my curiosity refused to be silenced.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, awkwardly. “What was that you just said? Something about the gospel in 5 words?”

I’ll confess; in an attempt to let my quiet time unfold organically one year, it grew increasingly haphazard. Sloppy. After a few random “eyes-closed-page-turn-wherever-the-finger-stops” mornings (ahem…), I realized I needed a change.

I’m such a do-er. Anybody relate? One of my life-long pursuits included ridding myself of the yoke of perfection. Perfection is relentless. Never satisfied, it continually places unattainable demands on its prey. For an over-achiever, that constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. Thankfully, God offers a much better way.

Ahhhh, chesnuts roasting by an open fire…Jack Frost nipping at your nose…car horns blaring and long lines forming…Pinterest recipes burning and ill-fitting gifts returning. Yep, that’s the holiday season all right.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I cried out loud to myself, shifting my car into park.

A distracted driver barreled into me at 35 mph while I sat stopped at a red light. Weak in the knees and jarred from impact, I called my husband and checked out the damage.

I arrived at the quaint, Italian restaurant and chose a quiet table for dinner. Andrea Bocelli’s soothing voice soared over the speakers. Red and white checkered tablecloths and green vines adorned the room. The calm ambiance was perfect for an evening dedicated to spending time with a few women from my church, connecting over garlic knots and chicken Florentine.

It’s 5:30, everyone’s “hangry,” and nothing’s thawed. Ugh. Pizza or takeout, again. Surely there’s a better way?

Between 8-hour workdays, softball games and voice lessons, making healthy meals can be a challenge. But with a little planning and preparation, you can skip the dreaded takeout trap, and end up with a happier family.

“I think I got fired,” my daughter mumbled softly.

“What?” I asked, incredulously.

“Well, I emailed my manager and told her I was home from college and ready to work at the restaurant. I haven’t heard back.

“I just can’t believe I’m actually here.” Strolling the ancient streets of Rome and inhaling the breathtaking beauty of Capri, my 100% Italian husband, Dale, was beside himself. A dream, nearly fifty years in the making, became a reality: Dale and I finally toured Italy.