For years, I thought joy was something to be captured—a spark found in celebrations, special occasions, or those rare moments when life felt "just right." In my early 20s, I convinced myself I was thriving. I thought I had a clear vision of success, but in hindsight, I was simply chasing external validation. My idols were rooted in capitalism, my happiness built on momentary highs, and my sense of self was tangled in how others perceived me. I wasn’t miserable—I had love, laughter, and good memories—but my life lacked depth. I was so distracted by the noise of the world that I didn’t realize how hollow it all felt.
By my 30s, life had brought me to my knees. In 2019, I lost my marriage, my home, and the life I had envisioned. What followed was an identity crisis I never saw coming. Then, as the COVID-19 pandemic swept across the world, isolation intensified my grief. The most painful losses weren’t physical things, but the relationships and sense of community that once felt irreplaceable. My identity felt shattered, scattered beyond recognition. I didn’t know how to move forward.
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How did I get here? I did all the right things. I went to church. I was missional for outreach. I bought all the books on self-help. I watched TED Talks on self-awareness and growth. I listened to podcasts and sermons on righteous living. I sacrificed time and labor for humanitarian causes. How could this happen? The truth is, life meets everyone where they are, and everything can change in an instant. Life teaches us all—without prejudice. Tragedy, in one form or another, is inevitable. I’ve learned that these moments of trial are when faith is tested in the fire.
Through it all, I was raising three incredible daughters. I had to hold it together—not perfectly, but enough to be present for them. It wasn’t about pretending to be okay; it was about becoming okay. How could I teach resilience when I felt broken? How could I guide them when I didn’t know my own path? Motherhood brought joy, but it also amplified my unhealed wounds. Guilt, shame, postpartum anxiety, and depression weighed heavily, and the isolation of the pandemic deepened the shadows.
I wish I could offer a simple antidote for overcoming the victim mentality that had developed from my trauma, but I can’t. Ultimately, I had a choice—the same choice we all have when life gives us a wake-up call. I could stay stuck or take one small step forward.
I started with what I knew—simple, tangible acts of self-care. I may not have known how to process deep grief, but I knew how to brush my teeth, how to step outside and feel the sun on my face. These seemingly trivial habits became lifelines, anchoring me in the present. Over time, these small acts built resilience. I found myself able to get out of bed, to start my morning, to keep moving.
It was around this time that I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis that I loved so much, I wrote it down and put it on my fridge:
“Joy is the serious business of heaven.”
But as I reflected, I realized how much my understanding of joy had been shaped by circumstance. I once believed joy was something to be captured—something fleeting, dependent on external validation. But Lewis suggests something far deeper: joy is not just an emotion we experience; it is central to our existence, a reflection of something eternal.
In Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer, Lewis describes joy as more than momentary happiness. He believed our deepest desires—our inner yearnings and soul’s purpose—are glimpses of something greater, something beyond this world. True joy, he argued, is a longing that no earthly experience can fully satisfy because it points to our ultimate fulfillment in Heaven. Even in suffering, joy serves as a reminder that we are made for more.
God is a God of joy and life, and He is a loving father who gives the gift of life to experience for his Glory. From the beauty of creation to the small moments of everyday life, joy is woven into our existence. God delights in our happiness and calls us to find joy in Him, for He is the source of all true and lasting joy. He calls us to live a life set apart in righteousness, but He also invites us (if we choose to accept) to experience joy—even in the midst of suffering. Joy and suffering often go hand in hand. It’s in our struggles that we can discover deeper joy—a joy that comes from His presence and is rooted in contentment, not our circumstances. As James 1:2-3 reminds us, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” Life, with all its highs and lows, is meant to be celebrated, and in every moment, His joy and righteousness walk together, offering us hope even in the hardest times.
This idea completely shifted my perspective on my own struggles. If joy truly is the serious business of heaven, then it must be something of profound importance—something worth seeking out, even in the pain. It’s a concept I had to learn and embrace: joy doesn’t have to be absent in the face of hardship. In fact, it can coexist with sorrow, discomfort, and uncertainty. It’s not about denying the reality of pain, but about acknowledging that joy is a deeper, more resilient force—one that doesn’t disappear when life feels hard. I found that even in the darkest seasons, joy could still flicker like a quiet light, shining through the cracks of my circumstances.
Joy is not merely a fleeting emotion but a choice, a discipline, and sometimes even a rebellion against despair. So often we settle for fleeting distractions and dissociate, ignoring the present moment and its deep, abiding joy. It's the willingness to find beauty, gratitude, and peace amidst the messiness of life. It's about leaning into the small, sacred moments—the sunrise, a shared laugh, the warmth of a hug—that quietly remind us that life is still good, even when it's hard. And in doing so, joy becomes a constant companion, walking beside us through every season, no matter how stormy it may get. Like the way my daughters’ laughter fills our home or the warmth of a cup of tea in the morning. It’s the lingering scent of lavender that gently reminds me to slow down and be present. These moments are far from trivial; they are sacred, holding within them the power to ground us and bring us back to what truly matters.
There is something about lavender that has always drawn me in. Its scent is clean yet soft, calming yet invigorating. It lingers in the air like a gentle reminder to slow down, to breathe, to be present. Lavender carries with it the essence of springtime—farmers' markets bursting with life, the warmth of the sun after a long winter, the quiet moments where time seems to pause. It has always given me a sense of peace, a sense of belonging. And if the lavender of this world can do that, I can only imagine what Heaven’s lavender must be like.
This blog, Heaven’s Lavender, is my reflection on that joy. It is a space where faith, motherhood, and personal growth intertwine. It is a sanctuary for storytelling and introspection—a place to explore the resilience built in challenges, the self-discovery found in stillness, and the sacredness hidden in the mundane.
Beyond personal narratives, Heaven’s Lavender will also serve as a resource hub—a place where readers can find valuable insights, curated recommendations, and meaningful connections. Whether it’s a book that inspires, a tool that empowers, or a shared experience that reminds you that you’re not alone, my hope is that this space brings something of worth to your life.
So, welcome. Welcome to a place where lavender lingers, where faith deepens, and where joy is taken seriously. I invite you to reflect on the moments that bring you joy. What small, everyday experiences remind you of something deeper? Share them in the comments—I’d love to hear what joy looks like in your life.
Welcome to Heaven’s Lavender.
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