Ordinary Things

A cup of tea, steam rising in the morning quiet — this too is prayer.

The hands that wash the same dishes for the ten-thousandth time, humming something half-remembered — this too is worship.

The garden that asks nothing except attention and water and patience, giving back what we did not earn — this too is grace.

We spend so much looking for the burning bush, the parted sea, the voice from the cloud —

and miss the smaller fires: kindness across a counter, a child's hand in yours, the particular quality of Thursday afternoon light.

Holiness is not shy. It only waits for us to slow down enough to be caught by it.