february 12

february 12, 2003

I didn’t realize that our country was in such a scary time. I’m scared. I’m scared of losing someone, or something, or of things happening beyond anyone’s control. I’m afraid that my dreams and ambitions won’t come true because we are living in the end times. I suppose I am being superficial.

february 12, 2022

There are two pictures on my camera roll from February 12, 2020. They are both poor quality shots of the three biggest kids in our house—their bellies on the carpet of our old rental house—while they draw in tiny notebooks with crayons and pens. In the first picture, Jude stands above them. Norah laughs.

In the following days, there are pictures of Sawyer in a Batman mask and all the kids in the Valentine’s Day shirts my mom sent from South Carolina. Lily’s front teeth are missing just like Norah’s are now. The closer the pictures get to March, the more palpably I feel them. A river walk with the cousins. Jude, asleep on my lap. Sawyer, looking down on me from a ledge. The girls, in pink leotards and tap shoes at their last dance class.

While I scroll through the pictures, a sadness rises up in me. I can feel it in my throat. By the time I get to mid-March, it’s too much, so I close my phone and put it down. Maybe sadness isn’t the right word. Maybe it’s more that I can’t bear to see all those simple smiles, knowing all that is to come. Is there a word for that?

On this same day in 2000, I had just had glamour shots taken at Valley West Mall and my show choir had performed at a competition only to receive less than average scores. To make matters worse? “I messed up too!” Each day brings both big and small matters, but, in the moment, those matters rarely seem small. There is always something to surmount—something to move past.

Today it was a three-year-old’s bedtime and his general, volatile demeanor. Who’s to say what tomorrow will bring?

Trouble is promised. Two questions remain: Where will I turn when it comes? Will I let it teach me—shape me for all that has not yet come to pass?

004 // february 8

february 8, 2000

Dear Journal,

(sigh) I am so confused! Noel is sooo shy, but does he like me? Would Matt lie to me? Ahhh Allison’s going out with RD! I’m so happy for her!! I just wish I had a bf. I got online tonight for little bits of time just to see if Noel was on! I wonder if Ryan has AOL…

Well, I’m still kinda sick, so I’m going to bed. TTYS.

february 8, 2022

In 8th grade, my AOL screen name was QTgUrL126. The alternation of capital letters was important branding, and I spent literal hours of my free time sitting at our family’s desktop computer waiting for other kids (see: boys) to sign online and chat with me.

I adopted a more “mature” screen name when I went to college (mollynne, which I thought to be very clever) and chatted with all my new friends on my new Dell laptop. In those days, we stayed signed in to our accounts all day long, but if we had to leave for class or dinner or third dinner, we’d put an away message up. Pre-social media and texting, this was the way we connected with others across campus. We spent our free time sending instant messages.

Like many people in the digital age, I’ve been trying to get a better handle on my technology usage—to break myself of the habits my thumbs have formed and make sure my kids don’t remember me only with a phone in my hand or in front of my face.

The thing I remind myself from time to time, though, is that technology isn’t the problem. Distraction is, and distraction isn’t new. I’ve been practicing it since the late 1900s with the inception of AOL and instant messaging. I practiced it today while I watched a video on my phone while Norah rollerbladed around me in the driveway.

I’ve been thinking about the moments I choose distraction lately—leaning into them so as to figure out what exactly I’m trying to do. I could try to make a case that it’s an attempt to forge some kind of connection, but I think that’s probably a reach (even for 2000 me). Instead, I think it has more to do with avoidance. The thoughts I don’t want to think. The decisions I don’t want to make. The corrections I don’t want to give.

I wasn’t thinking about any of this when I was a 14-year-old (I mean, so much to figure out—Noel was online!), but I think about it now and know the same motivations were probably there then.

When I think about how I want my kids to remember me some day, the word “present” often comes to mind—a goal, it seems, I’ll always have to work toward.

