Speaker 1: There are days that don't look like anything special when
Speaker 1: you wake up, no big plans on the calendar, no
Speaker 1: milestones marked and read, no once in a lifetime moment's
Speaker 1: waiting for you when your feet hit the floor. Just
Speaker 1: a Sunday, the kind of sunday that if someone asked
Speaker 1: you about it a week later, you'd probably struggle to
Speaker 1: remember at first. But sometimes those are the days that
Speaker 1: stay with you the longest. Not because something extraordinary happened,
Speaker 1: but because everything did. Every small thing, every quiet thing,
Speaker 1: every loud, messy ordinary thing layered on top of each
Speaker 1: other until they made up something you didn't even realize
Speaker 1: was a memory until you were already inside it. This
Speaker 1: is one of those sundays, the kind that doesn't announce itself,
Speaker 1: the kind that doesn't ask for your attention, the kind
Speaker 1: that you have to be paying attention to eat even notice.
Speaker 1: But once you do, you can unsee it, you can
Speaker 1: unfeel it, and you start realizing how many of these
Speaker 1: days are stacking up behind you, quietly building the life
Speaker 1: you actually live. Hey, guys, welcome back to We are
Speaker 1: the Hansens. I'm Maya, and today's episode is one of
Speaker 1: those stories I didn't plan on turning into anything big.
Speaker 1: I almost didn't tell it at all because on paper,
Speaker 1: nothing happened. We didn't go on a trip, we didn't
Speaker 1: celebrate anything, we didn't have a special occasion. It was
Speaker 1: just our Sunday, a day that started simple, turned colorful,
Speaker 1: got loud, got full, and somehow ended in one of
Speaker 1: those quiet, grateful moments that just sits in your chest
Speaker 1: and doesn't move. You know, that kind where nothing is
Speaker 1: perfect but everything feels right, where you look around the
Speaker 1: room and you can't really put it into words, but
Speaker 1: there's this feeling like, yes, this is it, this is
Speaker 1: what it's supposed to feel like. So pull up a seat,
Speaker 1: pour yourself a cup of something, settle in somewhere comfortable,
Speaker 1: put your phone down if you can. Because this is
Speaker 1: a slow story, a simple story, a story about a
Speaker 1: day where nothing happened, and somehow everything happened at the
Speaker 1: same time. But I think by the end you'll know
Speaker 1: exactly the kind of sunday I'm talking about. You might
Speaker 1: even start thinking about one of your own. So this
Speaker 1: past Sunday started the way most of our sundays do.
Speaker 1: A little chaotic, a little slow, a little who's awake,
Speaker 1: who's still asleep, and why is there already noise coming
Speaker 1: from the kitchen. Jeremy was up before me. He almost
Speaker 1: always is. There's something about him in the early morning
Speaker 1: hours that I love watching, even when he doesn't know
Speaker 1: I'm watching. He moves like the day already has a plan,
Speaker 1: steady home, just getting things done. I come out and
Speaker 1: the house has already had that quiet hump to it.
Speaker 1: The dishwasher running from the night before, coffee already going,
Speaker 1: a blanket folded on the back of the couch from
Speaker 1: someone who fell asleep there and didn't quite make it
Speaker 1: to bed. The kind of soft Sunday light coming through
Speaker 1: the kitchen window that you only get if you're up
Speaker 1: early enough to catch it. There's a particular smell to
Speaker 1: a Sunday morning in our house. It's coffee and laundry
Speaker 1: and whatever someone just opened the fridge for and didn't
Speaker 1: fully decide on. It's that little background sound of someone
Speaker 1: watching cartoons in the next room with the volume just
Speaker 1: a little too loud. It's a door closing somewhere down
Speaker 1: the hall that you can't quite identify. It's home. We
Speaker 1: had plans to head to the Route sixty six art
Speaker 1: show that afternoon, and anytime you try to get this
Speaker 1: many people out of the house and into cars, it
Speaker 1: becomes an event in itself. Trust me, I was already
Speaker 1: running through the mental checklist before I even had my
Speaker 1: first sip of coffee? Did everyone eat? Does everyone have
Speaker 1: shoes on? Why is someone already asking for snacks when
Speaker 1: breakfast just ended? Who's missing? And then you start calling
Speaker 1: names Anlin, Torn, Maddie, Tristan, Gavin Riley, Johnny Logan, Kate Connor, Haley, Matthew,
Speaker 1: Sammy And somehow even when everyone answers, it still feels
Speaker 1: like someone's missing. That's just our normal, that's the rhythm
Speaker 1: of a big family. You count heads twice, you assume nothing.
