Mom guilt. Woman guilt. Friend guilt. Family guilt. It doesn’t all fit—it never, ever will. All we can do is set priorities, decide which of our roles are most worthy of the space in our days. How much time did I spend playing with my son today? Never as much as I’d like to, ever.

So who gets the minutes I have leftover, once the work is done? There’s always another anybody I could do a real-quick everything for—or my boy and I could drive the dump truck across the carpet one more hour today than usual.

It’s the service projects outside the home that receive all the kudos and brownie points. That’s where I’ll find recognition and a name. I can prove to the world I’m still ablaze with missionary zeal and busyness; I can astound my peers with how much I manage to accomplish even with a baby on the hip; I can try to reassure my insecure ego that I’m definitely an important, self-sacrificing somebody making a difference everywhere but here.

Or I could hear my husband’s heart as he and I walk around the block every afternoon, then hold my baby’s hands as he walks around the furniture again. For all my education, abilities, and big ideas, the greatest accomplishment I can achieve each day is to walk in circles with the same two boys, listening and laughing, teaching and repeating, slow and satisfied enough to let my heart rest in the trophy of their simple presence.

No one will notice. No one will care. But the blessed path never was impressive. The good life is only good from the inside looking out. From the outside, it looks just like any other house, too boring and normal to count for much.