The Gift Of Ordinary Days

The Sacred in the Slow: What Dying Taught Me About Ordinary Days

I used to think ordinary days were a sign I’d failed. Not as a chaplain, but as a person. For twelve years, I sat with people in their final hours—holding hands as breaths grew shallow, listening to whispered regrets, watching eyes soften as the world faded. I learned more about living in those quiet rooms than I ever did in a classroom. And yet, for years after I left hospice, I still chased the dramatic, the intense, the not-ordinary. I’d scroll through feeds of people hiking volcanoes or dancing in rainstorms while I folded laundry, convinced my quiet Tuesday was a personal failure. I’d tell friends I was “so busy” while actually just scrolling TikTok in my pajamas.

Here’s what I’ve learned from the dying, and why I finally stopped running from the ordinary: ordinary days aren’t empty—they’re the very ground we stand on.

The Lie We Tell Ourselves

We’ve been sold a story: that life is meant to be big. Big feelings. Big moments. Big achievements. But the dying didn’t want big moments. They wanted this.

I remember Mr. Henderson, a retired teacher with lung cancer, who spent his last week not in a hospital bed but in his garden. He’d sit on a wicker chair, his hands trembling as he pulled weeds. One afternoon, I asked him what he’d miss most. He didn’t say his grandchildren or his garden. He said: “The way the sun hit the dew on the roses at 7 a.m. Every morning. I never noticed it before.”

That’s the lie: that ordinary days are a void to be filled. But for people on the edge of dying, the ordinary is the gift. It’s the only thing left.

My Own Story: The Day I Spilled Coffee on My Life

I’ll never forget the Tuesday I spilled coffee on my keyboard. No grand crisis. Just me, staring at the brown stain, my cat Mittens judging me from the couch. I’d spent the morning avoiding the quiet, chasing a “meaningful” errand to feel alive. But that Tuesday, I didn’t feel the need to fix it. I just sat.

And in that stillness, I realized: This is what the dying showed me. They didn’t crave dramatic farewells. They craved the ordinary moments they’d overlooked. Mrs. G, who’d spent 50 years as a nurse, whispered to me on her last day: “I wish I’d sat with my daughter while she did her homework. Not just watched her. Sat with her.”

I’d spent years hiding from my own ordinary days, thinking they meant I was broken. But the dying taught me: ordinary days aren’t a sign of brokenness—they’re a sign of being human.

What Ordinary Days Really Are (And Why We Misunderstand Them)

We confuse “ordinary” with “boring.” But the dying taught me: ordinary is sacred because it’s real.

- It’s not about the thing—it’s about being there.

 A patient named Daniel, dying of heart failure, once said: “I spent 30 years chasing promotions. Now I’d give anything to hear my wife’s voice say, ‘Did you eat?’” The ordinary moment of her asking about his lunch wasn’t “boring”—it was the sound of a life lived.  

- It’s not about fixing the moment—it’s about being with it.

 When I was a chaplain, I’d rush to “fix” a patient’s anxiety. I’d say, “Let’s talk about hope!” But Mrs. Chen, a woman with dementia, would just hold my hand and say, “The light is pretty today.” She wasn’t asking me to fix the moment. She was inviting me to sit with it.  

- It’s not about feeling something—anything—to be alive.

 Depression and anxiety whisper: “If you’re not feeling intense, you’re dead inside.” But the dying taught me: being alive isn’t about feeling—it’s about being.  

How to Notice the Ordinary (Without Forcing It)

This isn’t about forcing gratitude. It’s about unlearning the chase.

Start small. Start where you are. - The 3-Minute Pause: Set a timer for 3 minutes. Sit. Notice one ordinary thing: the sound of rain, the weight of your coffee cup, the way your dog’s ear twitches when he dreams. Don’t label it “good.” Just notice it. - The “Boring” List: Write down 3 “boring” moments from your day (e.g., “Washing dishes,” “Walking the dog,” “Waiting for the bus”). Now, ask: “What did I actually feel in that moment?” (e.g., “The warmth of the water,” “The way the dog pulled on the leash,” “The quiet of the empty street.”) - The “Not-Ordinary” Trap: When you catch yourself thinking, “This is so boring,” pause. Ask: “What am I avoiding by calling this boring?” (e.g., “I’m avoiding feeling tired,” “I’m avoiding sitting with my own thoughts.”)

This isn’t about making the ordinary special. It’s about seeing it as it is.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

1. Forcing “gratitude”

  “I’m grateful for this ordinary day!” → This is the chase. It’s still about feeling something. The dying didn’t say, “I’m grateful for my boring Tuesday.” They said, “I noticed the light on the quilt.”  

2. Comparing your ordinary to someone else’s “big” life

  “My life isn’t as exciting as that influencer’s.” → The dying taught me: Your ordinary is yours. It’s not a competition. Mrs. G didn’t wish she’d been hiking volcanoes. She wished she’d sat with her daughter.  

3. Thinking “ordinary” means no pain

  “If I’m noticing ordinary moments, I must be ‘over’ my grief.” → No. Grief is ordinary. The dying taught me: You can feel deep pain and still notice the light on your cereal bowl.  

Why This Is Radical (And Why It’s Hard)

This isn’t just about noticing coffee stains. It’s about refusing to chase the next big thing. It’s about saying: “I don’t need to be ‘fixed’ to be whole.”

When I left hospice, I thought I’d “figured it out.” But I was still chasing. I’d go to a concert, then feel empty afterward. I’d think: “This wasn’t big enough.”

Then I sat with a patient named Ben, who’d just been told his cancer was terminal. He didn’t cry. He just said: “I wish I’d sat with my son while he did his homework. Not just watched him.”

That’s when it hit me: The ordinary isn’t the opposite of meaning—it’s the only place meaning lives. You can’t find meaning in a “big” moment if you’re always running toward it. Meaning is in the noticing.

Practical Steps for Your Ordinary Day

1. Anchor in your senses

  When you feel the urge to scroll or chase, pause. Name:  
  - 1 thing you see (e.g., “The way the leaves are moving outside”)  
  - 1 thing you hear (e.g., “The sound of my dog snoring”)  
  - 1 thing you feel (e.g., “The warmth of my sweater”)  

2. Let the “boring” be boring

  If you’re washing dishes, don’t think, “I should be doing something more meaningful.” Just wash the dishes. Feel the water. Notice the rhythm. That’s the practice.  

3. Ask the dying question

  At the end of your day, ask: “What ordinary moment did I actually notice today?” (Not “What was meaningful?”—“What did I notice?”)  

The Gift of the Ordinary

The dying didn’t want to be remembered for their big moments. They wanted to be remembered for the ordinary moments they’d missed.

Mrs. Chen, the woman with dementia, held my hand and said: “The light is pretty today.” She wasn’t asking me to fix her. She was inviting me to sit with the light.

That’s what I learned from the dying: The ordinary isn’t a void. It’s the quiet, sacred space where life happens.

You don’t need to chase the next big thing to feel alive. You just need to notice the coffee stain on your keyboard. You just need to sit with the quiet.

It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to feel bored. It’s okay to just be.

What if we just... sat with that for a moment?

— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard