Ordinary?

Recently, I woke up before my alarm.

I squeezed my eyes shut and wondered,

Can I fall back asleep and reclaim my fifteen minutes?

It didn’t happen.

My mind began its early acrobatics.

Stuff to get done.

Work and banking.

Errands.

The day’s obligations and annoyances.

“Stop. Pray. Shhh,” I told myself.

Our Father…

Because I had a few quiet moments to talk to Him, the way you talk to someone who already knows everything you are going to say.

An old friend.

A best friend.

My “wasted” fifteen minutes may have been the most productive part of my morning. 

But even after, my list of annoyances continued.

A refrigerator full of food, and I didn’t want any of it.

A closet full of clothes, and nothing to wear.

The dog needs to go out.

Where are my slippers?

My phone?

My robe?

In the backyard, the sun was just beginning to rise.

I look up at the pecan tree.

Leafless, but still beautiful.

Standing there like it has nowhere else it would rather be.

A couple of birds land on a bare branch, sing a hello, then disappear.

I breathe in the light as it slowly pushes its way into the morning.

And out of nowhere, I think of my brother.

I miss him terribly.

It happens like that sometimes.

Grief has a way of showing up at unexpected moments.

It sits beside you while you brush your hair.

It walks into the room without knocking.

It lingers beneath a peaceful pecan tree.

Grief is just love turned inside out, I remind myself.

And suddenly, the ache feels slightly different.

How lucky I was to love someone that much.

How lucky I was that he loved me back.

By then, the morning had fully arrived.

The neighbors’ oak trees moved gently in the breeze, their leaves whispering like they were sharing a secret.

I stand there longer than I usually do.

Sadly, some mornings, I rush past it all without noticing a thing.

The world is quietly beautiful most of the time.

We are just too busy to see it.

My son was home for a visit.

Overnight.

He would be up soon.

And then gone.

I find myself always wanting more.

More time.

More conversation.

More of the ordinary minutes that used to fill our days when he was younger.

Am I just imagining that I once had more time with him?

That's highly possible.

This morning, he isn’t as relaxed as he was last night.

No time for chit chat.

He’s working.

His list is growing.

And I’m some background noise. 

That’s how it’s supposed to be.

But it stings a little.

As he backs out of the driveway, he flashes “I love you” in sign language.

I sign back, “I love you more.”

As we have done for years.

Of course, there is never enough time.

But in that moment, there was enough love.

And that was everything I really needed.

An unexpected text wakes my phone.

Just a few words.

Still, it feels like a small gift dropped into the middle of an ordinary morning.

God, how lucky I am.

All this ordinary feels quite special when I let it sink in.

Then, just like every morning, Annie happens.

My yappy, maniacal dog.

Jumping on me.

Spinning around and showing me her moves.

Demanding attention like the entire universe exists for the purpose of belly rubs.

“Stop, Annie,” I say.

She does not stop.

So, I give in.

As usual.

I sit down, and she climbs onto my lap as if she has just conquered Everest.

Ear scratches. Belly rubs.

Her tail wags with the enthusiasm of someone who believes this is the greatest moment in history.

And maybe, for her, it is.

It strikes me then how easily we can miss the best parts of life.

Because they look so ordinary.

The full refrigerator.

The crowded closet.

A son flashing “I love you” from a truck windshield.

A dog demanding attention.

A memory of someone we loved enough to miss.

The quiet morning sky.

Rustling leaves.

Singing birds.

A rising sun.

I remind myself for the millionth time.

The little things are the big things.

The ordinary was never ordinary at all.

It always was and will always be the whole miracle.