003 // february 4

february 4, 2005

My emotions are starting to get the best of me yet again, and I think most of it is due to my friends having boyfriends. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for them, but in times like these it’s easy to see what I don’t have. I want to be content. I want to be completely satisfied. I’ve been comparing myself to others so much lately, and I always seem to come up short. Why do I do this to myself?

february 4, 2022

Oh. Okay, I see. So, not much has changed.

Why do I do this to myself?

002 // february 3

february 3, 2002

Tonight my prayers were answered. Drew* was online. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it’s a sign—but I’m putting it ALL in God’s hands.

february 3, 2022

The boys went to bed wild tonight. They were amped up from folk dance night at the girls’ school and couldn’t turn their bodies or mouths or minds down once we got home. I finally got them into their respective beds when Sawyer announced from the top bunk that he needed to go to the bathroom. This frustrated me—I was this close—so I waited for him with my forehead resting against the side rail of his bed. I did not move for the entire two minutes he was gone. I knew I was likely to yell at someone if I did, so I spent the time asking God for patience to make it through bedtime without losing it on whoever happened to poke me over the edge.

About thirty minutes after the boys mercifully went to sleep, I prayed for the girls as I stood beneath their lofted beds. I asked God to give them rest and peace and the strength to be kinder to one another tomorrow. That last part was for me too. The day started out badly (someone was yelling and someone was in the fetal position which is never how you want to begin) and only got partway better by the end.

As I prayed for patience and kindness tonight, it struck me how often I expect these things to happen to me—that I’m hoping for some kind of out of body experience in which the fruits of the spirit pour forth without much work on my part. I pray for grace and ask God for help, but when it comes to action on my part, I find I am often still unwilling to do the hard work of self-control.

I spent a lot of my early years trying to find God in everything. He is in all things good, of course, and with us in all things, but I used to be a little superstitious about it—looking for signs and making more out of happenstance than I ever should have. I made God out to be some kind of genie who was granting whatever wishes I might have.

I wonder if my tendency is still to operate in this way? Quick prayers and passing thoughts are still easier after all.

That’s not the way of change though, and if I want to see my kids move toward kindness and patience themselves, they’re going to have to first see the growth in me. They’re going to have to understand that sanctification comes from God and also requires committed work on our part.

I still have a lot of questions about exactly what that work looks like, but questions aren’t such a bad place to start, right?

*name has been changed (which is a sentence I have always wanted to type)

001 // february 1

february 1, 2003

What is real—
– Is it the smile I put on for everyone to see?
– Is it the things I say for people to like me?
– Maybe it’s a certain shirt or a specific way to dress.
– What would people say if I came to school a mess?
– I don’t want to be fake; I want to be a person all my own.
– Not someone who inside feels terribly alone.
– How do I find what’s real and meaningful to me?
– I want to be someone different, someone everyone can see.

february 1, 2022

I recently unearthed 16 old journals from a box in our basement. Most of them span 2000-2007, but there are two outliers on either end: one from 1995 (I am mad! Dad won’t let me watch California Dreams because it’s too old! Yeah right!) and the other from 2020 (Last Monday was completely normal—school was on and “social distancing” was only a whisper.). As I scan through the pages, the things that consumed a younger me are blatantly obvious (March 7, 2004: Boys this, lonely that, friends here, broken there). 2022 Molly is tempted to shake my head at the former versions of myself; there was so little to actually worry about back then. But to look at the pages of these journalsthe hearts in the margins and the block letters on especially angsty daysis to see real emotion. It’s to read words that mattered to mewhether or not they still matter to me now.

I didn’t realize how lonely I was back then or how desperate I was to feel known and seen and understood. At 35-years-old, I’ve grown into my skin, but also? I’m still looking for what’s real and meaningful. I’m still trying to figure out exactly what it looks like to live authenticallyto let people in. I still fight the tendency to plaster on a smile when everything feels anything but okay.

