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Finding God in the Ordinary

 


Some mornings, I sit with my coffee in hand and wonder if this is all there is — the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the light sneaking through the blinds, the weight of another day about to begin. Nothing miraculous seems to happen here. No booming voice from heaven, no parting seas, no sudden burst of revelation. Just me, my mug, and the faint sound of the world waking up.

And yet… sometimes I think maybe this is exactly where God waits for me.

We often imagine His presence as something extraordinary — a mountaintop experience, a supernatural sign, or a moment that shakes the ground beneath us. But what if the truest evidence of His love isn’t found in the dramatic, but in the deeply familiar? What if He’s in the steam rising from our morning coffee, the golden streak of sunlight on the kitchen counter, the hush that settles when we finally stop talking and just listen?

I think about the years Jesus spent on earth before His public ministry began. The Bible tells us almost nothing about those quiet years. Just that He “grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and man” (Luke 2:52). Ordinary years. Years spent walking dusty roads, sharing meals, perhaps laughing with friends, helping Joseph in the carpenter’s shop — the rhythm of daily life. And yet, the Son of God was there in the ordinary.

That realization shifts something in me. Because if Jesus lived most of His earthly life in the quiet, then maybe I can stop feeling like I have to chase the “big moments” to find God. Maybe He’s already here — in the spaces I overlook.


The Holiness of a Quiet Morning

There’s something sacred about the first sip of coffee in the morning — not because of the caffeine, but because of the pause. It’s the one moment where I’m not rushing, not performing, not proving anything. I’m just being.

In that stillness, I can sense God saying, “I’m here. You don’t have to do anything to earn My nearness. Just be still with Me.”

It reminds me of Psalm 46:10 — “Be still, and know that I am God.” I’ve read that verse countless times, but lately it feels less like a command and more like an invitation. Be still, not to achieve something spiritual, but to simply notice what’s already true: He’s God, and I’m not. And that’s okay.

When the morning sun spills through my window, lighting up the quiet corners of my kitchen, it feels like grace. It’s as if God is whispering, “See? I’m still painting light into your life. I’m still faithful.”

Even the silence holds Him. Especially the silence.


Finding God Between The Lines of Ordinary Life

It’s easy to believe God is near when everything feels good. But what about the monotonous days — when the dishes pile up, the inbox fills, and the weight of life presses heavy on your chest?

That’s where I think God hides most tenderly. Not hidden in the sense of being far away, but hidden like a secret waiting to be discovered.

I’ve started to notice how His presence shows up in small things — the warmth of a mug between my hands, the way sunlight flickers through the leaves outside, the soft rhythm of my own breathing. It’s not mystical. It’s just real. It’s what happens when you stop long enough to see.

I used to feel guilty for not having big spiritual moments every day. I thought maybe my faith wasn’t deep enough. But I’m learning that sometimes the quiet faith — the one that keeps showing up, that keeps trusting even when it feels ordinary — is the strongest kind.

Because God doesn’t only move in thunder and fire. Sometimes He moves in the whisper. (1 Kings 19:11–12)


When Silence Feels Uncomfortable

I’ll be honest — silence doesn’t always feel peaceful. Sometimes it feels lonely. Sometimes my thoughts get loud in the quiet, and I’d rather fill the space with noise than face what’s inside me.

But silence is also where God heals us. It’s where He meets the parts of us that are tired of pretending to be okay.

In those still moments, He reminds me that I’m not forgotten. That He sees the small faith — the one that simply shows up with a heart that says, “I’m here, Lord, even if I don’t feel much.”

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what real faith looks like — not fireworks, not certainty, but trust that shows up anyway.

When I sit in the quiet and breathe, I think of Jesus slipping away to solitary places to pray (Luke 5:16). Even He needed silence. Not to escape the world, but to stay grounded in the Father’s presence. If He needed it, I certainly do.


The Slow Miracle of Noticing

One of the most beautiful things about learning to find God in the ordinary is how it changes the way you see your life.

The same sunlight you’ve seen a thousand times suddenly feels like a love letter.
The same coffee you drink every morning becomes communion — a moment shared with the One who made you.
Even your breath feels holy, like a quiet reminder that you are still here, still loved, still held.

This kind of awareness doesn’t erase pain or fix everything that’s hard. But it does something gentler — it steadies you. It roots you in the truth that even when life feels small or uneventful, God is still present.

Every sunrise, every cup, every silent prayer — they all carry pieces of His grace.


If You’re Longing For More

If your heart feels restless — like you’re waiting for something big to happen before you can truly feel close to God — maybe this is your invitation to slow down.

You don’t have to earn divine moments. Sometimes you just have to pay attention.

So tomorrow morning, when you make your coffee, pause. Notice the warmth, the aroma, the quiet hum of the morning. Let that moment become a small altar — a place where you remember that God meets you right where you are.

Open your heart to the sunlight when it slips through your window. Let it remind you that His mercies are new with every dawn.

And when silence wraps around you like a soft blanket, don’t rush to fill it. Sit there a little longer. Let the stillness become sacred. Because even in the quiet — especially in the quiet — God is speaking.

Not in the earthquake.
Not in the fire.
But in the gentle whisper.

And maybe that’s the holiest sound of all.

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