I spent Monday in the frozen steppe of the heart. I was doing soul-work, digging down into parts of myself that had been been frozen so long ago that I did not know what they would look like if they could live and breathe. I did not even know their names, although I do now.
At the end of it, I was spent, as if I had wrestled a long time. I had chipped down and down and down and broken through, and I had forced myself to write it down, so I could not pretend to forget.
I thought I would stay in, or make pottery, which is quiet and restorative (and funny, when you are as bad at it as I am), but instead, I felt a “pull” to join a group I’m part of. It’s the custom to bring food, and I had not made any, since I had not planned to come, but I ripped through the kitchen and put some fruit into a bowl and then I was set.
It was a good thing, just to be immersed in the currents of ordinary human life, among others. Serving food. Washing dishes. Conversation and laughter. Listening and prayer. Sometimes, it is the simple things that heal us best.
When Jesus was transfigured, he went up a mountain with James and John, but when it was all over, they came down. They came down and a great crowd met them, and demanded things. Miracles, but ordinary miracles: healings, mostly. Not like talking to ancient prophets, long dead. That was special, even for Jesus.
I bet he was glad to see the disciples after that.
I sure was.
Sometimes, we need one another. More often than we admit.
Sometimes, we just need to be ordinary for a while. To do what is ordinary. And to give thanks for dirty dishes and friends to wash them with.