Hey – Is it okay if I stop by tomorrow morning after I drop S. off at school? It’s been a rough week over here and I need a friend!

Sure. I texted back. As long as you don’t mind the fact that I am likely to still be in my pajamas at that hour of the morning!

The next morning, she and I spent an hour at my kitchen counter drinking coffee and debriefing life – I, as promised, still in my pajamas. And then she left and went along with her day, and I went along with mine – both of us feeling better able to face it.

I have struggled throughout my life with loneliness. In the past, I have attempted to remedy my loneliness in different ways: by starting a mom’s playgroup when my littles were tiny. Hosting frequent dinner parties. Driving from one side of my city to the other in search of like-minded companionship.

None of these things are wrong in and of themselves.

But none of these things were sustainable in the long term. They ran their season, and then they fizzled out.

What my friend taught me that day was that community doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be as simple as a last-minute coffee at the kitchen counter in the early hours of the morning. It can be as simple as a text message that says I need a friend.

On that particular day, it was my friend who needed to debrief everything that was going on in her life. A couple of weeks later, it was my turn.

That week, I had received news that had left me reeling and uncertain. I was physically and emotionally drained. That Wednesday, I had to attend a large regional work meeting. I didn’t particularly want to go. I was not interested in the small-talk and networking that takes place at those kinds of meetings.

But I went anyway, as one does. As I entered the building I ran into a colleague who asked me how it was going.

“Honestly not great,” I replied. “It’s been a rough week.”

Almost without skipping a beat, he replied “You know what, I’m with you in that. I’ve had a rough week too.”

And just like that I relaxed. I entered that meeting and not only got through it, but left feeling seen and encouraged even though my situation was ongoing and not resolved.

I recognized that day that it wasn’t necessary to recount all the gory details of my particular situation. Nor was it necessary to paste on a fake smile and pretend everything was okay when it really wasn’t.

But community does require vulnerability. It means meeting that “how are you” with something other than fine when you aren’t. It requires honesty and a willingness to risk letting others in.

Several weeks later, I stopped in to visit some elderly shut-in friends that I had not seen for a number of months. They used to be part of a small group that I led until I moved on to serve a new congregation. It was actually a comment he left right here on Substack that prompted me to say: I have some space in my schedule this week – may I drop by and see you?

And so I did. We spent the sweetest hour catching up. I shared the news about our family, and they shared about their newest grandchild. They also shared miraculous answers to prayer they had experienced in recent months. They shared the ways that God had always been faithful to them in the darkest seasons of their decades of life together. They radiated the joy of the Lord despite being in a season where health kept them largely homebound.

I went there that day expecting to be the one to bring encouragement and to pray over them. Instead, I found myself as the one who left feeling uplifted and encouraged.

I recognized that day the interdependence that is inherent to true community. It isn’t just for my able-bodied self to go in and dispense comfort and help. We all have something of value to offer, regardless of our independence or autonomy. In fact, Leah Libresco Sargeant writes that “Our burdens and needs are our invitation into the dance.”1

I went to visit these friends because I perceived them to be in need. But this opened the door for my soul to be nourished and for my friend to feel that she still had purpose and usefulness despite her weakened body. Their need created “concentric circles of care.”2

It turns out the cure for chronic loneliness is rather simple.

This does not mean that it is easy. It requires vulnerability and recognition of need. It requires a humility that is willing to receive and not only give. It requires a willingness to let people in.

And it all begins with the honest admission that I need a friend.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

The seat was created for all of these things, but at the end of the van’s life, the seat somehow got separated from its owner and found itself on a sidewalk near a chain-link fence overrun with vines and weeds. A lonely man in his 40s now occupies the space children previously monopolized. It offers a semblance of comfort in an otherwise cold world of homelessness. He has tattoos running up and down his arms. He must have recently gotten a haircut, as his hair is cleanly shaven on the sides. Medium brown curls gather on top of his head—they curve softly against the harsh lines of his face. Weathered is the word I would use to describe him. And maybe tired.

Dark eyes that have seen sorrow and a hard set to his features tell me he has fought to live. My chest tightens as I kneel beside him and tell him my name. What can I offer this man when he seems to have already been handed hell? His dog, Milo, greets me first. He’s a big tan teddy bear of a dog. He mouths my hand, just like my dog does when he gets excited.

