Ordinary Tuesday

Nothing happened today that anyone will write down.

You made the bed. You answered the emails. You prayed in the car between two obligations, a prayer so short it was more like a breath than a sentence.

You were patient once when patience cost you something. You were unkind once and caught yourself before the end of the sentence and softened it — not enough, maybe, but more than you would have a year ago.

You ate lunch alone and did not perform your solitude for anyone.

You thought about something difficult and did not resolve it but also did not run.

This is the shape of most of a life: not the bright moments, not the crisis that clarifies, but the ordinary Tuesday that asks nothing dramatic of you, only this —

to show up, to stay, to be the person you are trying to be in the rooms where no one is watching.

He is watching.

Not to record the failures but because He cannot look away from the ones He loves.

Your ordinary Tuesday was seen. Every quiet, unremarkable, faithful moment of it.