This morning, in a blur of coffee cups and car keys, I said to Jenn — as she was rushing out the door — “Life’s outta control and we need a reset — not just a vacation.” And yes, a vacation is coming up soon, thank God. But what I was naming in that half-joke, half-prayer was something deeper. Something that can’t be fixed by a few days away.
A couple of weeks ago I read an article I haven’t been able to shake — Busy is the New Fine . The premise is painfully familiar: when someone asks how we’re doing, we say, “Busy.” Not good. Not rested. Not even stressed. Just… busy.
Busy has become our socially acceptable substitute for everything else.
It signals importance. Productivity. Relevance. It keeps us from having to say, “I’m overwhelmed,” or “I don’t know who I am underneath all this doing.”
And if I’m honest? I’ve worn busy like a badge of honor.
There are seasons when life truly is full. Ministry seasons. Justice seasons. Family seasons. There are moments when the work feels urgent and sacred and necessary. But somewhere along the way, busyness can drift from meaningful engagement into a kind of numb momentum. We keep moving because stopping might force us to ask harder questions. I head myself say yesterday – “I want to do it because it needs doing and if I don’t…..”
As I’ve been thinking about Lent – about what matters, about scars and healing, about what we carry and why – I keep returning to this line:
Busy with purpose and clarity. Unhurried.
Not empty. Not idle. Not checked out.
But purposeful. Clear. Unhurried.
That’s different.
So this Lent, I’m asking: What’s the purpose in the busyness?
Not just, “How do I do less?” (though that might be part of it).
But, “Why am I doing what I’m doing?”
Who is it serving?
Is it aligned with who God is shaping me to be?
Because not all busyness bears fruit.
Some busyness is avoidance.
Some busyness is ego.
Some busyness is fear dressed up as productivity.
And some busyness – the good kind – flows from love, mercy, justice, community. It feels grounded instead of frantic. It may still be full, but it isn’t chaotic.
That’s the clarity I’m craving.
Lent, at its best, is a reset. Not a vacation. Not an escape. But a reorientation. Forty days of asking what is essential and what is excess. Forty days of noticing what drains and what gives life. Forty days of remembering that we are dust – yes – but beloved dust.
This year, I’m also taking on a Lenten practice inspired by Nadia Bolz-Weber and her invitation to “40 Days of Good Shit.” And yes, that title and hashtag makes me smile every time.
Instead of giving something up, the practice is about intentionally noticing and naming what is good. Not in a toxic positivity way. Not ignoring the hard or the broken. But deliberately training our eyes to see grace, beauty, delight, tenderness – even in the middle of the mess.
Each day: one good thing.
A conversation.
A deep laugh.
A quiet moment before the house wakes up or in my case after it’s gone to bed.
The way the light streams through my front door or hits the stained-glass I made – I MADE!
The text from a friend.
The holy ordinariness of a Tuesday.
Or a bike ride with friends.
Because maybe part of our frantic busyness comes from forgetting that goodness is already here. We chase meaning when sometimes it’s sitting right in front of us.
So this Lent, I’m holding two questions:
What is the purpose in my busyness?
And where is the good in my days?
Maybe the reset isn’t about doing less.
Maybe it’s about doing what matters.
And noticing the grace already woven into it.
Busy with purpose and clarity.
Unhurried.
That’s the road I want to walk.
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