I won’t shake my head at the younger me. Though the stage of her struggles was much different than mine today, the tendencies and inclinations and natural bents remain. I think, maybe, we might have something to learn from one another.

So, this is an exploration of sorts. A quest to ask questions of the past as I think through the realities of the present and the hope of the future. I’m not sure what will emerge, but I can say that I’m not the same girl I once was and also I am still very much the same.

vigor unabated.

The afternoon began with good intentions. While the girls emptied their lunch boxes at the kitchen counter, I turned on our bluetooth speaker and played some quiet music. “Will you guys sit at the kitchen table and color with me?” I asked the kids. This is one of my favorite ways to spend the post-school, pre-dinner chunk of time, but these good intentions are almost always met with reality: a two-year-old who’s determined to crumple up everyone’s artwork, a four-year-old whose thrill in life is to bother anyone within arm’s reach, and two girls who are exhausted from the stimulation of a long day at school. 

For the next hour and a half, I put out fires. I served up breaks when the screaming escalated, mediated arguments while chopping carrots and onions, and extended comfort when the lion drawing was destroyed at the hands of the—plot twist!—four-year-old. I wish I could say I did all this with patience, but by the time we sat down at the table to eat dinner, I had lost my cool more than once with more than one kid. I was tired of it. The noise was a constant hum of whining and complaining, and that’s when I looked up and saw my brand new letter board staring back at me—one word on its face: DELIGHT.

Jake had hung it for me the day before in between the back door and large window in our kitchen, and all day I thought about what I wanted it to say. What words did I need to see on the daily? As I popped the letters out of their packaging, I thought of a verse from Zechariah 4 that I really only know because of an Alli Rogers song I played on repeat when I was in college: Do not despise the day of small things. Recently convicted to find joy and purpose in even the most mundane aspects of our every day, I knew these words would be a good, consistent reminder as I stood at the center peninsula packing lunches, pouring cereal, or wiping down the surface for the 87th time each day. I fished out all the letters, lined the words up, and stood back to take a look. Too much. The board was too full.

Next I tried the day of small things—knowing the words would serve the same conviction—but it was still too busy. The uppercase, black letters took up too much of the white background. I needed one word, maybe two. How could I encompass this single sentence reminder to enjoy the small things? That’s right: Delight. It seemed both an apt encouragement and admonition.

So, as it caught my eye there in the middle of the dinner chaos, I asked myself a simple question: How many other words can I make with this one? And then, I proceeded to ignore all the noise and movement around me. I checked out for the sake of light, glide, tile, tiled, and 15 other words I landed on by the time dinner was finally over.

The irony is not lost on me, of course—that the very word I put on my letter board to remind myself to stay present and find joy in the mundane moments is the exact word I was using to escape a Wednesday night dinner with my kids. And yet, even when my word search was interrupted by Norah asking me if rice was made out of cheese (Me: No. I’m not sure why Sawyer thinks that), I went right back to it—wondering if “hilt” was really a word or if it just sounded like a word. 

The day felt like a wash. I checked out and had no desire to check back in.


In the middle of Numbers, the Israelites are in the middle of the wilderness. Their entry to the Promised Land has been halted (not to be confused with hilted which is, in fact, a legitimate word) by their own grumbling and disobedience. Still, they haven’t seemed to get the point, and they basically just follow Moses around complaining about how bad their life is. 

Why have you brought the assembly of the LORD into this wilderness? [1]
Why have you made us come up out of Egypt to bring us to this evil place? [2]
Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we loathe this worthless food. [3]

I underlined those last five words in my scripture journal the morning after I anagramed “delight” because it reminded me of Sawyer’s nightly dinner commentary (and made me wonder if it would be less agitating if I taught him the word “loathe.”)

