When Peace Feels Out of Reach


A quiet moment, a whispered prayer, and the gentle hope that surrender brings peace—even before the answer comes.

I’ve been struggling. Not in a loud or visible way, but in the quiet corners of my heart. The kind of struggle that hides beneath the surface while life continues on—where I smile and do all the “right” things, yet inside, I’m aching.

Lately, I’ve been asking the hard questions.
How do you truly let go?
How do you turn something over to God—and mean it?
How do you find peace not just in words, but in your spirit, when things still feel unresolved?

A friend said to me, “It’s a matter of trust.”
And if I’m honest, that stung a little. Not because she was wrong—but because I so badly want to believe that I trust God fully. I say I trust Him. I want to trust Him. But if peace is the fruit of that trust… where is my peace?

I look at others—people who’ve been through valleys of their own—and they carry this stillness, this steady hope. They say, “God’s got it,” and they mean it. Not just with their words, but in the way they sleep at night and smile in the morning. I want to feel that. I want to know that kind of release.

I go to church. I sit in Adoration. I journal my prayers. I pour out my hopes.
But deep down, I’m still holding on tight—clutching the outcomes, overthinking, imagining worst-case scenarios. And maybe that’s the hardest part: knowing I’m doing all the things, yet still feeling like I can’t quite let go.

Another dear friend reminded me gently: “You can still want what you want. You can still ask God for the desires of your heart. But you’re not in control. That’s never been your job.”

Maybe that’s where peace begins—not when we stop caring or hoping, but when we realize our caring doesn’t have to come with control.
When we whisper, “Lord, this is what I long for…” and then pause long enough to hear, “I know, child. And I’m already at work.”

I don’t have all the answers today.
But I’m learning that surrender isn’t a one-time thing—it’s something I may have to do a dozen times a day.
I’m learning that peace doesn’t always come all at once—sometimes it trickles in through tears, through prayer, through trust that feels fragile but is still real.

If you’re struggling like I am—if you’re losing sleep, aching for answers, doing all the “right” things and still feeling stuck—I just want you to know you’re not alone. And your struggle doesn’t make your faith less. It makes you human.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

Jenny

The Quiet Strength of Gratitude


A quiet moment—just a glass of water, a flicker of candlelight, and the gentle pause that reminds you to breathe, reflect, and begin again.

Some days feel like storms.
Others feel like slow, steady drizzles that just don’t let up.
And sometimes, it’s not one big moment that unravels you—it’s the weight of all the little ones piling up quietly.

Lately, life has asked a lot of me.
And if I’m honest, I haven’t always shown up with grace. I’ve shown up tired. Worn thin. A little undone.
But I’ve still shown up—and I’m learning that’s something to be grateful for.

Today, we held a reflective gathering at school focused on what feeds us—on the daily rhythms that help nourish gratitude and resilience. It sparked something in me, a gentle reminder of the quiet things that carry me through my own hard days.

Because the things that keep us going aren’t always big.
Often, they’re small. Soft. Easy to miss if we’re not paying attention.

Sometimes, peace doesn’t come in long, uninterrupted stretches.
It shows up in fleeting moments:

  • A deep breath before the bell rings.
  • A glance out the window.
  • The stillness before the world fully wakes.

And if I’m not watching for it, I can miss it entirely.

We also talked about self-care—not in the trendy sense, but in the sacred sense. That caring for yourself isn’t selfish. It’s essential.
And how happiness and contentment aren’t quite the same.
Happiness is a feeling. Contentment is a posture.
You won’t always be happy. But if you nurture contentment, happiness has a way of finding its way in.

For me, contentment blooms in the everyday rhythms:

  • Pouring cold tap water into a fancy little wine glass from a glass bottle I keep chilled in the fridge. It’s just water—but in that moment, it feels like a luxury.
  • Writing down my prayers—sometimes in a quiet corner before the school day starts, sometimes in the back of my classroom with students arriving, catching a glimpse of me whispering words I can’t hold in.
  • Praying for the people I love—not just privately, but right in the middle of ordinary life.

