The Sacred Ordinary

“You think it’s the sermons you’ll remember. But years later, it’s the syrup stains, mismatched socks, and the tea someone made without being asked.”

The laptop sat open at the far end of the kitchen counter like a quiet sentinel, patiently standing by to collapse the thousands of kilometres that stretched between our morning and theirs. I had positioned it earlier with the kind of meticulous care usually reserved for setting a family portrait—angled just so to capture the kitchen’s most flattering corner, while discreetly avoiding the inevitable clutter that accumulated no matter how often I tried to stay ahead of it. No pile of unopened mail, no jumble of keys or forgotten school notices would photobomb this particular ritual.

It had become one of our most quietly sacred traditions—these Sunday check-ins, timed with the precision of a lunar eclipse, that tethered our winter morning here in Craigmore to Lisa and Will’s Sunday evening in Salt Lake City. There, the light would be fading in soft, peach-coloured streaks behind the Wasatch Mountains, the snow long since retreated to the highest peaks, its memory lingering only in the coolness of alpine runoff that threaded its way down through dry creek beds and irrigation channels. The air on their end of the call would still hold that high-altitude sharpness, a thinness shaped by geography and tempered by the relentless ambition of a city carved into rock and willpower.

And then, right on cue—because of course she was always punctual, our Lisa—the familiar chime of Skype trilled from the laptop's speakers, bright and unmistakable, like a doorbell rung across continents.

Charles launched himself over the back of the lounge with the flailing commitment of a collapsing deckchair mid-storm. The furniture let out an accusatory groan beneath his momentum, but he landed, miraculously, without catastrophe—half-sprawled but victorious. His fingers, already poised like a pianist’s above the touchpad, made contact with the solemn air of a surgeon making a critical incision.

And then she appeared.

Lisa’s beloved face filled the screen, glowing with the kind of warmth that made the distance feel smaller. Her cheeks were flushed, likely from bustling around her kitchen, and her blonde-streaked curls were pinned back with that effortless elegance she’d inherited from some long-forgotten ancestor who had clearly also known how to make hard things look easy. There was a brightness in her eyes, a liveliness that seemed to reach out across the frame and land, squarely and lovingly, in my chest.

Behind her, the cosy backdrop of their apartment kitchen came into view—tiled walls painted in soft neutrals, shelves half-filled with mismatched mugs, a hanging pot rack where pans dangled with the quiet confidence of a home long settled into its own rhythms. The kind of curated clutter that spoke not of mess, but of motion, of life being lived with steady intention.

Will appeared almost immediately, waving from behind the stove with a spatula raised in cheerful salute. His grin was unabashed, crinkling at the corners like it always did when he was enjoying the controlled chaos of a Saturday evening in their Salt Lake City kitchen. He was clearly on dinner duty, though whether by rota or gentle coercion was never fully clarified.

Next to him, Eli slouched dramatically into view—our third eldest, currently several months into an extended stay with Lisa and Will—leaning into frame with the comic timing of a seasoned performer and the exaggerated expression of someone who had been personally victimised by being asked to help with dinner prep.

Their presence, even pixelated and delayed by the occasional glitch of transoceanic internet, filled the room. Not in volume, but in comfort. In that quiet, unmistakable sense that family, once rooted deeply enough, finds a way to stretch its branches across any distance.

“Good morning, everyone!” Lisa beamed, her whole face lighting up with the kind of warmth that had always marked her—bright, generous, and entirely unforced. Even now, from halfway across the world and framed by the low-resolution border of a laptop screen, she radiated familiarity.

“Lisa, sweetheart, it’s so wonderful to see your face,” I replied, the words tumbling out. There was more emotion in them than I’d intended—more than I usually allowed to surface in these video calls—but distance has a curious way of making ordinary moments feel sacred. These weekly glimpses into one another’s lives had become part routine, part lifeline, and I never quite knew which feeling would win out.

“How are you doing over there? Tell me everything.”

Lisa launched in with her usual vivacity, her hands painting invisible flourishes in the air as she detailed the week’s unfolding: Relief Society activities planned and somehow successfully executed; a grocery run that had spiralled into an impromptu cultural anthropology lesson; and an awkward, slightly hilarious moment where a newly married couple in their ward had mistaken her for someone with ecclesiastical authority, asking her to mediate a theological disagreement well outside her spiritual pay grade.

Will chimed in from the stove with gentle corrections, offered with long-suffering fondness, while Eli—ever the observer of absurdity—kept up a dry commentary from his post just out of frame. Each of his quips was timed to land squarely on Charles, who sat beside me at the counter and was already laughing. One particularly sharp line made him bark out so suddenly that he nearly sent the syrup bottle tumbling off the edge.

