Joy and peace and skillet cookie.

It’s Friday, and I’ve spent the last 20 minutes chopping, sautéing, and seasoning ingredients for beef stew to toss in the crockpot for tonight’s dinner. Before that, I caught up with a dear friend several states away over an hour-and-a-half FaceTime coffee date, where we discussed a major life transition they may be having in the near future. I offer words of truth and encouragement in between sips of steaming pour-over, and she shares hopes about the future as she runs the faucet in her kitchen for the plumber working in her bathroom, who showed up at her door during our conversation to clear out an underground pipe that had been assaulted by a pervasive tree root.  

The kids are bouncing in between the living room and their bedroom, lost in some made up game involving a LEGO Star Wars ship and two stuffed orcas. They hum their own theme song and make noises I can’t identify.

We’ve been tackling chores, the kids dusting their room and cleaning their bathroom while I throw sheets into the wash by the armful, all to get our work out of the way so we can enjoy our Sabbath that starts this evening. 

After lunch, we’ll make dough for our weekly Friday night skillet cookie, the grand kickoff of our restful time as a family. It’s a spectacular tradition, one that I kick myself for not incorporating into our lives sooner. We drizzle caramel and hot fudge sauce over peaks of vanilla frozen yogurt that are melting into a sizzling, gooey masterpiece symphony of butter, egg, almond flour, sugar, vanilla, and some combination of baking chips that we decide to tumble into the mix. 

“Remember, there’s enough to go around,” we parents say. “Stay on your side,” the kids respond with a warning, as five spoons pierce the crusty exterior, scoop down to the bottom of the skillet, and resurface with a perfect blend of all the delicious flavors.

In this season, there is a lot we cannot control. The ever-changing rules of the pandemic are giving us whiplash, the future seems up for grabs, conversations seem to have taken a pins-and-needles vibe, and Portland is keeping it very weird. It’s all so intense. So I’m leaning in steeply to the things I can control, choosing to steward well the things placed in my care—my self, my family, my home.

There is something so therapeutic about anchoring ourselves in the present moment and remaining there a while. Embracing the sensory experience of smashing and peeling garlic cloves, tuning in to the satisfying sound of a santoku blade slicing through root vegetables as knife tip hits butcher block, the whisper of sprinkling pink salt and chopped sage over a bowl of organic, grass-fed beef tips. 

Not thinking about the to-do list in my planner when my daughter approaches with two toy horses and offers me one, but instead looking deep into her sparkling cerulean eyes that match mine, memorizing the curves of her face and streaks of coveted natural blonde highlights, and getting lost in the sound of her giggles and imaginary storyline, knowing deep in my soul that I made the better choice.

I may not have the next year mapped out, but I do have tonight’s dinner to make, so I immerse myself in it—light candles and set the table and mix heart and soul into the recipe and sip local wine and look my family in their eyes and linger over conversations about Star Wars and unicorns and release a sigh of gratefulness for the present moment we have together.

This is what living a simple and sound life is about—daily choices to do what’s best, what’s needed most, what brings the most peace, and what counts as the next right thing when we can only see inches in front of our faces rather than miles down the road ahead.

“My people will go out in joy and be led forth in peace.” Isaiah 55:12

Joy and peace. The magnetic forces that steer the needle to true north. This verse has been my mantra over the past few years. When I’m faced with a multiple-choice answer, I choose the one that leads to peace and joy—not instant gratification, not temporary pacification, not superficial self-indulgence or self-promotion, but that which settles the spirit deep down with a peace that surpasses all of my brain’s understanding and a light-filled and life-giving joy that cannot be shaken. It’s how we were built to live.

This is the way, and it’s unhurried. There’s no reward in rushing, so we linger when we can. No honor in overworking, so we rest when we need to. There’s nothing more important than our loved ones, so we arrange our lives in such a way that we can offer them our full selves. 

There is no one right way to do things, except the way that leads to joy and peace. And the occasional skillet cookie.