I grasp the black handle of the tea  kettle, turn to the sink behind me and fill it with water. Put on the lid and turn back to the stove. Place the kettle upon the gas burner and turn on the gas. Watch the reflection of my self in the kettle's stainless steel. Listen for the gas. Vrmmp.

Consider how, if this were a movie, if this scene were being filmed, I would assume the moment was one of importance somehow, maybe even reverence. You know, the every day, normal activity to which we can all relate but so easily overlook.

Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil.

Except this is my life. And I am not in a movie. There is no beautiful angle or amazing lens or talented photographer here to capture this and convince me this is more significant than it really is.

And yet this life is amazing. It is holy. It is beautiful and sacred space. I know.

I have a conversation with myself, wondering why I push against what is sacred? Whom am I to decide what is holy, worthy, good?

Why do I need documentation of my life to believe it is worth something?

To whom am I looking for validation? To whom am I asking, do you see me, notice me? To whom am I asking, what am I worth?

It looks prettier everywhere else sometimes, unless I look at my life and recognize it as holy. Right here. Right now. I am holy, a daughter of God.

Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil.

Last night we learned the good news that the city has approved our plans to remodel our little bungalow. We started dreaming about this project over a year ago. And in this crazy Silicon Valley area in which we live, it is a complete miracle we are able to live here—and run our nonprofit here—at all. Our little lot is maxed out, so we can't add a single square foot of living space. This has forced us to be creative, make the most of each room, look more carefully at what we've been given, be even better caretakers and stewards of the gift of this home. Dreaming and planning and sketching and researching these last six months has been crazy fun.

Help me hold all your gifts, God.

Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil.

I can look at these gifts God gives and twist them into something they were not meant to be.  I can so easily switch from feeling grateful to feeling overwhelmed. Work stuff's been keeping me busy. Our oldest is graduating from junior high in a few days. Justin is doing his yearly planning for our summer backpacking trips. And now, in two and a half weeks, boxes need to be packed, backpacks stuffed, and we need to be out of the house. This is all awesome. It is.

I want to hold the everyday holy. I want to hold these gifts with open hands, do the work in front of me and yet not be so consumed by it I get myself distracted.

When things are busiest, when things are good, when things seem small, I can so easily forget to inhabit holy space, in all things, with God.

Fill the kettle. Turn on the stove. Wait for the water to boil.

These lives of ours are filled with the glory of God. They are sacred and beautiful, filled with richness and hope in the midst of the everyday that is not so everyday. As I look towards summer and prepare for the busy schedule ahead, I know God will show me how to slow down, how to listen, how to look for him, how to recognize the kingdom of God speaking and singing loud and long. Perhaps it will begin with the sound of a tea kettle. I need more moments waiting for water to boil.

What about your life feels mundane right now, even though it's not? Where, in your life right now, do you recognize the kingdom of God?