It was Jerome’s reappearance in the kitchen doorway that finally redirected the collective attention. His tie was now expertly knotted, his shirt perfectly pressed—the image of calm preparation, as if the earlier fluster had never occurred.

“Looking exceptionally sharp there, brother,” Eli observed, his tone straddling the line between genuine compliment and fraternal ribbing. “Did Mum finally give in and start charging professional rates for ironing services?”

“No, I actually learnt to do it myself,” Jerome replied with the steady assurance of someone who had indeed mastered the task and saw no need to feign false modesty. There was a trace of quiet pride beneath the casual delivery—earned, deserved, and unashamed. “Unlike some people I could mention.”

“Oh, please,” Eli groaned, performing an exaggerated collapse just out of view of the webcam. “You only bothered to iron it so carefully because you’re hoping whatsername from the singles ward shows up to church again.”

Jerome’s reaction was instant and damning. A flush of deep colour surged across his face, swift and vivid, betraying the emotional investment he hadn’t quite prepared to defend in front of this particular audience. Charles let out a gleeful cackle of such wild delight that he rocked dangerously close to the syrup bottle for a second time—this time earning a warning glance from me without a word needing to be spoken.

“Gentlemen,” I said, drawing on the well-practised reserves of maternal authority that had been tempered through years of precisely these kinds of kitchen table skirmishes. My tone was measured, but it carried the unmistakable finality of a line being drawn. “This is not a Relief Society planning meeting, and it’s certainly not the kind of post-baptism luncheon where Sister Langford ‘accidentally’ seats the young single adults at the same table and pretends it was the Spirit’s doing.”

“Duly noted,” Eli intoned solemnly, though the laughter still bubbled through his voice. Lisa, her smile equal parts amusement and relief, mouthed a grateful thank you in my direction, clearly grateful that the teasing had been reined in before it spiralled into truly compromising territory.

I returned my attention to the stove just in time to rescue the final pancake from the brink of betrayal—its underside flirting dangerously with the kind of overbrowning that would have undermined an otherwise flawless batch. With a swift flick of the wrist, I slid the spatula beneath its golden surface and transferred it to the top of the already impressive stack resting on the warming plate.

A small victory, but a deeply satisfying one.

I draped a sheet of aluminium foil over the stack, the crinkle of the metal sharp against the ambient kitchen hum, sealing in the heat and moisture as though I were tucking a well-earned reward beneath a blanket, preserving it until the rest of the household caught up with the morning’s momentum.

To my mild surprise, the dining table had already been half-set—a minor miracle in itself, and one I could only attribute to an unexpected burst of responsibility from Charles. He had not only located both of his elusive socks, but had apparently stumbled upon what might, on generous days, be described as a working conscience.

The plates weren’t perfectly aligned, and the cutlery bore the telltale signs of someone who had abandoned the task halfway through to pursue a more pressing distraction, but the effort had been made, and that counted for something.

It was at precisely that moment that Noah wandered into the kitchen, exuding the quiet composure of a man who had achieved complete readiness for the day ahead. He was already dressed in his Sunday best—shirt crisp, tie knotted, shoes polished and scriptures tucked neatly under one arm like he was preparing to attend not just church, but some combination of ecclesiastical summit and minor diplomatic mission.

He caught my eye and offered the kind of sideways glance that, after all these years, I recognised instantly as the prelude to some harmless act of mischief. His steps were deliberate, but his intentions unmistakable.

With the precision of a man who had rehearsed this manoeuvre countless times before, he reached out and, in one fluid motion, tore a strip from the edge of the pancake stack before I could issue even a cursory warning. The foil shifted with a soft sigh of protest, but not quickly enough to foil the theft.

“Put that down immediately,” I said, not turning, my voice infused with the dry authority of someone who had long since mastered the art of enforcing discipline without the need for direct confrontation. The maternal radar never failed, even when back was turned.

“Too late,” came his entirely unrepentant reply, followed by the unmistakable sound of satisfied chewing—the auditory proof of my too-late intervention and his well-executed culinary crime.

The rest of breakfast unfolded in that familiar whirlwind of organised chaos that belonged exclusively to Sunday mornings in our household—a blur of butter knives flashing as they caught the morning light, spreading golden richness across still-warm pancakes with varying degrees of elegance. Tiny droplets of maple syrup launched minor expeditions across tablecloth and fingertips, finding improbable purchase on surfaces far removed from their intended destinations. And all of it accompanied by the constant, joyful din of laughter—punctuated with cheerful insults and exaggerated outrage shouted between enthusiastic bites.

The video call continued its gentle presence in the background, as unobtrusive and comforting as a warm breeze drifting in through an open window. Lisa’s animated voice wove seamlessly through the clatter of ceramic plates and clinking cutlery, mingling with the rhythm of our morning as though she and Will were seated at the far end of the table rather than halfway across the world.