In the middle of all this complaining, Moses and Aaron go to the tent of meeting and fall down on their faces before the Lord—a response I understand deeply. God tells Moses to take his staff, gather the people, and tell the rock before them to yield water. They do this, but Moses adds to the instructions. After he angrily rebukes the people, he strikes the rock twice with his staff instead of giving only a verbal command. Water flows, and the people drink, but it’s now Moses who receives a rebuke from God: “Because you did not believe in me, to uphold me as holy in the eyes of the people of Israel, therefore you shall not bring this assembly into the land that I have given them.” [4]

Moses—the man who delivered the Israelites out of Egypt, led the people through the parted waters of the Red Sea, and continually interceded on behalf of the sins of the people—would not be allowed to enter the Promised Land. And all because, in his anger, he struck a rock twice. 

My limited, human response is to feel like God is overreacting. Doesn’t all the good Moses did for both God and the people give him a pass here? How was anyone supposed to stay calm under those circumstances? His life was accompanied by a constant hum of whining and complaining. Of course he lost his temper. Who wouldn’t?

Moses, it seems, is held to a higher standard. He was the example for the people of what it meant to live uprightly—his life the model of full trust in God. This is the call of a leader isn’t it? To show those in your charge how to live. To model patience and kindness and train them in the way they should go. 

The thing I keep coming back to about Moses is that he kept doing this—leading his people faithfully and rising to the higher standard—even after the Promised Land was off the table for him. He never checked out or allowed himself to be defined by his worst day. In the next chapter, he was back at it—interceding on behalf of his people when their grumbling got them in trouble yet again. He saw the big picture. He stayed present and continually led well. And the last words written about him before he died?

His eye was undimmed, and his vigor unabated. [5]

How do you think that would look on my letter board?

[1] Numbers 20:4
[2] Numbers 20:5
[3] Numbers 21:5
[4] Numbers 20:12
[5] Deuteronomy 34:7

do well and let go.

The sun was high above us and the air cool in our wake as our family parade of misfit bicycles set out—leaving the long driveway behind. Jake took the lead on his lime green bike with Norah in tandem on a bright pink fifth wheel. Lily, our oldest and only independent rider on the long trips, took up the middle space. I pulled up the rear with Sawyer and Jude in a trailer that, in all its faded teal glory, was once mistaken for an old paddle boat. Each time we trek out on one of these rides, we elicit smiles and second glances from almost every passerby.

We ventured out on our regular route, turning down a path that led to a big hill and then wove through the woods next to the river. We rode under a highway overpass, and I reminded Lily to be careful on the gravelly stretch that hadn’t yet been redone. Eventually we came to a familiar fork in the road but chose the road less travelled—a stretch of bike trail we had never ridden before. It took us around a pond and back into a wooded area at which point Norah threw back her head, stretched her legs wide beside her, and yelled, “This is the longest bike ride ever!”

And it might have been, given that we don’t normally stray too far from home with the kids in tow. Eventually, the path led us into a residential neighborhood. Instead of staying straight and heading toward home, Jake went left, and as I turned my bicycle to follow him, I realized the road he had chosen was a straight incline for at least a half a mile. I stood on my pedals and pumped—my legs burning with each push. We’d been at this for 6 miles already, after all, and I was pulling 70 pounds of chatty dead weight behind me.

I can do this,” I thought, in an attempt to empower myself. I started to hum that Miley Cyrus song about uphill battles and finding what’s waiting on the other side, and by the middle of the hill, I was in a groove. I was going to make it without stopping, and it felt good.

Then, without warning, Lily slammed on her brakes and stopped in front of me.

“Lily! Don’t. Stop. In front of me!” I punctuated the words sharply, which is to say I yelled them as I rode around her on the grass, angry and unwilling to interrupt my steady momentum.

“I need a break,” she said as I passed—her body splayed forward across her handlebars in exhaustion. I noticed a couple walking their dog on the other side of the street watching us, and their witness to my overreaction deflated me. A new Miley Cyrus song filled my head as I felt the shame of my anger and slowed to a stop. All my kid wanted was for me to wait while she caught her breath, and I came in like a wrecking ball.