Speaker 1: You accept that someone is always in another room doing
Speaker 1: something you don't know about yet. There's something about loading
Speaker 1: up for something like this that I wish I could
Speaker 1: just film, just once, not to share, just to remember,
Speaker 1: because the version in my head years from now is
Speaker 1: going to be way more polished than what it actually
Speaker 1: looked like yours opening and closing, people grabbing water bottles,
Speaker 1: someone forgot their jacket, Someone's already back inside because they
Speaker 1: forgot something else. The dog is somewhere in the middle.
Speaker 1: Of it all, just convinced that she's coming too. Jeremy
Speaker 1: was standing by the door at one point with that look,
Speaker 1: you know, that look, the one where he's not annoyed,
Speaker 1: he's not stressed, he's just kind of taking inventory on
Speaker 1: what's happening and quietly accepting that we will eventually get
Speaker 1: out the door. We made eye contact and both of
Speaker 1: us just kind of laughed because we know this is
Speaker 1: the part people don't see, the behind the scenes of
Speaker 1: let's go have a nice family day. It's never quiet,
Speaker 1: it's never smooth. There's always always a delay. But that's
Speaker 1: the part that's actually the day, not the destination, the
Speaker 1: whole thing, the hunting for the missing shoe, the weight,
Speaker 1: did somebody grab the diaper bag? The kid who appears
Speaker 1: in the entryway in an outfit you didn't approve and
Speaker 1: don't have time to argue about. The other kid who
Speaker 1: is somehow already too hot even though we haven't left.
Speaker 1: The husband who is just standing there with his keys
Speaker 1: in his hand, completely at peace because he's done this
Speaker 1: so many times. He knows it'll work out eventually. It does,
Speaker 1: it always does, And eventually we were in the cars,
Speaker 1: doors closed, seatbelts, on music, going heading towards something we
Speaker 1: didn't know we'd remember, and then we got there and
Speaker 1: everything shifted. You step out of the car and immediately
Speaker 1: you can feel it that energy. There's music in the distance,
Speaker 1: somebody playing acoustic, probably set up under a tent somewhere
Speaker 1: we hadn't seen yet. People talking, laughter, the hum of
Speaker 1: something creative happening all around you. It's one of those
Speaker 1: spaces where you don't have to try to enjoy yourself,
Speaker 1: it just happens. The kids scattered a little at first,
Speaker 1: like they always do. Everyone wanted to see something different.
Speaker 1: Some went ahead with the excited, almost running pace, some
Speaker 1: hung back, taking their time. Some were immediately drawn to
Speaker 1: the first booth they saw and stopped dead in their tracks.
Speaker 1: You learn with a big family that you can't hurt
Speaker 1: everybody to the same thing at the same time. You
Speaker 1: don't even try. You just do a quick head count,
Speaker 1: You make sure that the older ones know who they're
Speaker 1: keeping an eye on. You point to a meeting spot,
Speaker 1: and then you let go, because if you spend the
Speaker 1: whole day trying to keep everybody together, you don't actually
Speaker 1: get to be there yourself, and then you miss the day.
Speaker 1: So you breathe, you loosen the grip, you trust them,
Speaker 1: and Jeremy and I just kind of stood there for
Speaker 1: a second. We didn't even say anything. We just took
Speaker 1: it in because moments like this, they don't happen in silence.
Speaker 1: They happen in layers. The sounds layer on top of
Speaker 1: each other, the colors layer, the conversations, the smells from
Speaker 1: the food truck somewhere down the road. You can't hold
Speaker 1: all of it at once. You just let it wash
Speaker 1: over you. And then we started walking. We started walking
Speaker 1: through the art show, slow it first, the way you
Speaker 1: do when you don't have anywhere to be. And I
Speaker 1: don't know what it is about seeing art in person,
Speaker 1: but it hits different, different than scrolling past it on
Speaker 1: a phone, different than seeing it in a magazine. When
Speaker 1: you're standing right in front of it, you can feel
Speaker 1: the time inside it, the patience, the intention. You can
Speaker 1: see pieces that someone sat with, worked on, probably doubted,
Speaker 1: probably almost gave up on, and still finished. And then
Speaker 1: it's just there out in the open for anyone to
Speaker 1: see or not see. Some people walk right past it,
Speaker 1: some people stop. Some people stand there for two full
Speaker 1: minutes without saying a word, and whoever made it might
Speaker 1: never know which one of these people was changed by it.
