The Paradox of Ordinary Days
There are so many exciting things happening here in Kapsowar that we could easily fill every newsletter with stories — new projects underway, ways the hospital is growing, and the incredible patients who receive life-saving care. These are all good things, and I’m deeply grateful that we get to spend our days working toward them.
But much of my life right now looks less like adventure and more like ordinary motherhood. It’s waking up early with little ones, homeschooling, pushing them on the swing, cooking, bath time, dishes, repeat.
In this season, my life belongs to them.
And if I want to make it through this season with joy, I’ve learned I need to carve out moments to step beyond our walls — to visit the hospital, tell a patient’s story, or drive out to a village to meet their family. I love those moments. They remind me of why we came to Kenya, and of the beautiful work God is doing here.
But honestly, most days are not extraordinary.
I sometimes think back to my life before kids — the mornings I’d pull on a wetsuit and bike down to Tourmaline Beach in San Diego to surf at sunrise. How was that once my life?! These days, my “hobby” feels more like cleaning up toys or mopping the floor.
When I think about catching waves or backpacking in the Sierras — or even the projects here I long to do but don’t have time for here in Kapsowar — sometimes I can feel like I’m just treading water until my kids are older. Like life will start again then.
I remember when I first had Micah, I kept thinking, “Surely this will get easier soon. Surely I’ll have time to myself again.” It took me a while to realize: life had changed. A new kind of normal had begun.
Now before you start thinking I’m miserable as a mom — let me assure you — I’m not. I adore my kids. I am 100% confident that raising them is the best and most important thing I will ever do with my life.
But it’s not the kind of thing you can put in a newsletter, is it?
No one wants to read: “I stayed calm through three meltdowns at lunch!” or “I was patient during Micah’s reading lesson!” or “I managed to keep all the mud out of the house today!”
It’s much easier (and more exciting) to share stories about the hospital, the nonprofit I’m building, or the oxygen plant we’re fundraising for.
And truthfully — I love those projects. I’m wired that way. If there’s a need, I want to help meet it. We need an oxygen plant? Let’s raise the money. We need a nonprofit? I’ll start one.
But when my hair is gray and my kids are grown, I don’t think what will matter most to me is all that I did for the hospital — though that work is meaningful.
I think I’ll care more about the kind of person I became in the process.
Did I become someone marked by love?
I’ve been reading a book called Ordinary Liturgy, by Tish Harrison Warren, and my heart has been so full — the kind of full that comes when someone finally puts words to your own season of life. It’s been such an encouragement to realize that even when my days don’t look “productive” on paper, God is doing a deep work within me.
And that, I’m learning, is far more important.
Tish writes,
“The kind of spiritual life and disciplines needed to sustain the Christian life are quiet, repetitive, and ordinary. I often want to skip the boring, daily stuff to get to the thrill of an edgy faith. But it’s in the dailiness of the Christian faith — the making the bed, the doing the dishes, the praying for our enemies, the reading the Bible, the quiet, the small — that God’s transformation takes root and grows.”
As an Enneagram Three — someone wired to achieve and measure growth — this truth brings me so much joy. There is growth happening in me, but it’s taking place exactly where I’m tempted to overlook it: in the unremarkable routines that happen every single day.
She continues,
“It is in the repetitive and the mundane that I begin to learn to love, to listen, to pay attention to God and those around me.”
Motherhood — with its all-consuming rhythm and countless unseen tasks — can sometimes feel like it’s crowding out all the exciting projects I long to do.
If I’m honest, some days I feel like Sisyphus, pushing the boulder up the hill —
cleaning the toys up again,
washing the dishes again,
cooking dinner again.
All just to do it again the next day.
But I’m beginning to see that it’s exactly in those moments that I am most productive — not in a measurable way, but in an eternal one.
Like a seed that falls to the ground and dies before it grows, God is doing something hidden in me — if I let Him. He is shaping me through the repetition, forming me into someone more patient, more compassionate, less focused on myself.
In his book, “Practicing the Way”, John Mark Comer writes,
“If you want to chart your progress on the spirituality journey, test the quality of your closest relationships—namely, by love and fruit of the Spirit.”
He goes on to describe spiritual formation as “a process of being formed into the image of Christ for the sake of others.”
What better picture of motherhood could there be? It’s the daily, unseen offering of yourself — a continual surrender of your time, energy, and heart for the sake of another.
And maybe that’s the paradox of it all: the place that feels least productive is often where the greatest growth is quietly taking root.
Bearing fruit, some might say.
Choosing patience over a harsh reaction.
Putting down my tasks to make them a meal.
Choosing to be present instead of checking out on my phone.
These small, hidden choices — they’re repetitively shaping me into someone who looks a little more like Jesus.
These unseen moments doesn’t come with a checklist or newsletter update. But they are the most important thing I can do with my life.
To become more like Jesus — from the inside out.
And when I think of it that way, the ordinary days of motherhood seem pretty productive to me.