Most people know the story of Jonah.

God told him to go to Ninevah—to call the people out for their wickedness—so God could save the people there, but Jonah, instead, turned in the opposite direction. Then there was the storm. The big fish. The three days in the belly. The dry land. The return to Ninevah. The repentance. The Lord’s compassion and forgiveness.

But then the biblical account ends outside of the city with a part of the story I don’t remember many of my childhood story books including: The part where Jonah sat in the hot sun and begged God to let him die. He was angry that good had come to Ninevah. He wanted to die rather than witness God’s mercy and steadfast love heaped upon an entire city. In response, God asked Jonah a simple question: “Do you do well to be angry?”[1]

The obvious answer is no. It didn’t do Jonah well to be angry, especially about a situation that had little to do with him personally. But, he dug in his heels, and said straight to God, “Yes, I do well to be angry, angry enough to die.”[2]

Jonah annoys me. When I read the four chapter account, I hear that old Amy Poehler and Seth Meyers Saturday Night Live bit in my head: Really, Jonah? Really? You couldn’t deal for like one day for the sake of an entire city’s salvation? You watched God’s love in action and then a lack of shade sent you over the edge? Really?

At his core, I think Jonah felt inconvenienced. God upended his life for the sake of another. God sent him to do something bigger than himself and Jonah was flat-out selfish about the whole thing—making sure God knew he didn’t like how this had turned out for him. 

Cue the camera pan. Seth and Amy turn their attention toward me. Really? 

The heart of so much of my anger, as far as my children are concerned, is a feeling of inconvenience. The request for a glass of water as soon as I sit down at the table to eat my lunch. The fight that needs intervention while I’m in the middle of a scroll through Instagram. The footsteps above my head right after I sit down on the couch at the end of another long day. I am constantly inconvenienced by my kids. And, what’s more, I constantly make sure they know it. My days contain so many snapshots of rolled eyes and sound bytes of deep sighs or snippy retorts. Jonah was sent over the edge by his source of shade shriveling up which isn’t unlike a stalled bicycle forcing me to adjust my trajectory. I see Jonah’s selfishness when he tells God he does well to be angry, and I wonder if that couple on the other side of the road—the ones who bore witness to me yelling at my exhausted six-year-old—saw mine.

“Really?” they probably mouthed with a sideways glance to each other.

The Bible doesn’t tell us what happened to Jonah; the account ends with a question from God. There are no details about where Jonah went next or what became of his life. Did he go back home and pick up right where he left off? Did God send him anywhere else? Did he let go of his anger?

That’s what I wonder most about Jonah. Did he carry the inconvenience of his narrative with him or did he let it go?

I like to think he let it go. I like to think that after his conversation with God, he finally realized he wasn’t the main character in his story and then made his life about doing whatever he could to amplify the goodness of God. I like to think he stopped caring so much about inconvenience and changes in plans and roadblocks in the middle of the sidewalk.

It’s possible. God’s grace is big enough. Really.

[1] Jonah 4:4, 9a

[2] Jonah 4:9b

the light always finds its way in.

As soon as the sun begins to sink in the sky, a long strip of light stretches onto our kitchen floor from the corner window behind the sink. It’s an obvious brightness, and as it bathes our kitchen in warmth, I always wish we had more west-facing windows to let in the sunshine.

But I realized something this week as I paid attention to the golden hour. It doesn’t matter where the windows face. The sun reaches through the cracks and stretches as far as it can across multiple rooms. Its glow shifts and dances around our house, never minding the fact that most of the windows look north.

The light always finds its way in.

Someday, my kids will ask me what all this was like, and I’ll tell them in earnest—making sure they know all the ways the sun reached through the cracks, stretched itself into everything, and bathed us with its warmth.

“The light found its way in,” I’ll tell them. “The light always finds its way in.”