The man shares his name with me. It’s Luke. I’m with a group of students, so they all tell him their name. There is always an awkward moment in these conversations where both parties don’t exactly know if the other person would like to continue talking. We have never seen each other before, so trust starts from ground zero. Him simply sharing his name is a small brick of trust I can stand on. We exchange small pleasantries, and I ask him if he played sports growing up. Some of the kids in my group play sports, so I was hoping to get a conversation going. No, he didn’t play sports. His family was too poor, and he ran away when he was 11.

He told me that he worked as a mule for the gang he was part of, which meant he carried illegal drugs for them. He lived in South Texas, near the border, and would bring the drugs up to Dallas. Luke was paid well for this, but he knew it wasn’t good. He didn’t feel like he had much of a choice. He survived, but I could tell it cost him. He has been in and out of homelessness for 9 years. Initially, he was arrested for something his brother stole. The police would not allow him to go inside to get his ID before he was taken. This would be the tipping point that dropped him on the streets.

I have no way to verify the validity of what he told me, but that’s not the point of his story. I asked him what advice he would give me, considering his story and the life he has experienced. Wisdom often comes through suffering. Immediately he said, “Family—don’t take family for granted. Prioritize them.” And he said to be grateful. You never know when your last shower will be or your last meal. Something I so easily take for granted is being clean. What a privilege to have water on demand.

The conversation drifted to a lull. Luke stared at the ivy-covered fence, as he had done for almost the entire conversation. I wonder if he was scared to let us see him, but was also desperate to be seen. That’s what it felt like to me.

“I’ve never shared my story before. This is the first time ever.” He looked at me then, surprise in his eyes. I think our whole group felt the truth of his statement.

“Thank you for sharing your story with us,” one of my coworkers replied. What an honor to be in South Dallas, on a street corner, in the hot summer sun, and get to hear Luke with my own ears.

In Luke, I saw depths of pain I have never experienced. Sorrow I cannot comprehend. I wanted to rip my heart out and give it to him, just so he could have a new one, one that isn’t accustomed to suffering. If I could erase the betrayal and hate from his memory, I would have. If I am the body of Christ, the bread of life, can I tear a piece from myself and feed it to him? I feel the ache of a jealous and longing God in my physical body. And He weeps for Luke. I’m convinced that it’s the echo of His wailing that reverberates within the cavity of my chest. How do I bear that?

Meeting people with deep pain is confronting because it pushes against my own lack of power and control. I met a new friend who let me peek into the well that holds his inner world—his joys, his pain, his hopes, and his fear. I don’t have the access or ability to sort his heart and separate what is painful from what is good. I cannot go back and keep the evil from polluting his beautiful well, but with the small window I have, I can shine a light so he can see a little more clearly. Maybe I can even offer fresh water to fight the stale water that’s been sitting in the well for so long. May my smile be a small life vest to keep him floating. Maybe that’s bold to say, but I’ve seen the power of presence in someone’s life. I’ve experienced it in my own story. Maybe it’s just enough to keep him going—to let him know that his life is worth living.

Any insecurity I feel about my own lack surfaces in these moments because I recognize that I am not enough to make him better. I don’t have a house to give him or a job to offer. It always hits like a brick wall. But I do see a tiny spark of hope in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Maybe he’s the reason why I’m here today. So I take him in, as he is, on that street corner, sitting on that forsaken minivan seat, and plead with God to make him well. I have known Him to be in the water purification business before.

Please, God. Do it again. For Luke.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

When I open the door to the chapel, a wave of sound bursts through the space, pushing a reflexive smile onto my face. About 30 men crowd around a rickety, old, slightly out-of-tune piano that was donated to the shelter long ago.

One man sits at a drum set fashioned from old Home Depot buckets. Another—the bassist—has one eye, and his face is covered in some kind of burn. The trumpet player sits shyly to the side, avoiding attention but playing his instrument, swaying his head to the beat with eyes closed. A couple more stand in the front of the crowd, singing and harmonizing, their voices rising above the rest.