Speaker 1: That's the part that always gets me. The artist puts
Speaker 1: it out out there and let's it go. There's a
Speaker 1: kind of bravery in that, And I don't think we
Speaker 1: talk about it enough, because making something is one thing.
Speaker 1: Sharing it is another. Standing next to it while strangers
Speaker 1: walk by, some of them noticing, some of them not.
Speaker 1: That's a whole different kind of courage. I caught myself
Speaker 1: watching one of the artists at one point, not the
Speaker 1: art her, just sitting on her folding chair, watching people
Speaker 1: walk past, watching them stop, watching them not stop. And
Speaker 1: I thought about how much of her life was probably
Speaker 1: folded up into those pieces hanging around her, how many
Speaker 1: late nights, how many rough drafts, how many times she
Speaker 1: probably told herself this is the one and then changed
Speaker 1: her mind two days later. And here she was on
Speaker 1: a Sunday in a parking lot, hoping somebody would see
Speaker 1: what she saw when she made it. That's beautiful to me,
Speaker 1: that's brave. And then we came across the Robot art.
Speaker 1: I'm not even sure how to describe it without you
Speaker 1: seeing it, but the second we turned that corner, it
Speaker 1: grabbed everyone. It was bold, different, creative in the way
Speaker 1: that made you stop and look longer than you expected to,
Speaker 1: the kind of art where the kids lean in, where
Speaker 1: someone says, wait, look at this. And suddenly everyone gathered
Speaker 1: around the same booth, all of us standing too close together,
Speaker 1: all of us pointing at different parts, talking over each other,
Speaker 1: seeing different details. Look at the eyes, look at how
Speaker 1: they did the hands that's made out of what. I
Speaker 1: just stood there for a second watching them take it in,
Speaker 1: because it wasn't just about the art. It was about
Speaker 1: what it did. It brought people together, It sparked something.
Speaker 1: It made the kids, kids who don't always slow down down.
Speaker 1: And as a parent, you don't get a lot of
Speaker 1: moments where everybody is paying attention to the same thing
Speaker 1: at the same time. So when one of them happens,
Speaker 1: you bank it. You don't try to make it a
Speaker 1: big moment. You just let it be the moment it is.
Speaker 1: And as we kept walking booth after booth after booth,
Speaker 1: we start to realize how much talent is packed into
Speaker 1: one space. Paintings, sculptures, handmade pieces, jewelry, would burn, signs, ceramics, photography,
Speaker 1: things that don't even fit into a category, and every
Speaker 1: single one had a story behind it. You could tell
Speaker 1: which pieces took hours, which ones took days, which ones
Speaker 1: probably took months. There was one woman painting in the
Speaker 1: back of her booth, actually painting right there in front
Speaker 1: of everybody, and I stood there longer than I meant to,
Speaker 1: just watching her hand move. She wasn't performing for anyone,
Speaker 1: she was just working like the crowd wasn't even there.
Speaker 1: And I started appreciating it all in a different way
Speaker 1: because it wasn't just something pretty hanging on a ball.
Speaker 1: It was something personal, somebody's hours, somebody's frustration, somebody's try again,
Speaker 1: somebody's quiet little victory the day they finally got it right.
Speaker 1: That's what you're really walking packs, not just our lives
Speaker 1: and the group. Our group was moving through the show
Speaker 1: like this big, shifting living thing, people pairing off, breaking off,
Speaker 1: coming back together at the next big booth. Kevin and
Speaker 1: Riley walking side by side, both quiet, both noticing things
Speaker 1: at the same time, the girl stopping at things longer,
Speaker 1: taking it all in, pointing things out to each other,
Speaker 1: and that way they do when they're both seeing the
Speaker 1: same thing but from completely different angles. The boys pretending
Speaker 1: they weren't impressed, but definitely stopping anyway, standing there with
Speaker 1: their hands in their pockets, trying to look casual, but
Speaker 1: looking three or four seconds longer than someone who didn't
Speaker 1: actually care. Johnny and Logan pointing things out, Connor and
Speaker 1: Matthew joking about something I couldn't quite hear, but I
Speaker 1: knew by the laughter wasn't anything I needed to worry about.