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series “Go Where the Light Is”.

thoughts on grief and hope.

It was late spring and after 10:00 p.m. when Jake suggested we get out of our apartment and go for a walk. I don’t remember any specifics about this particular night except that we ended up sitting together on a bench while I cried and Jake—wordless and steady—held his arm around my shoulders as they shook with each sob. The next morning we were set to board a plane that would eventually lead us to Africa, and I was completely convinced we were going to die at some point on this trip.

It sounds dramatic, I know, but my skills as a worst-case scenarioist have always been next level. I figured if the plane didn’t go down, something would happen to us on the ground, but if everything proved fine there, well, there was still the flight home to get through. My mind raced, and my chest tightened, and, still, I knew I would go.

A few weeks earlier, I had told a woman at my church I was feeling anxious about the trip and she assured me that I didn’t need to worry. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “You’ll see.” While well-intentioned, this encouragement didn’t actually offer me any peace because I knew two things: She was unable to predict the future, and all the things I was anxious about, while unlikely, could happen. They were actual possibilities.

A.W. Tozer once famously said, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” So, in the midst of my fear and unrest, I took a close look at my feelings, and I asked myself what I thought about God. If the “worst” was to come true, would I still trust him? Would I still believe he is good?


In John 11, Jesus got word from his friends Mary and Martha that their brother, Lazarus, was sick. Jesus was, at the time, in another town, and he waited there for two days before going to see them in Bethany. By the time he arrived, Lazarus had already died—his body buried in the tomb for four days. Martha greeted Jesus before Mary, but they each said the exact same thing: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” To Martha, Jesus spoke about resurrection and belief, but he didn’t have words for Mary. Instead, when he saw her weeping, “he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled.” And then when they took him to the tomb, Jesus wept with Mary and the other mourners. A few verses later, Lazarus walked out of the tomb, wrapped in linen burial cloths but very much alive. “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” Jesus had asked Martha. It seems safe to assume that this encounter with Jesus solidified their faith in him.

There’s a small detail I left out of the beginning of the story—a single word I have been thinking about constantly since I read this account last week. Right after Jesus heard Lazarus was sick, he said to his disciples, “This illness does not lead to death. It is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Then, John includes these two sentences: “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus. So, when he heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.”

So. Jesus loved his friends, so he didn’t go to them right away. It’s tempting to want to put a “but” there, isn’t it? It doesn’t make sense. When we love others, we try to spare them pain and sorrow, but the “so” remains which means it matters. Lazarus died because Jesus loved them. Even more peculiar, then, is Jesus’ response when he sees Mary. Three times before he gets to the tomb, Jesus says Lazarus will rise again. There is no suspense here for Jesus. He knows Lazarus will live. Yet still when he sees Mary, he is deeply moved by her grief and weeps with her before, moments later, calling Lazarus forth.

This story tells me two things about Jesus.

First, sometimes he allows us to experience temporary, earthly suffering because he loves us. Now I will be the first to admit that this concept is mysterious and complex and hard to swallow especially in the thick of difficult situations, but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be true. Not every prayer ends as Mary and Martha’s did, but Lazarus walking alive from his tomb reminds us that just a short time later, Jesus did the same. His defeat of death is our hope, and anything that solidifies our belief in the resurrection and the glory of God is for our eternal good.

But goodness and difficulty aren’t mutually exclusive, and Jesus also shows us in this story that we can hold both grief and hope at the same time. We are not meant to face our trials while blithely proclaiming, “Everything will be okay!” We can acknowledge pain and sadness while also trusting God’s sovereignty. This is such a kindness to us—a Savior who weeps over brokenness even though he knows everything will be made new in the end.


I have been keeping a journal for the past few weeks. As soon as I could tell the nature of the coronavirus was ever-changing and unpredictable, I knew all the specifics of this time would blur together if I didn’t take time to write them down. So every morning, I log the events of the day before: News updates, changes to our daily patterns, how we fill our time, and my feelings in the midst of it all which have been frenetic—matched to the nature of this current reality.

