The Sacredness of Ordinary Days
I recently shared a picture of my husband sitting in a lawn chair by a local lake, with an empty chair beside him—mine, while I stepped away to take the photo. It was a Friday evening. After a full week of work and no real agenda, we grabbed our lawn chairs, picked up Chipotle, and headed to one of my favorite places, a spot I often visit for walks.
It was simple. It was peaceful. It was perfect.
A friend commented on the photo with four words: “The sacredness of ordinary days.”
Those words stayed with me.
When our daughters were little, life was beautifully full. Our calendar overflowed with school events, extracurricular activities, camps, birthday parties, playdates, dance classes, sports, and all the things that seem so important when you’re raising a family. Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I managed it all while working full time outside the home, but somehow I did.
The truth is, I enjoyed it. I liked staying busy. I loved seeing my girls involved, learning, growing, and making memories. At the time, it felt like a life well lived.
But hindsight has a gentle way of teaching us.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t change everything. In fact, I treasure so many of those years. But I would erase a few things from the calendar. I would leave more space for the ordinary.
More evenings at home around the dinner table.
More bike rides with no destination.
More afternoons playing in the backyard.
More lingering conversations.
More doing absolutely nothing.
We had those moments, thankfully. But if I’m honest, I don’t think we had enough of them.
These days, life looks very different.
An empty calendar—aside from work and the commitments that naturally come with adulthood—feels like a gift. I enjoy slow mornings when I can stay in bed a little longer, sip my coffee on the deck without watching the clock, go for a walk, call a friend, read a few chapters of a good book, take an afternoon nap, watch an entire movie, or decide on a whim to have dinner by a lake.
Those ordinary moments have become some of my favorites.
A packed schedule doesn’t impress me the way it once did. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to admire something entirely different: people who know how to slow down, who notice beauty in everyday life, who make time for the people they love, and who aren’t afraid of an unscheduled afternoon.
The glitter of busyness eventually fades.
But the quiet joy of meaningful conversations, shared meals, gentle routines, and simple moments has a way of staying with us long after the calendar has been cleared.
Maybe that’s what makes ordinary days so sacred.
Not because something extraordinary happened, but because we were fully present for what did.
And perhaps that’s where so much of life has been waiting for us all along—not in the rush to the next thing, but in the simple gift of this moment. The cup of coffee that’s still warm. The chair beside someone you love. The walk with no destination. The ordinary Tuesday that, years from now, you’ll realize was never ordinary at all.