Speaker 1: Sammy trying to keep up with everything, determined not to
Speaker 1: miss whatever the older kids were looking at. And somewhere
Speaker 1: in the middle of it all, Jeremy and I were
Speaker 1: just watching, taking mental snapshots. We didn't even talk much
Speaker 1: during that part. We didn't have to. We were just
Speaker 1: seeing it together because this is what we'll remember, not
Speaker 1: just what we saw, but how it felt to watch
Speaker 1: them seeing it. There were these little moments throughout the
Speaker 1: day that didn't seem big at the time, but they stuck.
Speaker 1: Kate stopping to compliment somebody's work completely unprompted, the look
Speaker 1: on the artist's face when she did, Hailey finding a
Speaker 1: piece she absolutely loved, just standing there with it for
Speaker 1: a while. Tristan asking questions about a piece that was
Speaker 1: way more thoughtful than I expected, one of the boys
Speaker 1: laughing a little too hard at something random. Two of
Speaker 1: them standing quietly side by side, just taking it in,
Speaker 1: not even talking. Mattie pointing out a detail and a
Speaker 1: painting that the rest of us had walked right past.
Speaker 1: Anlin standing in front of a piece for so long
Speaker 1: that I almost said something, and then I didn't, because
Speaker 1: whatever she was thinking was hers, not mine. Torn picking
Speaker 1: something up from a table, examining it like she was
Speaker 1: an art critic, and then putting it back exactly where
Speaker 1: she found it. That kind of quiet between siblings is
Speaker 1: rare and short lived, so you notice it when it
Speaker 1: shows up. Those are the moments that make days like
Speaker 1: this what They are. Not the big highlights, the small ones,
Speaker 1: the ones you almost don't catch, the ones that would
Speaker 1: never make a photo, the ones that don't translate to
Speaker 1: a phone screen, But they're the ones you keep. Eventually
Speaker 1: you reach that point where you've seen it all, or
Speaker 1: at least enough, your feet are tired, The little ones
Speaker 1: are starting to drag. The energy starts to shift again,
Speaker 1: that subtle change you can feel before anyone says anything
Speaker 1: out loud. People are a little quieter, still talking, but slower.
Speaker 1: The conversations have a different rhythm, now, less excited, more content.
Speaker 1: You can tell who's tired by who's stopped pointing things out.
Speaker 1: You can tell who's ready by who's started circling back
Speaker 1: to the people they came with. You can tell the
Speaker 1: day has done its work by the way nobody's complaining
Speaker 1: at but everybody's drifting in the same direction without being told.
Speaker 1: And we started heading back towards the cars loading up again,
Speaker 1: same chaos, same energy, but softer this time because the
Speaker 1: day had already happened. The high point was already behind us,
Speaker 1: and somehow that made the drive home feel even better,
Speaker 1: like the day had earned its quiet. When we got
Speaker 1: back home, it was like stepping into a completely different rhythm.
Speaker 1: The noise changed, the pace changed. Some people headed straight inside,
Speaker 1: some people headed straight outside. Shoes were kicked off in
Speaker 1: three different doorways. Somebody opened the fridge before they'd even
Speaker 1: fully walked through the door. Somebody else turned on the
Speaker 1: TV that didn't really need to be turned on. Somebody
Speaker 1: put their bag down somewhere absolutely did not belong, and
Speaker 1: I made a mental note to deal with it later,
Speaker 1: knowing full well I wouldn't. That's the post event come
Speaker 1: down in a big family. Everybody decompresses in their own
Speaker 1: corner of the house, in their own way. And then
Speaker 1: the boys decided basketball. Of course, of course it was
Speaker 1: going to be basketball. It's always basketball. And just like that,
Speaker 1: they were gone running out the door, grabbing the ball,
Speaker 1: already talking trash. Before the game had even started. You
Speaker 1: could hear it from inside the house, the bounce of
Speaker 1: the ball on the driveway. She was scraping on pavement, shouting, laughing,
Speaker 1: arguing overcalls. That didn't matter. That was a fall, that
Speaker 1: was not a fall. You always call a foul. You're
Speaker 1: always fouling. Check ball. You can't check ball. You didn't
Speaker 1: even win the last point. I literally just want in
Speaker 1: what universe that kind of back and forth, the kind
Speaker 1: that goes on forever, never actually ruins anything, because nobody
Speaker 1: really wants the game to stop. The arguing is the game.
