Last week, I sat down on Monday and wrote a post in a state of overwhelm after a good, but crazy, few days. The busy weekend had merged into a disjointed beginning to the week.

This past weekend was quieter and more reflective, and I wanted to save the good parts for posterity.

The weekend started with a work shift Friday night. The out-going nurse gave me a great report – informative and unapologetic, just the way I like it. Over the course of my shift, I had unexpectedly meaningful conversations with a patient and a doctor, and a pretty deep phone conversation with a patient’s significant other.

I came home feeling grateful for the opportunity to connect with other human beings about the meaning of life and what comes after.

I slept like a rock that Saturday when I got home, until 6 p.m. It was the day before my birthday. When I woke up, I came downstairs, still in a bit of a fog. The kitchen was a hive of activity as my family worked to make my birthday dinner.

They were doing tacos, so I hopped into the jumble to make my homemade salsa. Unfortunately, I haven’t written down the recipe yet, and to my just-waking brain, (honestly, probably to my brain in ANY state), it seemed easier to do it myself than explain it.

We sat down to eat. Dinner was followed by carrot cake, which I’d requested ahead of time. Inexplicably, there were nine candles.The next morning, my actual birthday, I set my expectations low. We’d be at church, and that isn’t often a relaxing experience these days.

I don’t know how to say this in a way that will convey its import: Six sat through Mass. He left once, to walk up to receive Communion (which he is too young for, so he had to be retrieved). Then, he sat again until the service was over. Not only that, but he sang and participated. Six is three. Some weeks are better than others, but since he could walk, I have spent part of every service making sure he doesn’t leave without us.

We rewarded Six (and me!) with some chocolate chip walnut cookies from a place across the street from the church. At home, we had apples (from the orchard) and PB, fresh, buttered bread, with  cheese slices on the side. So good.

That afternoon, I sighed and said I almost wished we could skip Awana, our Sunday afternoon kids’ Bible club, for a trip to the park. Two looked over. “Why can’t we?” She asked.

So we did. We packed up the cars, and everyone came along. We went to one of our favorite parks, Thatcher. By some miracle, Indian Ladder Trail, which had been closed since last August because of falling rocks, had been reopened.

The waterfalls were lovely. The weather was perfect. It had been so long since we’d been on the trail that it felt new to everyone. There were some very large, new rocks on the edge of the trail and tumbling down the edge on the opposite side of the trail, leading us to wonder what could have happened in the past year to cause that damage in such a short time.

We headed home, stopping for Stewarts’ ice cream for the kids. We settled them in at home, with instructions for bedtime. Then, the Chaplain and I left for an earlier-than-usual walk. He planned to take me out to dinner for my birthday, to a place not far off of our walking path.We went to a Syrian/Lebanese place in our city. We’d been hearing about it on our local public radio station for the entire 10+ years we’ve been living in the area, but had never been.

The interior had burgundy wallpaper and haunting music playing. It was imperfect, with wallpaper seams showing, but somehow endearing. I ordered a combination platter from the vegetarian menu.When the food came, I briefly looked from my pita basket and my plate of food to the fork and knife that sat on a napkin next to it. It felt a little incongruous. The food seemed meant to be eaten by hand. So I did. I scooped up fresh salad and hummus into a pita, and it was out of this world.

I have had falafal before. Both times were at NYC street vendors and it was dry and NOT amazing. But this time, the falafal was delicious.

Even before I was finished eating, I was glowing. A few times during the meal it briefly crossed my mind that I was “doing it wrong.” Maybe you aren’t supposed to eat Middle Eastern food with your hands. But I was enjoying it so much, and was so relaxed, that I didn’t care. If I committed a faux pas, please don’t tell me.We walked home, happy and satisfied, and went to bed.

The next day was as crazy as Sunday had been relaxed. I’m still trying to tap into those moments with my loved ones on Sunday when things were good and stress was low. I’m going to see how long I can make it last me.