And at the center of the room, fingers flying across the keys, is Leon. Leon is about 65. He beams at the younger men around him, leading them in the song, effortlessly touching the right keys, as if they’re an extension of his body—another way of speaking.

I look around at the mismatched folding chairs, client badges around men’s necks, and the dust in the corners of the floor. And I can’t help but think that this place is sacred. It’s a chapel, but it’s more than that. Here, I see more passion, more vulnerability, and more hope than I’ve ever seen on a Sunday morning.

I look closer at these men. Some have scars, like the bassist. Some have prison tattoos, and I see a missing finger on a man beside me as he holds up his arms in praise. And yet, their eyes are shining, and they play and sing with an unyielding fire. And they trust the Lord with their lives, and their futures.

“It’s a new season,” they sing, a lyric that Leon wrote.

I don’t want to spoil the magic, but I’m here to share it, so I raise my phone and press record. I feel a tap on my shoulder. He doesn’t even tell me his name. He just points to Leon.

“That video you’re taking,” he says, “You’re going to inspire so many people to come here. Leon has the same badge on as me. He’s a client like I am.”

I nod, smiling, thinking that’s all he has to say. But he keeps going.

“Just look at the joy God has given him. That’s a change. And that’s why we all came here. Because God’s picture is bigger than ours.”

A tear forms in his eye, and he ducks away to join in the singing.1

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

I was 20 years old. I was too young to lose my mom. At least, that’s what I was continually told. But here I was, caring for my dying mother alongside my father and sister, day in and day out. We were exhausted, weak, and laden with grief.

I was 180 miles from my church home, and grieved the distance daily. Though I still drove the four hours each weekend to attend our Sunday service, I longed to have my church family close in this season of suffering. I longed to hear a knock on our door and be greeted with tender hugs and warm casseroles. Our family was in survival mode, barely keeping our heads above water.

As my mother’s condition progressed, my prayers began to morph into weak sobs. I recalled God’s promise that His Spirit would intercede on my behalf, so I trusted Him and continued crying out in agony. I didn’t know what I was praying for anymore— I just knew I needed help.

One day, there was a knock at our door. Three Chick-Fil-A meals, a plethora of sides, and cookies to go around sat on our porch. God had answered my unintelligible cries. From 200 miles away, my church showed up at our doorstep, thanks to the modern gift of DoorDash. I wept.

The next evening, another take-out meal quietly arrived on our porch. With tear-filled eyes and a full yet weary heart, I served my family dinner, thanking God for His loving provision.

This continued on for a week. Our frail and grieving bodies were nourished day after day by a church body hours away. We continued to care for my mother, serving her meals from some of her favorite restaurants. Though our appetites were minuscule, we ate with gratitude.

On the morning of June 14th, there was a knock on the door. But this time, a warm meal wasn’t waiting on our porch. Death had arrived.

We collapsed in grief.

No amount of time could have prepared us for what took place that day. We sat frozen in shock and sorrow.

That evening, three pastas, salads, and desserts arrived at our doorstep. I brought them in, and we ate. I exhaled deeply as I took a bite of Alfredo, realizing every need had been met without my asking. My beloved church was, indeed, very near. Distance made no difference— we were knit together in Christ.

In a world where many flee when times get difficult, my church family drew all the nearer. They loved quietly, yet fiercely. They shared in our grief, weeping and praying alongside us. Their love was steadfast and long-suffering, refusing to waver or fade as months passed and my grief ebbed and flowed.

They were—and are—the church, as Jesus intended the church to be. God didn’t transport my church to my hometown in that awful season, as I wished He would. But with clearer vision now, I’m wholly thankful He didn’t. For in His withholding, God gifted me something far greater: the beauty of witnessing Christ’s church bridge gaps in sacrificial, steadfast love.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

— Galatians 6:2

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

My grandpa’s cell phone would start vibrating in his pocket.

He would start smiling before he picked up the phone.

We all knew who was calling.

“Hey, brother, how are you today!”

It was James Hamblin. My grandpa’s friend. My first pastor.

Almost every Saturday, for years, Pastor Hamblin would call my grandpa.

In 2001, my family moved from Hazard, Kentucky to Corpus Christi, Texas.

