The Value of Ordinary Time in a War Torn World

Because I grew up Orthodox, the church calendar was a part of our rhythm of life. I remember always being upset when the Lenten purple ribbons and banners and vestments gave way to green: the season known as ordinary time. Green meant no more holidays. It meant no more “highs.” It meant boredom to a child.

One year, however, shortly after Pentecost, a priest gave a homily that I’ll never forgot. He told us about how ordinary time was supposed to be a season of life. That purple shifted to green to remind us of the grass and leaves — that new life springs forth. “The church calendar year includes ordinary time to remind us that we need periods of rest and simplicity,” he said. “A time to rest and reflect so that we can feel like we’ve really lived.”

I liked that. Perhaps that’s why I never forgot it. And as liturgy became important to me again this past year, I thought about how to pass that on to my children.

That’s why this summer, I went in with different intentions about how my kids were going to spend their time. Unlike years past, the summer days weren’t filled with teaching them about how to have a missional attitude toward the world, or preparing them for the next year ahead. Instead, this summer, I gave my kids the gift of intentional, plain, boring ole’ ordinary time.

I wanted them to have memories of wind blowing through their hair while flying down hills, peddling as fast as their little legs could take them. I wanted them to have giggles ringing in their ears as they drifted off to sleep of the time they spent with their cousins in a backyard pool. I wanted them to know what it felt like to have neighborhood kids sit at a picnic table while they guzzled down buckets of sugar- laden, homemade lemonade.

And I wanted them to have all of it because I don’t know where their life is going to take them. And selfishly, I wanted memories of snuggles and picnic blankets, fireflies and family bike rides, because I’m not quite sure where this world is going to take me, either.

I look at world news reports and local murder counts and I sigh with deep pangs of sadness. I watch as marriages crumble — marriages that really have no reason to fall apart, except that couples are bored, or disillusioned, or just downright selfish. I feel like my head is spinning as I hear young children teach me about the heartaches and sorrows that are well beyond their years. In the past year, I’ve had more than a couple of middle school children whisper thoughts of suicide to me in moments of utter despair.

But I don’t want to jump from the Lenten truths about suffering, to the “Come Lord Jesus” of Advent. I don’t want to wallow in the things that have died, or have anxiety about the days ahead.

I want to guard the time, while we have it, to think of the green. To appreciate the days in between rockets dropping and women and children being buried alive. I want to teach my kids how to take big gulps of air on the good days that will sustain them through the days ahead. I want to take daily bread from the Lord when He gives it, even if it looks ordinary.

Because ordinary is a beautiful thing. And it’s not promised for long. But it is our glimpse of what lies ahead. And that might not be so bad. Fireflies and community, weeping willows and still pools of water just may be what our dreams of Kingdom come look like anyway. Where not every day has to be a high, but it’s good just to not be in need.


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