Gratitude lives in those small moments, too:
A blooming flower.
A pup waiting at the door.
A song that meets you in your weariness.
That first sip of morning coffee.
Or a tiny act of kindness that reminds you—you’re not alone.

And sometimes, the most powerful gratitude comes when we shift the focus outward.
When we notice someone else’s need and choose to respond.
When we comfort a friend, offer a prayer, or extend a small grace to a stranger.
It’s amazing how helping someone else often roots us more deeply in our own sense of peace.

One thing I’ve learned—through the valleys and the roadblocks, through the heartbreaks and detours—is this:
I don’t want to live in the valley.
I’ll walk through it, yes. I’ve had my fair share of hard places. But they are not where I’m meant to set up camp.
They’re not the end of the story.
So I work hard not to build a life there.
I rest. I reflect. I breathe. And then I keep going.
That choice—that decision not to stay in the valley—that’s where resilience lives.

These aren’t grand gestures.
But they hold us.

So if you’re in a season that feels heavy, maybe start here:

  • Write down one thing that steadied you today.
  • Sip something slowly and savor it.
  • Step outside and notice one small joy.
  • Whisper a prayer for someone else.
  • And if your heart leads you, do one kind thing today. Not for applause. Just because love belongs in the ordinary.

Gratitude doesn’t erase life’s challenges.
But it softens our hearts to see beauty in the midst of them.
And that softness? That’s strength.

Here’s to finding peace in the pause, contentment in the ordinary, and grace in the smallest of things.

With love from this little corner of my heart to yours—
Jenny

The Quiet Strength of Contentment: A Gentle Monday Reset

There are some weeks that take more than they give.

Not dramatic weeks—just the kind that quietly unravel you a little.
The kind that leave you feeling stretched thin, worn out, or disconnected from yourself.
The kind where joy feels out of reach, and peace feels like something reserved for someone else.

And yet…
This morning, with coffee in hand and birdsong outside the window, I felt a whisper in my spirit:
You don’t need to chase happiness. You can choose contentment.

Contentment doesn’t demand perfection.
It doesn’t require everything to go your way.
It doesn’t mean the hard things disappear or that life suddenly gets easier.
It simply says: I will rest here, in this moment, with what I have.

That doesn’t mean we don’t dream or grow or hope.
It just means we stop racing toward some distant “when.”
When I lose the weight.
When I have more time.
When everything feels right.
Because sometimes, right now is all we get.

And it is enough.

So today, I’m not pushing myself to “make the most” of Monday.
I’m letting it be quiet.
I’m letting it be gentle.
And I’m asking myself:

  • What’s one small thing I’m grateful for right now?
  • Where can I choose peace over pressure today?
  • What does contentment look like in this season—not the one I wish I was in?

Maybe that’s your invitation too.

Not to change everything.
Not to pretend you’re fine.
But to pause long enough to feel your feet on the ground and say,
“This is enough for today.”

A few little things helping me stay anchored this week:

  • A morning playlist filled with soft piano and nature sounds
  • A fresh bunch of flowers on the kitchen table
  • A slow walk without a podcast—just listening to the world
  • My favorite tea at night, with a handwritten note to end the day
  • A reminder that contentment is a gift I can choose, not something I earn

If your heart feels heavy this Monday, I hope this meets you where you are—not with pressure, but with peace.

You’re allowed to be gentle with yourself.

With love,
Jenny

Palm Sunday Peace|Wings of Prayer


Laid gently on linen, this simple palm reminds me—sometimes surrender is the most sacred thing we can offer.
Even here, Hosanna.

This week has stretched me in more ways than I expected. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. It’s been one of those weeks that leaves you quiet—not because there’s nothing to say, but because the noise of life has already said so much.

But this morning, I went to Mass.
And everything slowed down.

Palm Sunday doesn’t enter with fanfare—it enters with a procession of palms and the shadow of a cross. It holds both the “Hosanna!” and the heartbreak. The joy of the crowd and the ache of what’s to come.

