The Cost of Ordinary

There’s been a nagging suspicion tugging at the corners of my mind, asking me to reconsider my perception of the cost.

The cost of “ordinary,” I mean.

I’m not sure I’ve ever paused long enough to think about it.

Until now.

Last Thursday evening, an ordinary moment became a seminal moment; the inauguration of a watershed weekend when suppressed ideas finally became clear. One of those ideas poured over my soul as a sort of healing balm and I suddenly knew—

There is no such thing as ordinary. Not really. Every movement of the clock and of the sun and of the lung is a circular motion of His grace; everything—all of life—begins and ends at the goodness of His will (Romans 8:28-30). Joy and laughter—even sanctified pain and sorrow—all were made possible, all were purchased by His death on the Cross.

With so infinite, so extra-ordinary a payment as this (Isaiah 53:4-6), can there really be such a thing as ordinary?

What follows is a letter written to my husband. I have never really honored him on this blog; that’s not the point of it anyway. But the glory of God—His love and pursuit of us in the heart of our doxa and our doubt? That is the reason I write. Still, as I review His purchase of the ordinary times, my husband is always there—witness and willing vessel of a grace neither of us could earn.

Jeff, this is for you—

The day we met. Do you remember it? You were nervous and I was blinded by the sun peeping over your shoulder. How many hopes and dreams and “let’s -begin-all-over-again’s” mark the spaces between then and now?

You were my first love. And I suppose you’ve been the sharer of every other “first” since then: momentous firsts — my first kiss and car and “this is how you make a meal” session; milestone firsts—“sweet sixteen” and the yearly procession that followed; is following still. And though you were not the first to propose, you were there with the ring that would change my life and last name forever.

You held my hand as wedded life was pronounced at the altar. And through the years you held my hand as the pulse of that life was pronounced over my body—“You have a daughter”, then a son, and the last little lamb that trailed. How quickly it all happened! In little more than a year we morphed from newlyweds to parents of the newly born. We moved from symphony halls to walking the halls, awaiting an opus of another kind. (The infant music of sleeping babes is sweet to my ears even now.)

You have been my companion in the ordinary too; those “honey I’m home” and “did you remember the milk” moments. From the early poetry of courtship to the prosaic days of paying bills; all were ours—shared.

Last Thursday was an ordinary day not unlike the others; but we held each other that night. No words; none were needed. But just then it occurred to me–God had made that moment possible. His grace had brought us there—to that night, to each other. He had enabled us to forgive, to rebuild what had fallen, to reestablish a love all but withered away. It was an ordinary moment; a commonplace moment.

It was a redeemed moment.

The price of that moment was paid for on the Cross and the receipt for it can still be found. It’s printed in the hands of the Savior who holds us both.

So now, I suppose I only want to say—I love you Jeff. I’m grateful for you, for the life we have shared.

By His grace we’ll have a lifetime of redeemed, if ordinary, days.

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