Speaker 1: It was loud and completely them, the kind of noise
Speaker 1: that if I heard it from someone else's house might
Speaker 1: bother me, But coming from my own driveway, from my boys,
Speaker 1: it's the best sound in the world, because that's the
Speaker 1: sound of brothers being brothers, that's the sound of cousins
Speaker 1: becoming friends. That's the sound of Sunday afternoon, doing exactly
Speaker 1: what it was made for, and inside it was just
Speaker 1: me and Jeremy and the younger girls, and everything slowed down.
Speaker 1: We started making dinner together, nothing fancy, nothing complicated, just
Speaker 1: real simple, the kind of meal that comes together with conversation,
Speaker 1: with movement, with comfort. Jeremy was doing his thing, steady focused.
Speaker 1: He has this way in the kitchen where he doesn't
Speaker 1: say much, but everything he's doing is intentional. He's shopping,
Speaker 1: he's prepping. He's already two steps ahead of where I am.
Speaker 1: I don't even have to ask for the cutting board
Speaker 1: just appear. I don't have to ask him to grab
Speaker 1: the olive oil. It's already on the counter. He's the
Speaker 1: kind of partner in the kitchen, the kind that knows
Speaker 1: the next move before you've made the current one. I
Speaker 1: was moving between things, checking on the girls, hoping where needed,
Speaker 1: starring something on the stove, and then walking away from
Speaker 1: it because I trusted that nothing was going to burn yet.
Speaker 1: We were talking, but not about anything important, little things.
Speaker 1: Something one of the kids said earlier, something funny we
Speaker 1: noticed at the art show. He thought that didn't really
Speaker 1: go anywhere, but neither of us minded. That's one of
Speaker 1: the best parts of being married. For a while, you
Speaker 1: don't always need the conversation to be about something. Sometimes
Speaker 1: you're just keeping each other company in the room. That's enough.
Speaker 1: There's something about cooking together that feels grounding. After a
Speaker 1: full day like that. It brings everything back in, like
Speaker 1: the day had been spread out wide and now it
Speaker 1: was being gathered back in to the center. And I
Speaker 1: want to share this recipe with you because honestly, this
Speaker 1: is a good one. It's the kind of dinner I
Speaker 1: make on Sunday sometimes when I want everybody fed without
Speaker 1: losing my mind. I call it Sunday sheet pan chicken.
Speaker 1: It's a one pan dinner. It's forgiving, It feeds a crowd,
Speaker 1: and it tastes like something you put a lot more
Speaker 1: effort into than you actually did. Here's how it goes.
Speaker 1: You take a big sheet pan. I use the biggest
Speaker 1: one I own, because we feed an army chicken thighs,
Speaker 1: bone in, skin on. If you can get them, the
Speaker 1: flavor of those is just better. You lay them out
Speaker 1: across the pan. Then you add baby potatoes. Have not
Speaker 1: whole hererot's peeled and cott into thick chunks, a hole
Speaker 1: onion sliced into wedges, a few hole garlic globes just
Speaker 1: dropped right in there. You drizzle everything generously with oil.
Speaker 1: Then you season salt, pepper, smoke paprika. That's the one
Speaker 1: that makes the whole thing tastes like a Sunday garlic powder,
Speaker 1: a little dried thyme, a little dried rosemary. You toss
Speaker 1: everything together right on the pan with your hands until
Speaker 1: it's all coated. Then you tuck a few lemon slices
Speaker 1: in between the chicken thighs. That's the secret. The lemon
Speaker 1: roasts down and gives everything this brightness that cuts through
Speaker 1: all the richness. Bake it at four hundred degrees for
Speaker 1: about forty five minutes until the chicken skin is crispy
Speaker 1: and the potatoes are golden brown on the bottom. That's it.
