I’ve been a performer most of my life so keeping up appearances comes almost naturally. I’ve spent my life on a stage—dance recitals, theatre productions, orchestra, worship teams, preaching. I am someone who claims to value authenticity and being real, so I’ll crack myself open and let others see a glimpse into my head and heart. I’m comfortable admitting my wrongs, exposing weaknesses, brushing off a bad note here and there, even confessing my sins to others, but usually in a way that is curated and polished. I’ll do it in an after-the-fact, thank goodness I’m over that, retrospective admission. I’ll be vulnerable, but in a moment that is outside of the moment.

Easter Sunday gets all the flash and fanfare. It’s the declaration that death doesn’t win. Death, where is your sting? Grave, where is your victory? It’s the defining moment for Christians. The resurrected Jesus promises new life for each of us.

We have officially moved. And through the busy-ness of it all, a phrase has been my internal refrain, “these are the days.” (I first saw a similar practice to this in writing by Emily P. Freeman—credit where credit is due).

These are the days: not all good days, not all bad ones, but days. I’ve wanted to slow down and remember what filled my minutes, because maybe if I practice remembering, I’ll also practice gratitude, whether the minutes were easy or difficult.

On Friday, we closed on a new (to us) house one neighborhood away. It happened fast and surprised us too. One day we were considering a search within our school zone and within a week we had an accepted offer. I know. It’s our 5th house in 15 years. For people who say we plant roots and stay put, we sure have moved a lot, or so it seems. I think this one is going to stick.