On an ordinary Tuesday night in small-town America, I sat on a squeaky folding chair in my daughter’s school gymnasium. I chatted with the mom on my right; we see each other occasionally at birthday parties, around town, or on a school field trip. The room rapidly filled with parents, siblings, and grandparents.
There are connections here. My mother-in-law speaks to someone who remembers her as a high school teacher. Some of the teachers at my daughter’s school were themselves students in this very building, decades ago. The roots in a small town go deep. My dad went to high school with so-and-so’s dad. I used to work for that kid’s grandma. So many ways we intertwine, the tip of our roots touching our neighbors.
Brené Brown says that we all chase extraordinary moments. So focused on the next goal, win, promotion, vacation, recognition. But when loss or tragedy shoves its way into our lives, what we long for is one more ordinary moment. The gift of reading one more bedtime story or the comfort of a pancake breakfast.
I thought about this while sitting on my squeaky folding chair, gratitude for this ordinary moment sinking into me. My seven-year-old daughter had wanted to dress up for her music class performance; she wore a sparkly dress and heels. I watched her lean in, whispering to the friend standing on the risers next to her. All of them scanning the room, looking for their people, faces glowing and hands waving when their eyes connected.
They sang five songs; it was over in 20 minutes. But five songs, not one or two. They worked for months to memorize the words, tunes, and motions for five songs. This public school music teacher in our tiny school of 250 students sets high expectations for these kids. Exposing them to a variety of music, art, and dance. Encouraging six-year-olds to believe they can learn five songs, can perform even if they’re scared, can contribute ideas to make their concert personal and fun. My daughter played a little piece on the piano between songs, students played xylophones or bells, one little ballerina performed during the final song.
This teacher is watering the roots of these kids. It’s beautiful to watch. These ordinary moments are the building blocks of their extraordinary lives. Extraordinary not necessarily because of dazzling talent or world-changing innovation; extraordinary because that’s just what life is. I found myself hoping she senses the extraordinary nature of her contribution to the world in her everyday efforts to keep them in tune and on beat.
I wondered if some sat through that concert wishing they were somewhere else, missing the joy in the ordinary. I’ve done it—plenty. But more and more, I’m looking for those ordinary moments with a heightened awareness of their value. Not always clicking and filming and recording them, but capturing them, gently reminding myself that this is it. Right now. This moment is what I will long for when it’s gone. There are times I can feel the longing even as it’s happening. The poignancy of life as it’s passing. Most days are too busy to connect with the greatness of the ordinary. Most days it takes something unexpected, out-of-the-ordinary to interrupt my frantic rush or distracted scrolling.
I cherished that moment of small-town happiness last night. That moment in time we gathered to encourage and cheer on these kids who were brave enough to stand up and sing for us. Enjoyed the camaraderie of maneuvering the folding chairs back onto their rolling racks and the feeling that we’re in this together. I’m keeping my eyes peeled for the next one. I want to recognize the aching beauty of ordinary moments, participate in their passing, and tuck them away as evidence of this extraordinary life.
After the performance, my daughter asked me if I took any video of the concert. I told her no, I didn’t, but I loved watching her perform the songs she had worked so hard to learn. She smiled, tucking away her own little ordinary moment.
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