Everyday Days

Though time crumbles stone and the story grows old

The Savior we love still watches His fold

And His star still shines over city and mart 

And His voice still speaks to the listening heart

Rote, redundant, repetitious are not usually words we associate with being full of wonder and awe. We think of them more as being mechanical or automatic as if there were no intention, as if mundane were the opposite of mindfulness. Jesus made reference to the kingdom of God belonging to the children and perhaps their way of reveling in what adults may call monotonous makes them more aware of the delight of repeating everyday pleasures. "One more story, one more trip down the slide, one more walk with Granpa." GK Chesterton reasons that the cry of children for "more" is a reflection of the God who created them:

 “It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that God has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.”

When Jesus asks us to consider the lilies of the field and how they grow assuring us that He cares so much more for us, He is inviting us into the glorious wonder of observing and participating in the predictable repetition of a His created world, both the ordinary and the extraordinary. He is encouraging us to experience His attention to detail in both the stars in a child's eyes and those that make up the galaxies. He is gracing the moments that we trek through toddler-dom, walk a tightrope with teens or care for an aging parent. He infuses the good, the bad, and the ugly with fresh springs of light that cause us to see beyond just having a quick look. 

My father-in-law has collected a series of little houses, the ones that are lit from the inside often displayed at this season. Over the years, he has gathered banks and barns, shops and vintage houses, a light house and several churches. Altogether on the mantle, where they are carefully arranged with cords neatly hidden behind gold garland, the miniature buildings create a warm glow throughout the room almost reminiscent of a Victorian village.  It is only when one draws very near and peeks into the windows that one can catch a glimpse of treasures within...tiny figures trying on hats or others sampling confections from the bakery. 

I have mused often this Christmas season as I sit sipping afternoon coffee with my dear in-laws of the haven they have created in their rather ordinary little home. Their lives, not unlike the little row of houses, are predictable. They eat three meals a day, let the dog in and out, venture to the grocery, bank and hair-dresser and watch a bit of TV in their recliners. All ordinary, mundane, unspectacular. Yet, there is a light reflected from within their lives which makes the repititous nature of their 74 years together fairly glow. They have lived out the truth of experiencing new mercies morning by morning and found God faithful in the everyday days. Nestling into the warmth of their living room and the peacefulness of their steadfast abiding I am awestruck by the wonder. My own faith is nourished. My heart is refreshed. My outlook, brightened. I drink my coffee to the dregs, reluctant to leave, but renewed, not by having dined in a king's palace but having been infused with more strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow. 

Each year, Granpa declares he will not decorate for Christmas. Each year, we cajole him into doing so. Slowly, he begins to uncoil the cords and to string the lights. Our hearts are gladdened again. Someday it will not be so. But we will have taken with us the blessing of learning to treasure  everyday days in common ways. One more cup of coffee, please.

Oh normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you, love you, bless you before you depart, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth or  stretch myself taut or bury my face in a pillow and want for all the world your return. 

Mary Jean Iron