There are few moments in life more revealing than the walk from the car to the kitchen with groceries.
It begins, as so many things do, with confidence.
You survey the situation.
You assess the number of bags.
And you make a decision that is, at once, bold and entirely unnecessary:
“One trip.”
Now, this is not a practical decision.
It is a spiritual one.
It is rooted in hope.
In determination.
And in a quiet but persistent belief that, with sufficient effort, one can carry far more than is strictly advisable.
And so you begin.
One bag in each hand.
Two more looped carefully over the wrists.
Something balanced precariously against the hip.
The door is opened — somehow.
The steps are navigated — heroically.
And just as you reach the threshold, something shifts.
A bag begins to tear.
An item slides.
Gravity enters the conversation with considerable enthusiasm.
And in that moment, you are faced with a choice.
Do you attempt to recover everything with dignity?
Or do you simply accept that this was never going to end well and proceed with grace?
Now, this may not immediately strike us as a theological moment.
But I would suggest that it is precisely the sort of ordinary experience that Ordinary Time is made for.
Because now that the great feasts have passed — the fire of Pentecost, the mystery of the Trinity — we return to the steady rhythm of daily life.
And it is here, in the grocery bags and the small decisions and the slightly overambitious plans, that faith takes on its most practical form.
Because much of life is like this.
We carry more than we need to.
We take on more than we should.
We insist on doing it all in one trip — figuratively, if not literally.
And then, somewhere along the way, things begin to slip.
The weight becomes noticeable.
The balance less certain.
The quiet realization dawns that perhaps we were not meant to carry everything at once.
Now, this is not a failure.
It is an invitation.
An invitation to reconsider.
To set something down.
To take a second trip (a deeply humbling but profoundly wise spiritual discipline).
To recognize that life is not meant to be managed through sheer determination alone.
Because the life of faith is not about proving how much we can carry.
It is about learning how to live well with what we have been given.
And, occasionally, how to let go.
Now, I will admit that this is not always our preferred approach.
We like efficiency.
We admire capability.
We have a certain fondness for arriving at the kitchen door with everything intact and a quiet sense of accomplishment.
But grace has a way of appearing in less polished moments.
In the dropped bag.
In the second trip.
In the laughter that comes when we realize that perhaps we took ourselves just a little too seriously.
And in that laughter — gentle, forgiving, human — we find something important.
We are not meant to carry everything alone.
We are not meant to get it all right in one go.
We are, instead, invited to live with a certain lightness.
A willingness to adjust.
A readiness to try again.
A quiet trust that even when things do not go according to plan, nothing is beyond the reach of grace.
So if today finds you carrying just a little too much…
Take a breath.
Set something down.
And if necessary, make a second trip.
Because Ordinary Time is not about extraordinary performance.
It is about faithful living.
In the small things.
In the ordinary moments.
In the grocery bags that occasionally remind us that we are human.
And that, thanks be to God, is more than enough.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious Lord,
You meet us in the ordinary moments of our lives.
When we carry too much,
teach us to pause.
When we struggle to hold it all together,
give us grace.
Help us to live with humility,
to laugh with kindness,
and to trust that you are present
in every part of our day.
And in all we do,
remind us that your grace is enough.
Amen.