Eli’s jokes travelled clearly through the laptop speakers, their timing as impeccable as ever, landing with such immediacy that for a fleeting moment, it felt as though he’d never left. The thousand miles between us dissolved into laughter, familiarity, and the effortless grammar of family affection.

In the midst of this beautiful commotion, as I passed by the dining room shelf, I caught a fleeting glimpse of myself in the mirror that hung just above it. The reflection was slightly softened by the steam still curling from the pancake stack and bathed in the golden spill of winter morning light that filtered through the kitchen windows.

And for a moment, I paused.

There she was: a woman just turned fifty, hair pinned back in the functional manner demanded by Sunday mornings, apron a little askew from the exuberance of cooking. A faint smear of pancake batter decorated the inside of one wrist, a careless streak of effort left uncorrected in the hurry of generosity.

And I was smiling.

Not the smile I wore in photographs, or the one politely offered in conversations that required diplomacy. This was something quieter, more truthful. A small, uncurated expression that had slipped through unguarded.

It was the kind of smile that rose from somewhere beneath the surface—deeper than duty, gentler than pride. The smile of a woman who, in the midst of noisy clatter and syrup-slicked spoons, had recognised that this—this moment, right now—was the answer to a question she’d long ago stopped asking out loud.

It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t need to be.

We were halfway through the cheerful mayhem of clearing plates and returning the kitchen to some semblance of order when the video call reached its natural conclusion. The familiar flurry of enthusiastic waves and blown kisses filled the screen—hands reaching out as though they could bridge the continents with sheer affection alone.

“Love you all!” Lisa called, her voice bright and unwavering, just before the screen blinked to black with its customary electronic chime, signalling the end of our weekly digital gathering.

As I reached across to close the laptop, the screen briefly flickered back to the contact list—just long enough for me to notice what I already suspected.

Luke: offline.

Paul: offline.

A faint prickle stirred at the base of my neck. It wasn’t panic, not quite. Just the lingering unease of absence. Luke’s last message—plain and efficient—Paul’s with me. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry. But I still hadn’t heard Paul’s voice. Still hadn’t seen his face. And “fine” had begun to feel like a placeholder rather than a promise.

Shrugging the part of me aside that wouldn’t quite settle, the laptop closed with a gentle, satisfying click, leaving behind a tender hush—a silence shaped not by absence but by the lingering warmth of connection, the echo of love extended across oceans and time zones and received in full.

In the sink, the breakfast dishes reclined in warm, soapy water like contented guests after a generous feast. Their surfaces bore the sticky residue of syrup and softened butter, quiet remnants of a meal not just eaten, but savoured—testament to the morning’s shared delight.

Charles vanished in his usual whirlwind of sudden intent, undoubtedly launching himself into an impromptu archaeological dig in pursuit of the belt that had mysteriously disappeared again, as though it were an artefact of historical importance rather than a piece of school uniform.

Jerome moved in the opposite direction, disappearing into the sanctuary of his bedroom, his movements now infused with a deliberate calm that spoke of ritual. The quiet creak of wardrobe hinges and the soft scuff of shoe polish confirmed that he was engaged in the sacred rite of perfecting his Sunday appearance—one final act of care for a day that clearly meant more than most.

And then Noah, moving with the steady grace of someone who had spent decades learning my rhythms, appeared at my side. He nudged me gently away from the dishes—not with force, but with the quiet certainty of a man who knew when enough had been done—and guided me toward the lounge.

In his hands, he held a fresh mug of peppermint tea. The ceramic was still warm, its steam curling upwards like a benediction. He placed it in my hands without a word, just a small smile, a shared glance, the silent offering of someone who knew exactly what I needed before I’d thought to ask for it.

I sank into the familiar contours of the couch, and let my whole self soften into the moment. My hands still carried the residual warmth of service, my chest the quiet ache of deep contentment. The sounds of the house—footsteps down the hall, faint drawers opening and closing—folded gently around me like the soft rustle of pages in a well-loved book.

And I realised, with a kind of sudden, crystalline clarity, that this was it.

This was the sacred. Not in grand pronouncements or posed photographs, not in ceremonial stillness or choreographed perfection—but here, in this jumble of syrup-streaked cutlery and secondhand mugs, in mismatched socks and shining shoes, in a laptop screen filled with laughter and the unspoken tether of belonging.

It was in the showing up. In the pancakes flipped, in the tea brewed and placed without fanfare, in the thousand unnoticed acts of love that accumulated into something greater than the sum of their parts.

This was the heart of my Sunday—the sacred joy that didn’t demand recognition, but offered itself freely in the rhythm of family, of service, of togetherness.

And I received it—gratefully, completely.