The Gift of Ordinary

I woke up this morning to the weight of my husband’s arm draped over me, his hand resting on my hip. The window was left open last night so there was a chill in the air. I was laying there thinking, I could just stay right here all day…or at least for a little while.

There are few things that feel as comforting to me as my husband’s presence. Whether it's his hand on my hip while I'm sleeping, his hand in mine while we're walking, or a hug after a long day, moments with him are not ones I willingly abandon.

But the animals still need tending to. 

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I've been struggling to find the right shoes for my morning routine.

Most mornings, the dew is so heavy that my feet are soaked within minutes. The cold seeps through my work boots, and the rubber soles are starting to peel away from being constantly wet. When the weather warmed up, I switched to water shoes, thinking I had finally solved the problem.

I was wrong.

Yesterday, I was in the middle of filling the ducks' wading pools when my feet suddenly started hurting. Upon further inspection, I discovered I was standing on an ant hill, and the ants had launched a full-scale assault through the mesh tops of my carefully chosen footwear.

Anyone who knows me knows I don't do bugs.

I'm liable to cause a traffic accident if I spot a spider in my car. So naturally, my response was calm, rational, and completely proportional.

I yanked off the offending shoes and chucked them across the garden.

Then I gingerly made my way barefoot across the sharp gravel of our driveway, muttering curses at the ants, the shoes, and possibly my own life choices.

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My mornings have been a little busier than usual this week.

Normally, once the animals have been fed and everyone is settled, I claim a few quiet minutes for myself. I settle into a weather-worn rocking chair in the garden before the sun climbs too high in the sky. Being something of a vampire, I prefer the early morning hours when the yard is still draped in shade and the sunlight feels gentle rather than punishing.

Those moments have become one of my favorite parts of the day.

The ducks splash happily in their pool. Rabbits race through the grass, kicking up their heels for no reason other than the joy of being alive. The horses stand contentedly chewing their breakfast. The goats clatter across their jungle gym while the peacocks sound the alarm over every passing car, convinced the world is ending several times before noon. Somewhere in the distance, a hen proudly announces that she has laid an egg, as though it is breaking news the entire farm needs to hear.

It's peaceful.

Or at least it usually is.

This week, I headed out to let the goats out and discovered that Sugar, one of our bantam hens, had apparently ignored my conclusion that she had fallen victim to a predator. Not only was she alive, she was tucked away with six freshly hatched chicks.

A few days later, I stepped outside to begin chores and found three tiny ducklings running around the backyard.

Just like that, my peaceful morning routine was replaced by emergency baby management.

The rocking chair sat empty while I scrambled to create safe spaces, gather supplies, and make sure everyone was protected from the many dangers that come with being small and fluffy on a rescue farm.

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It's hard not to let the busyness of a new day consume you. I'm guilty of it from time to time. Lately, though, I've been making a conscious effort to slow down and enjoy the time I've been given here on earth.

I was reminded of that recently when my granddaughter asked me, "Grandma, why do you like mornings so much? Mornings are for sleepiness and feeling lazy."

I had to laugh.

Children have a way of seeing the world differently than adults do. They can find magic in the simplest things. A cardboard box becomes a castle. A puddle becomes an ocean. The ordinary becomes extraordinary simply because they take the time to notice it.

I remember feeling that way as a child when we visited Bronner's in Frankenmuth, Michigan. If you've never been there, it's a store dedicated entirely to Christmas. To my childhood eyes, it seemed endless. The lights sparkled. The ornaments stretched on forever. It felt as though the magic of Christmas lived there year-round, waiting for anyone willing to step through the doors.

I loved every minute of it.

When I visited again as an adult, however, something had changed. The store wasn't nearly as large as I remembered. The displays weren't quite as magical. What once felt endless now seemed surprisingly ordinary.

Of course, Bronner's hadn't changed.

I had.

Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, I had traded wonder for practicality. The magic I once saw in every corner had been replaced by thoughts of price tags, crowded aisles, and things that needed to get done.

