Field Note No. 2 — Where God Meets Me in the Ordinary

There are days when my tone slips before I can catch it — sharp edges in places I meant to offer softness. I never intend it, but there it is: the impatience, the quickness, the feeling that everything is happening faster than my heart can keep up. And I find myself wishing I could go back, slow down, respond with the gentleness I know is possible inside me.

I think often of Marmee telling Jo that patience didn’t come easily to her, that gentleness was something she practiced, not something she was born with. Even she had to learn to quiet the storm before speaking. That truth steadies me: growth is holy work.

That truth steadies me: growth is holy work.

Yet it’s often in those very moments — the ones where I feel most aware of my shortcomings — that God meets me with a kind of quiet mercy.

Yesterday, the children came in from the cold with pink cheeks and tangled hair. I lit candles in the kitchen and poured warm herbal tea with honey into little cups. It wasn’t a grand gesture — just warmth, just light — but as the glow softened the room, something softened in me too.

It felt like God whispering, See? Holiness can grow right here.

Not because the moment was perfect, but because I was willing to pause long enough to make it tender.

Growing up, I believed that fast was the only acceptable pace — always moving, always hurrying, always keeping up. But motherhood is teaching me a different rhythm. I am at my best when I slow down, when I breathe, when I listen. And lately, I’m learning that God meets me most in the quiet and stillness I once rushed right past.

Motherhood has become, for me, an altar made of small things.

Candles flickering against a winter afternoon.

Hands wrapped around warm mugs.

The deep breath I take before I speak again.

The choosing — and re-choosing — of gentleness.

I’ve come to see that God hides Himself inside the very places I once rushed past: the steam rising from a kettle, the hush before the kids wake, the simple grace of beginning again.

My struggle with impatience hasn’t vanished.

But even there, God is not measuring me against perfection.

He is meeting me in the middle of my becoming.

In the quiet dailiness, I’m learning that He doesn’t ask me to never stumble — only to stay soft enough to return. To notice. To let love shape the next moment, even if the last one slipped away too quickly.

The ordinary still holds.

The light still glows.

And somewhere between the cold outside and the warmth of tea inside, I realize:

He is here.

He has been here.

Not waiting for me to be perfect — only wanting to meet me exactly where I am.