Friday’s pages will tell you that the kids and I watched Jake’s car pull out of the driveway, unsure of when we will see it come back toward us again. They will tell you that we decided it would be best if he stays out of our house until after the virus peaks because we know it is inevitable that he will be exposed in the emergency room. They will tell you that I wept on and off for two straight days over the uncertainty of when we’ll all get to touch him again and the fact that while many kids, years from now, will remember this strange time with fond family memories, our kids will remember it as the season when dad had to stay at least six feet away.

Like that spring night in the park eight years ago, this is another significant opportunity to ask myself what I think about God. If my newest worst-case scenarios come true, will I still trust him? Will I still believe he is good even when he allows a global pandemic to completely upend everything around me?

I will. My hope is not tied to my circumstances, and if this experience refocuses my life on the One who is in control, then it is for my ultimate good.

But, still, I will weep because acknowledging my hope doesn’t negate the brokenness of this world. I will weep for those families also separated. For those who are anxious. For those who have lost their jobs. For those who face financial hardship. For those struggling to feed their families. For those who are sick. For those who are dying. For those who will die.

I will grieve over the shattered state of our world. I will sing of the glory of God. I will hold both things in my hand knowing that Jesus does too.

a few good things.

I’ve been wondering all week what I have to add to the noise and the words and the chaos all around us, and the answer came to me this morning: YouTube clips. 

I needed a break from the news today (you too?), so I went ahead and compiled 20 of my all-time favorite YouTube clips. There are movie scenes, broadway numbers, bits from my favorite television shows, and a few other random things included below. They all share one thing in common: They make me happy every single time I watch them, and I hope they might send a little joy your way today too.

Without further ado (and in no particular order)…

1.) This scene from Pam and Jim’s wedding in The Office which just now made me both laugh out loud and cry.

2.) Also that time Jim dressed up like Dwight and Dwight dressed up like Jim.

3.) One of my very favorite performances from So You Think You Can Dance: Turn to Stone with Melanie and Marko.

4.) One of my favorite songs: Yet Not I But Through Christ in Me by CityAlight.

5.) This sweet production of Boat Song by JJ Heller.

6.) The Jackal, obviously, fellow West Wing fans.

7.) That time Lin-Manuel Miranda surprised his wife with a rendition of To Life from Fiddler on the Roof at their wedding.

8.) Also that time Jimmy Fallon found out he once sort of went on a date with Nicole Kidman but didn’t realize it.

9.) Will Ferrell and Kristen Wiig presenting at the 2013 Golden Globes and also Maya Rudolph and Kristen Wiig presenting at the 2020 Academy Awards.

10.) This scene from John Mulaney and the Sack Lunch Bunch featuring Jake Gyllenhaal in which Mr. Music tries to make music out of things that don’t make any sound.

11.) The Broadway edition of Carpool Karaoke.

12.) Also, while we’re on the subject of show tunes: the Hamilton cast singing Yorktown at the 2016 Tony Awards.

13.) This beautiful scene from the movie Wonder.

14.) When Leslie Knope met Joe Biden and couldn’t deal. Also, Bye Bye Li’l Sebastian, duh.

15.) Taylor Swift’s You Belong With Me music video. Don’t @ me.

16.) Kristen Bell describing the time a sloth came to her birthday party. 

17.) Jimmy Fallon’s “songversation” with Justin Timberlake. (How can you choose just one Jimmy/Justin clip? I panicked.)

18.) Also, Jimmy Fallon’s recent at-home editions of The Tonight Show.

19.) Carrie Underwood’s rendition of How Great Thou Art.

20.) Finally, the first 10 minutes of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women and also the first 8 minutes of In the Heights.

Happy Friday, everyone. Here’s to taking it one day and one YouTube clip at a time.