Maybe that’s the kind of holy I needed today.

Not the kind that demands energy I don’t have.
Not the kind that expects me to have it all together.
But the kind that meets me in the middle of my mess.
The kind that walks beside me through the hard and the holy, just like Jesus did.

Holy Week begins here.
Not with perfection.
But with presence.

Wherever you are—tired, stretched, uncertain, or full of hope—there’s room for you on this path. Even if you feel like you’re arriving empty-handed.

Today, I’m laying down my palms not as a celebration of my strength—but as a surrender. A whispered Hosanna that says, “Even here, I trust You.”

And that feels like enough.

With heart,
Jenny

Monday Motivation: Begin Again, Gently


A soft start to the week begins here.
A quiet sip, a flicker of light, and a page to hold your thoughts.
Let this Monday be a gentle reminder:
You can begin again—slowly, sweetly, and with grace.

There’s something quietly sacred about a Monday morning.
While the world rushes, there’s an invitation to pause.
To reset. To realign. To remind ourselves that beginnings don’t have to be bold—they just have to be true.

If last week felt heavy, let today feel like a soft exhale.
You don’t need to have it all figured out. You only need to take one step.

Here are three gentle ways to welcome this new week:

1. Start with stillness.
Before you dive into the noise of the day, give yourself five minutes of quiet. Light a candle. Sip your coffee slowly. Whisper a prayer or write a sentence that begins with “This week, I hope…”

2. Choose a gentle intention.
Instead of a long to-do list, pick one intention for the week. Maybe it’s “savor my mornings,” “speak kindly to myself,” or “move my body with care.” Write it down and keep it somewhere you’ll see it each day.

3. Romanticize your routine.
Make one everyday task feel special. Add cinnamon to your coffee. Put on a soft playlist while you fold laundry. Wear your favorite earrings on a random weekday. Life doesn’t need to be fancy to feel beautiful—it just needs a little love.

You don’t need a fresh start at the beginning of the year.
You get one every single Monday.

Let this one begin with grace.

Jenny

The In-Between

Lenten Reflection | Preparing for Holy Week


In the quiet of the in-between, we find Him—steadfast, present, and full of mercy.

We’re not quite there yet.
Not at Palm Sunday.
Not at the foot of the cross.
Not at the empty tomb.

We’re in the in-between.

That tender stretch of Lent where we start to feel the weight of what’s coming—the quiet ache of the cross, the whisper of redemption, the longing for resurrection… but not yet.

A Sacred Pause Before Holy Week

This season has stretched me in quiet ways.
Not with dramatic moments, but with gentle invitations:

Let go. Slow down. Come closer.

That’s the heart of Lent, isn’t it?
Not just sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice—but surrender that softens us.
That opens our hands.
That points us back to Jesus.

Jesus Walked Through the In-Between, Too

This week, I’m reminded that even Jesus walked through the in-between.
He didn’t rush to the Resurrection.
He moved with purpose—through pain, through prayer, through silence.

And so can we.

An Invitation to Stay Present

As we prepare to enter Holy Week, maybe the invitation is simply this:

To stay present.
To keep showing up.
To keep our hearts open, even when it’s hard.

We know what’s coming.
We know Sunday is on the way.
But we also know that every step of this journey matters.

This Week’s Prayer

Lord,
In this in-between space, help me not to rush past the quiet work You’re doing.
Soften my heart.
Steady my spirit.
And prepare me to walk into Holy Week with reverence and love.
Amen.

With a heart leaning toward the cross,
Jenny

A Love Letter to the Ordinary

Birdsong & Blessings – April 2, 2025

My life isn’t fancy.
It’s not extraordinary in the world’s eyes.
I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I’m just a normal person, trying to make it through life day by day, the best I can.

But even in its simplicity, this life of mine is such a blessing.
And lately, I’ve been realizing something that deserves a little love:
The ordinary things—the small, repeating rhythms of daily life—might just be my favorite part.

So this is a love letter.
To the ordinary.