I think we do that with life, too.

We become so focused on responsibilities, schedules, and the next task on our list that we stop noticing the beauty God has placed right in front of us. The sunrise becomes just another morning. Birdsongs become background noise. A garden becomes another chore to maintain.

Yet God's fingerprints are still there, just as they've always been.

The question isn't whether the wonder exists. The question is whether we've slowed down enough to see it.

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Some of my favorite memories begin at the very start of the day, when the world is just waking up.

My dad was a truck driver for many years, and from time to time I would ride along with him. This was long before smartphones and video games. I was perfectly content to sit beside him in the truck, listening to the radio and watching the world roll by outside my window.

Growing up on a farm, the city felt like another world entirely. My dad often started his day long before sunrise, sometimes as early as four or five in the morning. At that hour, the world seemed caught between night and day. Most people were still asleep, a few truck stops were beginning to stir, and third-shift workers were finishing their day and heading home.

I loved it.

I remember climbing down from the cab of the truck with a toothbrush in one hand and a jug of water in the other, tucking my hair up under my Chicago Bears cap before we headed inside. Sometimes he'd buy me a donut and a cup of hot cocoa before we got back on the road.

I remember pulling into massive factories that seemed to stretch on forever. The smell of diesel fuel hung in the air while forklifts beeped and machinery hummed in the background. To a little girl from the country, it all felt larger than life.

Looking back, I realize those memories weren't special because of where we went. They were special because I was there with my dad. The smell of diesel fuel still reminds me of him. Some of the people I have loved most in this life smelled of diesel fuel, so for me it carries nothing but good memories. 

I've always been a nostalgic person. When I'm sick, I still find comfort in old episodes of The Price Is Right with Bob Barker. I enjoy watching old movies and TV shows as much for the scenery as the story itself. I like catching glimpses of a world that no longer exists—the cars, the storefronts, the neighborhoods, and the slower pace of life. Maybe that's why certain smells, songs, and places have a way of stopping me in my tracks. They remind me of people I loved and moments I didn't realize were special until they became memories. 

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Those moments helped shape my childhood.

Getting up early to walk through the woods with my grandpa. Helping my grandma make bread before the day got too hot. Tagging along with my mom and aunt to yard sales before all the good deals were gone.

And horse shows.

Anyone who has ever shown horses knows there is no such thing as sleeping in on show day. We would be up before dawn bathing horses, braiding manes, making sure everything was ready before our first class of the day. Looking back, I don't remember many trophies and ribbons. What I remember is the steam rising off a freshly bathed horse in the cool morning air, the smell of leather and shampoo, and the excitement of a day full of possibilities stretching out before me.

There was something special about those early hours. The world felt quieter then, as though it hadn't quite decided what kind of day it was going to be yet.

As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that maybe it wasn't the places or even the activities that made those moments memorable. Maybe it was the fact that I was fully present for them.

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It's easy to become angry, bitter, and jaded with life. It's easy to covet what your friends and neighbors have when you're unable to find contentment in your own life. It's easy to become frustrated with your spouse when you stop taking the time to appreciate them. It's easy to place more value on things you can own than on the people around you when society constantly encourages us to chase more, buy more, and want more.

What isn't easy is slowing down.

What isn't easy is choosing gratitude when life feels unfair, choosing contentment when everyone else appears to have more, and choosing to see the blessings God has already placed in front of you.

Maybe that's why I love mornings so much.

They remind me to pause. To notice. To appreciate.

To remember that some of life's greatest blessings aren't found in the things we spend our lives chasing, but in the ordinary moments we so often overlook.

As I sit here writing this, I have a kitten sleeping on my chest and a dog pressed against either side of me. I'm crowded into a recliner that was partially chewed and torn apart by my husky on one of his less-than-stellar days. My laptop is balanced precariously on my knees, and I'm trying to type around the tiny kitten who has FINALLY settled into a comfortable position atop my hand.

And yet, I couldn't be more content.