As I practice both/and living, I learn to allow myself a mix of grace and hard work. Both/and living means, for me, a life that embraces paradox and nuance—different than black-and-white, either/or living.

It’s not unlike the Easter-egg hunt in our back yard last weekend. Several families gathered to spend a lazy afternoon enjoying haystacks (make-your-own taco salad), early spring sunshine, and Easter candy.

Our gathering was ripe with contrast:
Warm sun, cold wind
Hollow (plastic) eggs and solid (hard-boiled) eggs
Edible treasures and inedible treasures
Young and old (three generations of family)
Hiding and finding
Large eggs and small eggs
Textured eggs and smooth eggs
Relaxation and busyness
Eating and drinking (can’t do them at the same time)

Dozens of eggs peeked from grass clusters or perched in low branches. Most of them were easy to spot, but some hid deep in overgrown grass, or camouflaged with bushes and trees. Kids ran through the yard and collected the easy-to-find eggs, then dumped out the baskets to assess their treasures, popping candy into their mouths as they sorted the hollow, plastic eggs from the dyed, hard-boiled eggs. After they’d satisfactorily sorted their first take, they went out again, looking for the harder-to-find eggs. The second round yielded less results; nevertheless, each child’s collection of candy and coins, tiny animal toys and stickers, continued to grow.

My journey into paradox has involved opening the components of my life, like eggs collected in a basket, to find out they were filled with chocolate I couldn’t eat, money I couldn’t spend, and to-do lists I couldn’t finish. My basket stank. The hard-boiled eggs rotted, and the hollow eggs held no treasure. They were labeled—religion, self-help books, pulling myself up by my own bootstraps, always doing the right thing—but the contents disappointed. I thought I’d painstakingly collected resurrection power, or at least a lucky rabbit, but instead I had unearthed anxiety.

The hardest work in my life has been excavating the mountain between me and grace. My value has long been rooted in performance and productivity, and—far from what the church patriarchs predicted—it’s excruciating for me to be “lazy.” I have been incapable of resting my soul, unable to move in “the unforced rhythms of grace” (Matthew 11:29, MSG). A planned life and a protestant work ethic leave grace hanging to the side, like an awkward, unneeded appendage.

Late Easter afternoon, as we covered bowls of salsa and picked up trash, my daughter Kyli kept asking my help to find one more special egg. She knew it had $1 in it which would be hers to keep, along with the container—a beautiful, 3D-printed, shiny black egg that screwed open and shut, with mermaid-scale texture on the outside. I searched with her willingly at first, becoming more reluctant after each subsequent request. I had hidden the egg in question, but I couldn’t remember where, and I soon tired of looking.

It’s not that hard work or self-help books are inherently or predictably bad. It’s just that my basket lacked wholeness. I needed to collect eggs containing decadent chocolates meant to be eaten, money to spend, and lists of what I’d already done. I struggled to find those eggs. I saw them in other people’s baskets, but whenever I went collecting with my basket, I found more of the same eggs I’d already collected.

At length, one of Kyli’s uncles found the black egg under an apricot tree. Kyli squealed with joy, opened the egg to retrieve the dollar, then carefully added it to her egg collection. Soon she returned to our play-set, where the cousins were sending all manner of things down the slide—rocks, smaller cousins, broken plastic things. All was well in the world and she could focus on the fun at hand.

Like Kyli, I never did find the special “eggs” I was looking for. Someone else found them and handed them to me. Much to my surprise, the eggs I didn’t work for are some of my favorites. I used to think working hard mattered a lot, and productivity trumped enjoyment. I’m grateful to the authors, friends, and family who have lovingly placed “grace eggs” in my basket. I’ve learned to have fun.

It’s not that I won’t work hard; I do and I will. The difference is, as I putter and tumble and stride through my days, I like them. I like me. I like people and pets and all kinds of weather and books and food and friendship and I almost like it when my kids wake me up at night. At least, I’m pleased they trust me and know they don’t have to be alone when they’re scared or can’t go back to sleep. This, I think, is grace.