Returning in Ordinary Time

I haven’t written here since Christmas, and there are a few honest reasons for that.

After sharing about trauma, my body remembered what my mind had carefully packed away. As Scripture reminds us, “My soul is downcast within me; therefore I remember you” (Lamentations 3:20–21). Sometimes remembering is holy. Sometimes it is heavy. And sometimes, it asks us to pause.

As Bessel van der Kolk names it, “the body keeps the score.” The 2:54am wakeups in a panic returned. The brain fog persisted. I began to startle easily again. It all was too familiar, and my husband gently suggested where it was coming from. With that lens to look through, I knew what to do. I needed to step back, not from God, not from faith, but from output. No pressure to "perform" or to serve. Step back from words. From production. From even the good things that require energy I didn’t have.

I needed to regulate, to breathe, and to listen to what my body was asking of me.

“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

So I paused. Suddenly and quietly. Because I have learned that I have that right.

Then, at the start of the new year, I intentionally disconnected a bit more. I let myself reflect and plan without pressure. No big goals. No elaborate rhythms. Just quiet noticing. And in that noticing, moments of grace began to surface again. It surfaced not in grand revelations, but in small, ordinary ways.

Which feels fitting, because the Church quietly ushered us into Ordinary Time.

Not ordinary as in boring, but ordinary as in ordered. Rooted. Faithful. The long stretch of days where growth happens slowly, without spectacle. Where Jesus isn’t born or resurrected on repeat. Instead he walks, teaches, eats, heals, rests. Ordinary Time is where most of His life actually unfolds.

“He went down with them and came to Nazareth, and was obedient to them” (Luke 2:51).

Even the Son of God lived quietly, faithfully, in hiddenness.

And I’m learning that’s where most of our growth occurs: in the quiet, faithful, and often hidden rhythms of our ordinary days.

Lately, grace has met me in sunlight: warmth on my skin in the middle of winter; a physical reminder that the Lord is near. “The Lord is near to all who call upon him” (Psalm 145:18).“For you who fear my name, the sun of justice shall arise with healing in its rays” (Malachi 3:20).

Then there are the crunchy fallen leaves under my feet. Each step reminds me of pruning. Of shedding. Of things that once gave shade now returning to the soil. There’s a holy invitation there to let go of what’s finished, to trust that renewal comes through surrender.

“Every branch that bears fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2).

Pruning feels like loss before it looks like life. God is so gentle that way, never forcing growth, but always inviting it.

Inside our home, we’ve been turning things over as well. Christmas décor came down after Epiphany. The lights, the trees, the excess sparkle. I reset our space, returning to a quieter rhythm. But not an empty one. We’re keeping our home a little church. More on that rhythm at another time.

“If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts” (Psalm 95:7–8). Faith doesn’t disappear when the décor changes, it deepens. Ordinary Time doesn’t mean faith is on pause. It means faith is happening here; right now. In laundry folded. In dishes washed. In floors swept. In calendars reset. “Whatever you do, do from the heart, as for the Lord and not for others” (Colossians 3:23).

The Gospel is not absent from these things. It lives in them. Jesus is found in carpentry. In walking roads. In shared meals. In rest.“Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary?” (Mark 6:3) Why would He not be found in our homes too?

So, this is me returning. Gently. In step with the Church’s rhythm. In step with my body’s wisdom. In step with grace that keeps showing up in ordinary places.

If you’ve been quiet too, I see you. If you’ve needed to regulate, to rest, to reflect, I honor that.

“Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:11).

We don’t have to rush healing. We don’t have to monetize our pain. We don’t have to perform faith. Sometimes, the holiest thing we can do is notice the warmth of the sun and say, Thank You. “Give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18).

Welcome back to Ordinary Time. Where God does some of His most beautiful work.