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Lauren Jensen
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Lauren Jensen


“It never failed to amaze me how the most ordinary day could be catapulted 
into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye.” 
¯ Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care


She sprawls, eyes wide and smiling. One foot, then the next. A little cotton sock, flowered pink, stretched over five chubby toes, the ball, the heel, the foot. She wriggles, all smiles. I take my index finger, gently stroke it down the center of her sole. And in return, her squeals stroke my soul as well.


Best. job. ever.


So ordinary, yet I wonder at how her laughter lifts me so, and if God perchance feels that delight when we laugh at His playfulness. At His gifts of joy.


More time. More day. More ordinary. Lunch at school. 6 year old fingers clutch my sleeve tightly as he smiles and points to his friends, "She's here! My mom is here!" All that time that has flown by in a gust of ordinary, but I'm given the gift of stopping, sharing, eating beef and bean nachos with some of the most remarkable kindergarteners in the world. Time for recess. Oh I miss that! Watching the boy play soccer, the girl play basketball, and the hordes of children not from my womb, yet in whose world I get to play a part. Even just a smile.


The weather is not ordinary. Warm for October. So we take advantage of a night when everyone is home, and resolve to play basketball at the church.


Lost shoes. Lost balls. Lost minds. Lost time. But we are out the door, and within 15 minutes every single child has cried, except one. The toddler, for whom crying is the primary language, is the only one who doesn't bawl about something, or everything.



The crying is sprinkled with intermittent laughter, berry picking, applause.


We travel home in the sunset...




She's three, but she sees my phone and hears the clicks and understands. Her perspective just slightly off from mine, she sees what I miss.


"Are you taking a picture of the heart tree, Mom?"


I am now.



And as we race back to the house, over the cracked sidewalk, hampered by tiny toddling feet and clutching fingers, I carry the balls and the little one up the driveway, and I see that the preschooler must have been too spent from the evening's recreation to carry her doll all the way inside.


Or even to keep her completely dressed.



I laugh, head shaking. Completely tickled.



Tickling, that sensitivity to touch, it's not just physical.


When I am overcome by the grumps and growls of life, I have lost touch with my Maker. Become blind and calloused to His presence in the day to day. To be sensitive to the One who touches us in the ordinary is a gift, and an everyday goal.


Today I am praying you will see and feel Him- especially in your ordinary.


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Tags:   Ordinary, Grace, Laughter   Ordinary, Grace, Laughter

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