ORDINARY

 Ordinary--today I don't like it. It feels mundane, boring. Ordinary is overlooked.
So let's look at it. What is ordinary?

     This morning, it's waking up. The day is still black, the house is cold, and I can't find my slippers. While the coffee brews I head to the bathroom. It's quiet except for the fans whirling, a small sound from each bedroom. A few dark minutes pass. I walk back to the kitchen. Opening the cupboard I glance across the shelves and find my cup. Pour my coffee. Add my Creamer.
Ordinary. I do this every day.
     Sitting on the floor in my closet, coffee cup resting at my lips, I ponder the word "ordinary." And I notice. I notice that my lips fit comfortably just under the slight curve at the top of my cup. I notice the cold, smooth surface contrasted with the warmth in my hands.
I hear the fan in my bedroom. It's soothing, that sound. Constant. Steady. A bird begins to chirp outside. As I listen I wonder if it's asking," Are you up yet? Can you get up now? I'm awake." Like when my children were young and ready to take on the day.
     What else do I hear? The occassional car passing by. People, neighbours, heading to work I imagine. It's early, poor souls.
     Outside my window the dark indigo sky begins to lighten. Ever so slowly. The hue changes to a deep violet and now a periwinkle. The trees are not shadow-shapes anymore. The tall one across the street even has a slight red tint at the end of each branch. It's strong trunk, gray-brown. The white shutters on the neighbour's windows show off a coral tint. The sun is rising, the sky is bluer now.
More birds are singing, insisting it's time to get up. A robin is hopping on the green of my lawn. Her rusty, red breast bobbing up and down as she bloop, bloop, bloops across. Another robin joins her. They rise together, twirl in the air, land, and hop their separate ways.

And so my ordinary day begins.
Perhaps it's not so ordinary after all.





Post script: After completing this I walked back to my kitchen. The air was filled with the scent of fresh baked bread. I took a moment to soak it in. And smiled.

So Much More

      I'd been wanting it. Desperate for it. To touch Jesus, to feel Him, know Him. If only to brush the edge of His garment with the tip of my fingers. I haven't found it anywhere. I tried, boy did I try. Craning my neck, reaching, stretching, looking for the moment I make contact with the Holy of Holies. I got close at times. At the Jordan, in Magdala, He was there just a step beyond my reach. I'd take the step and He'd have vanished. So what was I to do. I tucked my longing into my back pocket and decided to take in the "wow" of the moment.. I was in Israel, staying in the old walled city of Jerusalem. How cool was that?
      He, however, had something else in mind. He came to me, in late afternoon, in a little shop at the corner of a square. Instead of me stretching through a crowd barely brushing the hem of this garment He walked up to me, cupped my face in His hands, lifted my eyes to His and said, "Eshet Chayil."
      She became my nemesis15 years ago, this perfect woman, Eshet Chayil. Before then Proverbs 31 was my ideal. I wanted to be worth more than rubies, desperately wanted it.  So I strived and tried, and failed every time. My worth, nothing more than gravel on the side of the road. So I finally gave it up, gave her up.  . . .   This woman of valour, this perfect woman became my enemy.
     And then in this little shop, as the shadows descended and the breeze turned cold, I met a Jewish man, a teacher. He told me I got it all wrong. (I don't like to be wrong) My western mind, the way I think, distorted my understanding. It distorted the story. It started with the translators. Because it's not about rubies, it's about pearls. A noble woman, a woman of valour, Eshet Chayil-- her worth, her value is far above pearls. And that makes all the difference.
     The value of a Pearl is much less about the finished product and all about the process of becoming one. A Pearl starts as a small piece of gravel and through the process of irritation slowly, oh so slowly, is transformed into a pearl. This tiny speck of dust metamorphs into a most precious gem. Beautiful, irredecent, white, pure. NOTHING becomes SOMETHING. ASHES become BEAUTY. GRAVEL becomes PEARL.
    And as if that wasn't enough. This Jewish man, this teacher told me that Ruth, my precious Ruth, whom I've loved since I can remember, she is the only woman is scripture who is called Eshet Chayil. This Moabitess, the product of deception, manipulation, and incest, is a woman of valour, This NOTHING, this SHAME, living in the midst of irritation became a SOMETHING, her shame removed she becomes the mother of a king. A PEARL.
     So my nemesis, my enemy, has come full circle. No longer the "perfect" woman, this woman of valour is a woman who is becoming. A woman transforming, being made complete. . . whole.
Gravel, a Pearl, a Daughter of the King.
     I looked for Him. Searched for Him. He was nowhere. He came to me. Touched me. My face in His hands, my eyes looking in His. He spoke my name, "Eshet Chayil".