The Sacred Ordinary of the Undone

I used to think that being holy looked like something polished and shiny in your life. As though people would look at you and they would just know that you spent hours in the Bible or prayed (on our knees every time) for everyone and everything, and then this amazing ‘glow’ would come over you. Holiness was something you ‘wore.’ I guess I saw being holy as something that happened the more you did and the better you did. What it was you were doing. I didn’t have a clue, but it sure led to an early life of striving, doing, people-pleasing, and wearing yourself out. I see holiness in a different way these days. I am finding the sacred in places I never would have imagined.

Holiness sometimes looks like scrubbing dishes and whispering a prayer over the sink. Not the kind of prayer that sounds impressive, just the kind that sounds like, “Jesus, help me not spiral because I can see yesterday’s coffee mug.”

I’m discovering that God hides in the mundane moments I once rushed past. Maybe sacred ground is closer than we think. Also, maybe sacred ground is… the dishwasher. Which is humbling, because I would prefer my spiritual life to look more like stained glass and less like dried oatmeal.

Here’s what I’m learning about myself: I’m living a low-dopamine life with an ADHD brain, and the ordinary is not always neutral. Sometimes it is loud. Sometimes it is slippery. Sometimes it is a trapdoor.

Dishes, planners, laundry, clutter. These are not inherently moral issues, but my brain would like to turn them into a character assessment.

If the sink is full: You’re behind.
If the to-do list is long: You’re failing.
If the laundry is unfolded: You’re never going to get it together.

And if I’m not careful, the shame train shows up on time, runs me over, and then backs up just to make sure it did a thorough job. That is the part I’m trying to interrupt. Because the deepest struggle is not whether the kitchen is clean. It’s whether shame gets to narrate my life.

Scripture is clear about this: “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Romans 8:1). No condemnation. Not even for the people who own seventeen half-finished planners and can’t find any of them when it’s time to write something down.

And you want to know something that sounds incredibly crazy…something I actually pay money to hear?

1. My Counselor Told Me to Leave One Dish Undone!

I wish I was kidding.

My counselor keeps giving me assignments that feel almost rude. Like, “Only put one dish in the dishwasher and walk away.”

One dish.

Not the whole sink. Not the whole load. Not even one full category of dishes, like plates or cups. Just one dish. Then walk away. Leave the rest undone. And sit with the discomfort.

I hate this practice with the passion of a thousand type-A Pinterest boards!

But here’s the annoying part: it has worked every time. Because when I walk away and the world does not collapse, my brain learns a new truth: unfinished does not equal unsafe. Undone does not equal unworthy. The moment can be incomplete without me being incomplete. And that has become a very important spiritual lesson for me. I think I’ve experienced the presence of God more in the discomfort of those moments than I have in a very long time.

If you’ve ever wondered what it looks like to “take every thought captive,” let me introduce you to the sacred discipline of not judging yourself over a spoon.

2. Then there’s the weekly ritual I call Planner Panic.

It goes like this: I sit down to plan my week of homework, work-work, and volunteer work (with some social things here and there) with good intentions and a beverage. I start writing everything I need to do. I keep writing. I begin to sweat. I add more tasks because if I can just capture them all, maybe I can control the chaos. My list becomes a novel. My brain becomes a dumpster fire. Even the job-specific color-coding system that uses very pretty colors doesn’t make it any better.

An overflowing, yet colorful, list does not motivate my ADHD brain. It threatens it. And then comes the crash: overwhelm, paralysis, and that familiar shame-y voice that says, Why can’t you just do what normal people do? (I don’t know Mental Mary – why can’t you just shut it!?)

So now I’m learning a new practice that feels like spiritual warfare in pencil form: I write down three things.

Three.

Not because the other things don’t matter, but because I matter. Because I am not a machine. Because I am a human with limits, and limits are not a sin.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). Not a heart of frenzy. Not a heart of self-criticism. A heart of wisdom.

And sometimes wisdom looks like a short list and the courage to be a person who acknowledges that limits can be a good thing.

3. Laundry, Clutter, and the Voice That Doesn’t Get an Invitation

Laundry sorting and clutter purging have their own special ability to make my brain glitch.

The piles whisper, You’re behind.
The clutter insists, This is who you are.
The half-finished organizing projects declare, You’ll never catch up, so why start?

It’s wild how quickly a closet can turn into a theology lesson, and not the good kind.

So, I’m trying to practice the presence of God here, too. Brother Lawrence, a Carmelite monk and an early church voice who wrote Practicing the Presence of God, talked about meeting God in ordinary work.

“That our sanctification did not depend upon changing our works, but in doing that for GOD's sake, which we commonly do for our own.”

Not in the spotlight moments. In the kitchen. In the repetitive tasks. In the parts of life nobody applauds. He is there, and he wants my best for him, even in these hard and mundane spaces. I find that comforting because it means I don’t have to escape my life to find God. I can meet Him while I live it. Scripture backs this up: “Whatever you do… do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Colossians 3:17). Not just the spiritual-looking things. Everything.

And if Jesus is present in the ordinary, then the ordinary doesn’t have to be a shame factory. It can be a place of companionship. Even when it’s messy.

There’s another layer to all this. The world feels heavy right now. Even now, this morning as I write these words, we have entered yet another attack on another area of the globe. This is not to mention all that is happening domestically. Things are loud and sharp in ways I don’t always know how to carry. Some days, it feels like my empathy has no off switch. Like I’m built to feel the weight of other people’s pain, the injustice that won’t quit, the grief that keeps piling up. I don’t want to numb out. But I also can’t live with my heart open to everything, all the time, without collapsing.

So maybe part of my sacred ordinary is finding counterweights. Small, steady practices that keep me grounded when everything feels off balance. Not denial. Not avoidance. Just ballast.

Jesus doesn’t ask me to carry the whole world’s sorrow on my back. He invites me to come close. “Come to me… and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Rest is not a reward for the people who handled everything perfectly. Rest is part of faith. And sometimes rest begins with one dish. Three tasks. One drawer. One small act that says, I’m not doing shame today.

Here’s what I’m realizing: leaving something unfinished is not laziness. For me, it’s learning to be safe in my own life. It’s learning that my worth is not measured by completion. It’s choosing grace over self-attack. God is gentle with fragile things. “A bruised reed he will not break” (Isaiah 42:3). If Jesus is that kind with what is weak and tender, then I can stop being ruthless with myself when I’m overwhelmed.

Maybe the sacred ordinary is not about making the mundane magical. Maybe it’s about making the mundane honest. Letting God meet us in the middle of who we actually are, not who we think we should be.

If your brain also likes to turn chores into a referendum on your worth, here are a few small counterweights that have helped me:

• The One-Dish Practice: Put one dish in the dishwasher and walk away. Tell your brain, “We are safe.”

• The Gospel of Three Things: Write down three tasks for the day. Not ten. Not thirty. Three.

• The Threshold Prayer: Hand on the doorknob or car handle: “God, be here with me.”

• The Mercy Line: At night, write one sentence: “Today I noticed mercy when…”

• The Shame Interruption: When the spiral starts, say out loud: “There is no condemnation here” (Romans 8:1).

Holy ground might not look like a mountaintop. It might look like the kitchen sink. It might look like a planner with three short lines. It might look like you walking away from one dish and realizing, quietly, that grace still holds.

And if that’s where God is meeting us, then the ordinary is not empty after all.