To putting on my favorite music to help me clean the house.
It’s simple. Probably a lot of people do it.
But when I hear those first few notes, something clicks into place. It lifts me, moves me forward, and turns cleaning into comfort.

To the greeting my pups give me every morning and afternoon.
Their unconditional love humbles me every day.
They love me in spite of my flaws.
They ask so little but give so much. Just being present—tails wagging, eyes bright, always ready for whatever the day holds.

To shutting down the kitchen at night.
Wiping the counters.
Washing the dishes or loading the dishwasher.
Prepping my lunch for school the next day.
So ordinary, so often overlooked.
But when I walk into the kitchen the next morning to make my coffee, everything feels calm. Ready. Right.

To my coffee routine—because yes, it deserves its own moment.
I’ve had Keurigs. I use one at the Georgia house.
But at home, I grind my own beans.
I make my coffee in my regular coffee pot.
It’s one of my very favorite parts of the day.

It’s the first thing I do when I walk into the kitchen—before the dogs, before the rush.
The scent alone feels like a prayer.

And once I’ve walked the dogs and fed them, I pour that first cup.
I carry it into my bedroom, prop up my pillows, and sit with it.
Sometimes I pray.
Sometimes I’m quiet.
But always—I savor.
Every drop feeds my soul in a way I can’t explain.

And finally, to slow Saturday mornings.
Waking up when my body says it’s time—not when the alarm tells me to.
Sipping one or two unhurried cups of coffee with sunlight streaming in through the window.
No rush. No care. No agenda.
My very favorite day of the week.

Maybe I’ll never have an extraordinary life by the world’s standards.
But I’m learning more and more that the quiet parts—the ones no one claps for—are where the deepest joy lives.

Here’s to the ordinary things that make life beautiful.

For You, Dear Friend….

If you find yourself in a busy season, a tired season, or just a very ordinary one…
I hope you’ll take a moment to notice the quiet gifts around you.

Here are a few questions to carry into your day:

  • What is one small ritual that brings you peace?
  • When was the last time you paused to truly enjoy your coffee, tea, or even a glass of water?
  • What part of your routine feels simple but sacred?
  • Can you name a few “ordinary” moments that bring you comfort?
  • What would a love letter to your daily life look like?

You don’t have to be chasing big dreams to live a beautiful life.
Sometimes, just being here—present, grateful, and breathing—is more than enough.

Jenny

Start Where Your Feet Are

Monday Motivation from Birdsong & Blessings

Sometimes we wake up on Monday ready to take on the world—list made, coffee brewed, heart steady.
Other times, we open our eyes with a quiet sigh, already feeling a step behind.
Life is like that—fluid, unpredictable, human.

But here’s a tender reminder:
You don’t have to start from your best self today. You just have to start where your feet are.

Maybe you’re still holding the weight of last week.
Maybe you’re a little worn, or feeling like you’ve lost your spark.
You are still worthy of a fresh beginning.

Begin simply. Begin kindly. Begin with what’s right in front of you.
Here are three gentle ways to ease into the week with grace:

  1. Ground Yourself in the Moment
    Take five minutes—just five—to sit quietly, hands wrapped around your coffee mug or resting in your lap. Breathe deeply. Notice what’s around you. The birdsong, the soft light, even the clutter—it’s part of your beautiful, imperfect life.
  2. Choose One Thing, Not All the Things
    Instead of trying to tackle everything, choose one task or intention for the day. Maybe it’s prepping dinner early, taking a short walk, or responding to that one email that’s been lingering. Let that one thing anchor you, not overwhelm you.
  3. Speak Softly to Yourself
    Would you speak to a friend the way you speak to yourself on hard days? Be mindful of your inner tone. A kind word—even in thought—can change the direction of your day.

And if none of those suggestions feel right today, maybe you just need to let the world be quiet for a moment. That’s okay too.

You are not behind. You are not broken. You are simply walking the path—and some steps are slower, softer, more sacred than others.

So start where your feet are. Let this be enough.
Grace walks with you.