Hazard is a coal-mining town of around 5,000 people nestled in the Appalachian Mountains. Outside of coal, you can be a teacher, work at the hospital, or become a public servant. There isn’t much vocational opportunity outside of that.

If you grow up in Hazard, you typically don’t move.
You are born there, you grow up there, you live there, you die there.
We lost friends and frustrated family when we made the move.

But not Pastor Hamblin.

He didn’t call my grandpa to ask for money for his church.
He didn’t call my grandpa to ask for anything…
…except for how he was doing, how our family was, what could he be praying for.

He remembered my firstborn son’s name when he was in his late 80s.
He asked how I was doing when I played baseball in college.
He was elated when he heard that I was going into pastoral ministry.

He too is the reason I am re-entering ministry after I left and swore to never return.

In 2024, a spiritual mentor of mine was fired for some severe allegations.
The situation hurt me so badly that I resigned from my vocational ministry role.
My ministry hero had not been the same person on and off stage… and I was crushed.

As a part of my processing, I began looking at all of the people who had contributed to my spiritual formation throughout the years.

I thought about Pastor Hamblin and the way I saw him care for my grandpa.

I picked up the phone and called his son.

I found out that James had died a few months before I called.
He had lived 89 years and had pastored for 58 of them.

I asked Pastor Hamblin’s son to give me the good, the bad, and the ugly.

His son just laughed.
He told me his dad was an imperfect man.
He was a guy who screamed so loud for the Kentucky Wildcats that the neighbors could hear him through the walls.
He humanized him and shared about him in an honest, sober-minded way.

But then he told me two stories that healed me.

Since Hazard was a blue-collar coal town, a handful of families couldn’t ever make it to church on Sunday because of their jobs. Some pastors would have judged. Most pastors would have spent their focus elsewhere. Pastor Hamblin wouldn’t do either.

He quietly started a ministry he called “Home Bound.”

Every single Friday for decades, he would drive out to their homes.
He wouldn’t email a live-stream link or a sermon video.
He showed up on their porches on Fridays, flesh and bone.
He opened his Bible, and said, “Here is what I’m preaching on this Sunday.”

He brought Communion to kitchen tables.
He brought the Spirit of God into their living rooms.
He brought the church to them.

For those who didn’t live in their own home anymore, he didn’t forget them.
He did “Home Bound” at the local nursing home every Wednesday until he was 88 years old. Even after he was “retired.”

Then his son told me this…something he didn’t even know himself until after his dad died: Pastor Hamblin had refused a raise from the church for twenty consecutive years.

His board kept trying to push it on him, telling him, “Let us bless you.”
They had the funds. They wanted to compensate him. He deserved it.

But James would just shake his head.
“I’m good,” he’d say. “God’s given me all I need. Put that money somewhere else.”

In my darkest season in 2024, my cynicism was winning.

I really thought all pastors were clout-chasers.
I thought high-character pastors didn’t exist.
I had seen so much, I thought I’d never be able to trust again.

But then God brought me back to the beginning.
Airport Gardens Baptist Church.

Its downstairs nursery with the women who taught me my first Bible stories.
The upstairs sanctuary where I would request Holy, Holy, Holy as a 4-year-old from the pews and the pianist would oblige every time. The church that I attended before I was even born—the hymns and Scriptures shaping me in my mother’s womb on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings.

Pastor Hamblin flipped the table on what I experienced in ministry. He gave me a new model, and yet a model that is ancient. He showed me how to faithfully embody the character of Christ.

I left ministry because I thought all pastors loved the spotlight more than the sheep.

Like Christ, Pastor Hamblin’s life and his death became a resurrection for me—restoring what I had lost to cynicism and grief.

I’m re-entering ministry because a man drove down gravel roads on Fridays. Because a man’s life was a living sacrifice every day, and not just on a Sunday stage. Because a man quietly ministered in the shadows and shined forth the hope of Christ.

Because of 9:00 AM phone calls on Saturday mornings.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

I remember when I was a child and the idea of knocking on someone’s front door made my palms sweat and chest tighten. What if this was the wrong house? What if they didn’t hear my knock? What if someone I don’t know answers the door? If I was home alone as a child and our doorbell rang, I would hide behind furniture and pretend I wasn’t there.