Speaker 1: That's the whole thing. When it comes out of the oven,
Speaker 1: the smell of it fills the entire house. Roasted garlic, lemon,
Speaker 1: smoky paprika, crispy chicken. It's the kind of smell that
Speaker 1: travels around the corner, down the hall and out the
Speaker 1: back door. Even it's the kind of smell that makes
Speaker 1: the boys come in from the driveway without even having
Speaker 1: to call them. That's how you know it worked. The
Speaker 1: other thing I love about this dinner is the leftovers.
Speaker 1: If you make extra, and we always do, you can
Speaker 1: pull the chicken off the bone the next day, throw
Speaker 1: it on top of a salad, or shred it into
Speaker 1: a wrap, and the second day version is almost as
Speaker 1: good as the first. That's a Sunday meal that keeps
Speaker 1: giving you Sundays. The younger girls who are right there
Speaker 1: with us through all of it, talking, helping, laughing, asking questions,
Speaker 1: wanting to help be part of it. Can I stir?
Speaker 1: What's that? Why does it smell like that? Can I taste?
Speaker 1: And you realize this is just as important as everything
Speaker 1: else we did today. This moment right here. It's not big,
Speaker 1: it's not loud, it's not the kind of thing that
Speaker 1: would make a high light reel, but it's full because
Speaker 1: they're learning something they don't even know they're learning. Hai
Speaker 1: kitchen feels when it's home. HOI meal comes together, How
Speaker 1: mom and dad works side by side without having to
Speaker 1: say much. That's the stuff that becomes their normal. That's
Speaker 1: the stuff that becomes how they remember home years from
Speaker 1: now when they're standing in their own kitchens. They're going
Speaker 1: to do something they won't even know why, and it'll
Speaker 1: be because of a Sunday light this one. Maybe the
Speaker 1: way they hold their wooden spoon. Maybe the way they
Speaker 1: stand next to somebody they love and don't need to
Speaker 1: fill the silence. Maybe the way they trust that the
Speaker 1: food will turn out even when the kitchen is a
Speaker 1: little chaotic. That's not something you teach with work. That's
Speaker 1: something they absorb. We don't always get to see them
Speaker 1: absorb it, but we get to do it in front
Speaker 1: of them. That counts for something, That counts for a lot. Actually,
Speaker 1: And I had this moment standing there in the kitchen,
Speaker 1: listening to the boys outside, watching the girls inside, Jeremy
Speaker 1: right there next to me, and I just thought, this
Speaker 1: is it. This is the balance, the loud and quiet,
Speaker 1: the chaos and the calm, the together and the separate,
Speaker 1: all happening at the same time, different rooms, different rhythms,
Speaker 1: different versions of the same family, all running on the
Speaker 1: same heartbeat somehow. And nobody's planned this, nobody scheduled it.
Speaker 1: It just happened. This is the thing about a real Sunday.
Speaker 1: You can't manufacture this. You can only show up to it.
Speaker 1: You can only be present enough to notice it. And
Speaker 1: the older I get, the more I think that's the
Speaker 1: actual job, not the planning, not the scheduling, not the
Speaker 1: constant orchestrating that big family life can turn into the noticing.
Speaker 1: The noticing is the thing. Eventually everyone came back in.
Speaker 1: The boys came in, sweaty loud, just talking about the
Speaker 1: game like it was the championship of the world. Did
Speaker 1: you see that shot? That was a good shot. It
Speaker 1: was a great shot. You're the only one who thinks that.
Speaker 1: The girls were already setting things on the table. The
Speaker 1: smell from the oven had already done half the work
Speaker 1: of bringing everybody in. And then we all sat down together,
Speaker 1: and that's when it hits you again. I'll fold the tablets,
Speaker 1: not just with food, but with people, with energy, with
Speaker 1: stories from the day, everybody sharing different parts of what
Speaker 1: they saw, what they liked, what stood out. Somebody bringing
Speaker 1: up the robot art, somebody bringing up the basketball play
Speaker 1: that nobody else was there for, but they were going
Speaker 1: to hear about it anyway. Somebody asking somebody else to
Speaker 1: pass something. For the third time, two conversations going at once,
Speaker 1: three four, It all overlaps, but somehow it makes sense.