With you in this journey,
Jenny

Tending to the Heart First

At Mass recently, Father spoke on a passage from the Gospel of Luke:

“Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own?” (Luke 6:41)

His words stayed with me long after I left church. He spoke about how easy it is to become frustrated with others—at their choices, their words, their actions—while failing to recognize the areas in our own hearts that need attention. It’s far simpler to point out someone else’s faults than to sit with the quiet work of tending to our own.

I’ve certainly found myself there. Maybe you have, too.

Perhaps it’s snapping at someone in a moment of stress, not because of what they did, but because of something unsettled within me. Or feeling frustration rise when someone falls short of expectations, while I fail to see where I need patience and grace in my own life.

Lent is a season of reflection, and this passage invites us to turn inward—not with shame or self-criticism, but with an open heart. Instead of dwelling on the faults of others, we can ask ourselves:

  • What is clouding my own vision? Maybe it’s resentment, impatience, or a heart that’s weary and in need of rest.
  • Am I carrying something heavy that needs my attention? Before reacting outwardly, we can pause and tend to our own spirit.
  • How can I respond with love? When we notice our first instinct is to correct or critique, we can shift toward kindness instead.

This doesn’t mean we ignore truth or pretend problems don’t exist. But it does mean that when we respond to others, we do so from a place of clarity rather than frustration, with love rather than judgment.

May we each take time to tend to our own hearts first—so that when we reach out to others, it is with gentleness, understanding, and the kind of love that truly reflects Christ.

Love & Blessings,

Jenny

Gather & Grace | March 28, 2025 A soft corner of the week for simple joys, nourishing beauty, and a little grace.


Where the breeze tells old stories and the birds sing new ones. This porch has a way of reminding me that peace often arrives quietly—with no rush, just grace.

This week whispered to me through porch breezes and birdsong—gentle nudges to rest, savor, and take note of the quiet goodness unfolding all around. From an easy one-pan dinner to a pair of comfy ballet flats, here are a few things I’m gathering with gratitude.

Something to Read
The Air Raid Book Club by Annie Lyons
A tender, moving story about love, books, and finding purpose when life takes unexpected turns. If you love historical fiction and stories where books heal hearts, this one’s for you.

French Beauty Solution by Mathilde Thomas
Part beauty guide, part lifestyle philosophy, this book offers gentle and practical ways to care for your skin, slow down, and embrace effortless French charm. I’ve loved flipping through it this week with a cup of coffee nearby.

Something to Watch
Murder in Provence (Acorn TV)
A rewatch-worthy cozy mystery series with beautiful scenery and intelligent storytelling. A perfect evening unwind, especially if you’re craving something light but smart.

Something to Make
Crispy Onion & Cheese Sheet Pan Chicken
This one’s a new favorite. Here’s how I made it:

  • Preheat oven to 425°F.
  • Coat chicken tenders or thighs with a mix of crushed crispy fried onions and shredded cheese (the original recipe calls for Monterey Jack, but I used a blend).
  • Arrange on a sheet pan with halved baby potatoes and green beans tossed in olive oil and seasoning.
  • Roast for 25 minutes until the chicken is golden and crisp, the cheese is bubbly, and the veggies are tender.

Easy. Satisfying. Delicious.

Something to Wear
Ballet Flats from Thursday Boot Company
Supportive, timeless, and comfy—these are my go-to for everyday ease with a touch of polish. Ideal for a capsule wardrobe or a spring refresh.

Something to Love
Ilia Beauty
Light, clean, and kind to your skin—I’ve been loving this line lately. Their serum foundation is especially lovely, offering just enough coverage without feeling like makeup at all.

Something to Savor
Sitting on the porch of the Georgia house, listening to birds in the garden
There’s something about being still and letting the birds be the soundtrack. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I was there, breathing in the hush and peace.

A Thought to Tuck in Your Pocket
“You don’t have to chase the light. Sometimes it finds you when you slow down long enough to notice it.”

Wishing you porch moments, good stories, and grace that finds you right where you are.

Blessings & Joy,
Jenny