The Beauty of Nothing Special

I’m sitting at the old, oak table that has recently arrived by moving van from our previous home in New Jersey. The table is nothing special, and perhaps that’s what I love about it most. Its surface worn just enough so I have no worries about the hot cup of tea I’ve placed on it, alongside the sleeve of chocolate mint cookies—tonight’s special treat.

I watch the sun sink beneath the mountain out the window, the last of the day’s sunlight making the oak wood of the table glow. Soft music plays in the background. My son and husband’s laughter echoes through the front door as, outside, they happily play some game with soccer balls and a favorite red car they have invented together.

Our daughter sleeps contentedly in her swing, occasionally opening her eyes drowsily, locking them on me with a slight smile, then closing them again. Dinner dishes are stacked in the sink, but they can wait. The weekend has begun.

There is nothing special about what is happening around me, yet, somehow I am deeply comforted by it all—the clutter, the chatter, the solitude, the respite. Perhaps “nothing-special” is really the most sacred.