We're almost to Easter, and I find myself thinking, yet again, about just how much there is to do.

There's dinner. There are Easter baskets. There will be celebrations.

And then there's my spiritual preparation. There are extra Masses to juggle. And what about confession? What will we wear to celebrate this greatest feast of our Faith? And how early will the youth choir need to be there?

Amid the details and the whirring of my brain, I find an invitation to slow down. Within the flurry of activity, I see a still, calm center.

Jesus loves me so much that he died. As I gaze at the crucifix, whether during Mass or at home, I can't help but see that he's ready for a big hug.

I've had hugs from people who are grimy and dirty and stinky...in fact, even today. But have I really seen Christ in them? Have I really hugged them back as though they were my link to heaven?

As we near the hustle and bustle, the crazy and the candy, the liturgy and the sacraments, I want to pause. I want to breathe. I want to take the time to smile and enjoy myself and my family, my Jesus and my parish, my world and my gifts.

I hope you can, too. It's harder, sometimes, to stop and smell the roses than it is to fuss about getting them picked and arranged or planted and fertilized. It's so tempting to get caught up in the distractions and to forget what the cause of the flurry really is.

It's him, arms wide open. Embrace him, cross and all, dirt and all, stink and all. Give him the gift of a total YOU this Easter morn.

There are two good things about February as far as I'm concerned this year:

1. It only has 28 days.

2. Lent begins.

February is, so often, the longest month of the year for me. The days are short, the weather's cold, and we're stuck inside (unless we want to turn into popsicles). My motivation is nil, my extremities are frozen, and my kids are stir-crazy.

In the midst of this, the Church reminds me on Ash Wednesday that to dust I will return. As the world breaks into life around me, with crocuses poking through the snow and the days getting noticeably longer, we enter forty days of the desert known as Lent.

Nothing stretches me quite the way the season of Lent does. It comes on the heels of Advent, in which, I'll admit, I once again failed to make the big splash with my kids that I had planned. I stomped and stormed and, in general, was relieved when it was all over.

Lent crops up during a just-as-busy time of year for me: spring. We have activities for sports and school and family. With all that needs to be done, we find ourselves with the increasing desire just to be outside, enjoying the sun and weather.

It's not uncommon that we moms are pulled in a lot of different directions. Let me invite you this Lent to pause. Rather than try to do a bunch of different things, take a deep breath.

Pick one special Lenten practice. Maybe it will be one devotion to do with your whole family. Maybe it will be one fast for yourself. Maybe it will be one almsgiving project.

Resist the urge to add more project to you day. Don't let this Lent turn into one more set of things on your to-do list.

Use this Lent, instead, as a chance to grow closer to God in the midst of your ordinary and mundane tasks. Look for Christ in your everyday moments, from the times you're interrupted to the frustrations that come unexpectedly to your day.

At the beginning of January, I kept coming across a phrase that bothered me.

"New year, new you!"

It seemed to be everywhere: on my favorite blogs, on websites, and even on the radio.

But how can a new year mean a new me? I know myself well enough to know it takes more than the changing of the calendar to transform myself, but it started me thinking.

And why do I really need to be a new me

How can I look at this year as an opportunity to live my vocation as a Catholic wife and mother more fully? Is that a call for a new me, or just a better me? And is "better" in God's eyes going to be "better" in everyone else's eyes? Who am I letting be my guide?

With the beginning of this short span of Ordinary Time before we dive into Lent, I can't help but think of the three pillars of Lent as a starting place: fasting, prayer, and almsgiving.

As I think about fasting, here are a few thoughts that came to mind. Is there a habit I need to change? Is there something I'm too attached to, something from which a little distance might give me better perspective?

When I think prayer, I can't help but ask, how do I talk to my Beloved? And when I say "beloved" about God, do I roll my eyes? 

Where do I need balance in my life? How can prayer and fasting leading me closer to God by bringing me into balance with his will?

And then there's almsgiving. Who needs my generosity? How can my sharing and caring benefit others…and myself?

In my own life, I keep coming back to the importance of silence. Though I am surrounded, so often, by noise and chaos, I have a longing for silence.I need to set aside time and be mindful of how I spend the time I manage to set aside.

How do I create spaces of silence in the midst of the activity around me? Is there a place within me where I can pause and find calm? Can I stop—even for just a moment, even if it's in the bathroom— turn to God, and give him the busy in front of me, the stress around me, the churning inside of me?

I know I can't do this alone. A new me, a better me—these are not achievable apart from God's grace. But I also have to ask whether the me God wants is the same as what I have in mind? Living my vocation more fully may simply mean being present—really, intentionally present—to those in my life in the moment.

I'm not sure I need to be "new," or "better." I am pretty sure, though, that there is a lot of work left to do on me. This month, I'm going to focus on my prayer life.

Here are three things, specifically for my prayer life, that I'm going to try to put into play this month:

Starting the day with prayer

How I begin is often how I continue. Whether I have time for my full prayer regime or just a pause as I duck into the bathroom, I will start my day with turning to God. I have a number of ways I can do this (and so do you, I'll bet). If all else fails, I'll resort to my fallback Morning Offering: a Good Morning to God, thanking him for the gift of the day and giving him the problems ahead of me, followed by an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be.

A pause (or two) during the day to say Hi to God

This is easier typed than done, I assure you, but I find so many blessings when I do pause, just to close my eyes and pray a Hail Mary for whatever's on my heart. I've set my phone with alarms to go off at two points during the day, before the after-school and dinnertime activities take all my attention. Lately, I've gotten into the (bad) habit of just turning those alarms off, instead of actually pausing. I'm going to work on being intentional about those two pauses during my weekdays, to pray for myself or others who need my prayers.

Ending the day with God

And here we have my hardest challenge: night prayers. I'm a morning person. My evenings after the kids are in bed are usually comprised of reading on the couch and then collapsing into bed. Recently, our pastor shared how he got into the habit of night prayer, and I'm going to just try his suggestion: he put his prayer book on his bed stand so that when he took off his glasses, it was there, a physical reminder. I don't wear glasses, but I'm already thinking about how I can tap into my before-bed routine to incorporate a Good Night to God, one that encourages a spirit of gratefulness.