A Case of the Ordinaries
“Do you know who I am?!” I assailed my barista friend, jokingly, once I finally reached the counter, “I’m a very important person! I am an art docent. For kindergarten and second grade.”
And I drive a Honda Civic which is almost old enough to buy alcohol, and has an air-vent fan that hollers like Chewbacca when I turn it past the first click.
I have no remarkable titles after my name.
My current scope of work: get up, feed, clean, laundry, errands, homework, feed, clean. Repeat one million times.
I’ve got a case of the ordinaries.
I don’t have any money to plan something, like a massage or a trip to Croatia, in order to push aside my overwhelming sense of mundanity. The best I could do that day was coffee, which isn’t so bad, except that right then, it felt more like an exercise in avoidance than indulgence.
I checked my texts (any amazing propositions?).
Emails? (something besides spam?)
I incline my spiritual ear, “Still no sensational calling, God?”
Oh, the burn! My increasingly less frantic life sometimes doles out such wrenching withdrawals of restlessness!
Why do I doubt lowliness—a life which money doesn’t acknowledge? (“Children of mine! Be anything but!”). Aren’t I closer to the truth as I inhabit a day of teaching, feeding, forgiving, and disciplining?
God, be enough for me in this day.
You align me squarely with you by your patience and gentleness, so subtle, that I doubt you, too.
Give me a gift of you today. Something like assuredness, or awareness, or fullness. Or perhaps a sense of your grandeur, or a surge of appreciation for this perfectly complete moment which you’ve had planned since the beginning of time.