Holy Ordinary: Finding the Sacred in Grocery Shopping, Cheeseburgers, and Naps
I used to think the spiritual life would feel… shinier.
You know — incense, candlelight, maybe a visit from an angel or two. Moments of profound insight while sitting cross-legged on a cushion. Voices from the beyond. Mystical dreams with clear instructions.
And sometimes, yes — it’s like that.
But more often? My spiritual life looks like grocery shopping on a Tuesday. Or making cheeseburgers on a Saturday night. Or curling up for a nap in the middle of the afternoon because my body says, Enough.
It’s taken me a long time (and some unlearning) to realize: that is the spiritual life.
The Ordinary is Where God Lives
These days, my husband does most of our grocery shopping. It started during COVID, when he had the more flexible schedule. But even now, years later, he still likes it — and honestly, I love that he does.
When I go with him, I see it differently now. The people wandering the aisles. The small choices — apples or pears, turkey or ham, the “treat” we might grab just because it sounds good. The families navigating picky kids. The elders moving slowly, steadying themselves on the cart. The quiet kindness of letting someone go ahead in line.
It’s holy, in its own way.
This is the world we actually live in. And if Spirit doesn’t show up here — in this mundane, messy, human place — then what are we even doing?
Cheeseburgers as Communion
Sometimes on the weekends, I cook.
Weeknights I’m usually in sessions with clients, but weekends are mine to reclaim the kitchen. And a good cheeseburger — seasoned well, cooked in a hot pan, melty cheese, toasted bun — might not sound like a spiritual practice.
But when I’m making them for people I love? When I’m feeding my family with tenderness and care? When I’m not rushing or shaming myself for eating “bad” food, but instead just enjoying what I’ve created?
It starts to feel like Communion.
We gather at the table. We laugh. We pass the ketchup. We talk about our days.
Breaking bread (or buns, in this case) together has always been sacred. Jesus didn’t feed people wafers and wine out of tiny plastic cups. He fed them fish and bread and wine and whatever else was at hand. He met them in their hunger.
I think that’s what we’re meant to do, too.
The Gospel of Naps
And then there are the naps.
Look, I love a good nap. Not because I’m lazy. Not because I’m avoiding life. But because this body I live in — this fat, aging, beautiful, miraculous body — sometimes needs rest.
Rest is holy.
The whole world teaches us to go faster, hustle harder, do more. But the older I get, the more convinced I am that real spiritual maturity looks like honoring my limits.
Laying down in the afternoon light, breathing slow, releasing the constant hum of doing — that feels like a prayer now.
It says: I am not God. I don’t have to hold the world together. I can rest because I am held.
Everyday Mystics
Maybe you’ve felt it too — this pull toward what’s simple. What’s real.
We are everyday mystics, all of us. Not because we’re performing elaborate rituals (although those are lovely too) — but because we’re learning to live awake inside our own ordinary lives.
→ Folding laundry with presence is spiritual.
→ Walking the dog at sunset is spiritual.
→ Saying thank you — for food, for warmth, for one more day — is spiritual.
→ Laughing until you cry at your kitchen table is spiritual.
→ Letting yourself rest without guilt is spiritual.
The sacred has always been here, hiding in plain sight.
What If It’s All Holy?
Sometimes my most powerful prayers sound like this:
Let me see this moment through Your eyes.
Not someday when I’m on retreat.
Not after I’ve figured everything out.
Not when my house is cleaner or my body is smaller or my life is more perfect.
Right here.
Right now.
Because this life — yours and mine — is not an audition for a better one later.
This is it.
The grocery runs. The cheeseburgers. The naps.
The sweetness of enough.
The miracle of being here, together, for one more day.
Holy, holy, holy.