Speaker 1: It always makes sense at our table. Somebody asks somebody
Speaker 1: else what they like best from the day. Somebody else
Speaker 1: interrupts to say they liked it best. Somebody under ten
Speaker 1: years old has a very strong opinion about what a
Speaker 1: particular piece of art look like and is being absolutely
Speaker 1: steamrolled by it. Somebody is reaching across the table for
Speaker 1: bread without saying excuse me, and I'm letting it go
Speaker 1: because I'm tired and the food is good and I'm
Speaker 1: not picking battles. Tonight, Jeremy's at the head at the table,
Speaker 1: just kind of taking it in. He doesn't talk a
Speaker 1: lot at dinner. He listens. He'll through out one well
Speaker 1: timeline that gets everybody laughing, and then go right back
Speaker 1: to his plate. That's his rhythm. I love watching him
Speaker 1: at dinner. I love watching all of them because thirteen
Speaker 1: kids at the table is a lot. But on a
Speaker 1: Sunday like this one, after a day like that, one
Speaker 1: doesn't feel like a lot. It feels exactly right. And
Speaker 1: I think that's what made the day so special. It
Speaker 1: wasn't planned to be anything big. It wasn't a holiday,
Speaker 1: it wasn't an event. We built up for weeks. It
Speaker 1: was just a Sunday, but it had everything. Creativity, connection, movement, stillness, family.
Speaker 1: It had art and noise and quiet. It had crispy
Speaker 1: chicken and roasted lemon and the smell of olive oil
Speaker 1: and rosemary. It had a basketball game that nobody won
Speaker 1: and nobody lost because nobody was actually keeping score. It
Speaker 1: had thirteen names called from the front door. It had
Speaker 1: a husband who didn't have to stay much to be
Speaker 1: the steadiest person in the room. It had little hands
Speaker 1: stirring pots they could barely reach. It had the kind
Speaker 1: of full table you don't get every night, even when
Speaker 1: you live like this. It had everything. And those are
Speaker 1: the days I think we forget to appreciate sometimes because
Speaker 1: we're always waiting for big moments, the big milestones, the trips,
Speaker 1: the vacations, the events that feel important enough to remember.
Speaker 1: But this, this is what builds a life. Days like this,
Speaker 1: Moments like this, the Sundays that don't make the calendar,
Speaker 1: the ones that don't get a name, the ones that
Speaker 1: just happened because you showed up to them. When I'm older,
Speaker 1: when the kids are grown, when this house is quieter
Speaker 1: than I can even imagine, right now. These are the
Speaker 1: days I'm going to be reaching for, not the ones
Speaker 1: with the cake and candles, the ones where everybody was
Speaker 1: just home. I'll remember the basketball game I never watched,
Speaker 1: but I heard the whole time, The smell of the
Speaker 1: chicken in the oven, The way the girls stood up
Speaker 1: on their tiptoes to see what was happening on the stove.
Speaker 1: The way Jeremy looked at me from across the kitchen
Speaker 1: when neither of us said anything. The way the table
Speaker 1: sounded when everybody he finally sat down. The way the
Speaker 1: day ended with no big announcement, no big finale, just
Speaker 1: a slow, full quiet That's what I'll remember, not the year,
Speaker 1: not the date, the feeling. So if you're listening to this,
Speaker 1: take a second to think about your last normal day,
Speaker 1: the one you didn't think twice about, the one that
Speaker 1: didn't seem worth remembering. There was probably something in it
Speaker 1: that mattered more than you realized. It looks somebody gave
Speaker 1: you a laugh. You didn't write down a meal. Somebody
Speaker 1: just happened to be at the table for a small
Speaker 1: thing that years from now you'd give anything to have
Speaker 1: one more time. A Sunday that didn't seem like much
Speaker 1: a meal. Nobody planned a whole week around a drive
Speaker 1: home where somebody was a little tired and a little quiet,
Speaker 1: and nobody was fighting. A sound from the next room
Speaker 1: that meant your kids were still under your roof, a
Speaker 1: husband or a wife, or a sibling or a parent
Speaker 1: or a friend who just happened to be there. Don't
Speaker 1: wait for the big moments to be the only ones
Speaker 1: you let yourself love. Love the small ones, love the sundays,
Speaker 1: love the quiet ones, love the loud ones. Love them
Speaker 1: while they're happening, because sometimes the most ordinary days are
Speaker 1: the ones that stay with you forever. Thanks for being
Speaker 1: here with us. This is We are the Hansens, and
Speaker 1: we'll see you next time.