If I had to to guess, many of us wish we could pretend we aren’t home when our doorbell rings unexpectedly. Many of us won’t make the time or get past the intrusive “what if” questions to drive to the home of a hurting friend, knock on their door, and be physically present in their pain. It’s easier to send a text.

After my husband died, I’ve learned how much the work of the church happens on doorsteps.

First there was the food. That meal train literally kept me alive in those early days. Day after day, someone who was praying and weeping for me helped carry my burdens by bringing me food, in a strikingly similar way to the way they did after the birth of my daughter.

Several months after the funeral, one friend brought me a meal and her kindergarten age son came along with her. In a kindness to us, she had shared with her son why they were making us dinner. That little boy searched his toy box and chose a precious gift for my daughter. This little boy, shepherded by his mother, stepped over our threshold and brought comfort with him.

Although delicious, I’m not sure I could name any of the dishes in those foil pans, but I remember the kindness of every single one of those people who prepared a meal in their own homes and then walked up the steps to mine.

There was also the sitting. For a couple weeks after my parents drove me home from the hospital alone, my daughter and I stayed at their house. They have a little porch with two gliding Adirondack chairs. In those early days, I set tiny goals for myself: get out of bed, eat some food, feel the sun on my face. So I sat on that front porch, and several friends came and sat with me. Sometimes we talked, and I explained how everything had gone so terribly wrong so fast. Sometimes they shared their favorite memory of my husband. Sometimes we sat in silence as the August sky turned a deep pink over the corn fields. They didn’t try to defend God and his sovereignty. They didn’t try to explain what he was doing. They didn’t presume to understand how this was all going to turn out. They didn’t try to make me feel less sad. This was not the time for cheering up. They looked me in the eye—believing in their hearts what I needed them to believe about a God who keeps his promises—and they wept with me on that doorstep.

Although we are not living in acute crisis any more, I still notice when the church shows up at my doorstep.

There was this past Valentine’s day when someone anonymously left a bag of small gifts, as a tangible reminder of God’s love for us.

There was that day when I had received some hard, disappointing news and a friend stopped by with a plant and a hug.

There were all those birthdays and anniversaries where someone dropped off flowers to show me that I wasn’t remembering those days alone.

There have been many spontaneous flower deliveries just to remind me that someone saw me and loved me.

There was this last Christmas—my fourth holiday season as a widowed mom. Knowing my husband would have insisted that I treat myself to a special gift, I have made this a habit. While attending my daughter’s classroom Christmas party, I had casually mentioned to a friend that I had wrapped a present for myself and placed it under the tree. A couple weeks later I got a text saying that a surprise had been left at my doorstep. When I opened the door, I found a dozen beautifully wrapped presents adorned with ribbons. A couple gifts were for my daughter, but nearly all of them were for me. A group of moms had picked out gifts for me so I had gifts to unwrap on Christmas morning that I hadn’t wrapped for myself. I didn’t need the presents, but that wasn’t the point. I was part of their family, and in our family, we give good gifts to one another just like the Father does.

The Father has given us the greatest gift, his Son, who took on flesh and came to us to save us. It’s this model of love that each of these people have embodied. This is the kind of love that goes beyond, “let me know if you need me.” It’s the kind of love that pushes past the hard and the awkward to show up at our very homes, stepping into thick darkness. This is the love of Christ, who does not just let us know that he’s there if we need him. God the Son did the work. He came to us, bringing our greatest need, the salvation for our very souls. He stepped across the threshold to suffer for us.

Every time one of these saints stepped up to my doorstep, they did so because of Christ and embodied his love as they did.

I shrink back less when my doorbell rings, because it’s not a source of anxiety. That thumping knock is now a reminder of how much Christ has loved me and cared for me through his church on my very own doorstep.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

We stood together, others coming to join the middle, hands on shoulders like a web of living hope. I don’t know what grief or guilt or fear of future loss weighed on my brother’s soul that morning in the prayer room. All I know is the embrace we shared after the weight lifted.

There’s a camaraderie among pastors that is only released when we kill suspicion, competition and envy and nurture unity instead. There’s a power in that unity unleashed when we channel it into common prayer.

This moment nestled itself in my soul during a gathering of about 90 pastors from all over the Bay Area of California. Pastors of different ethnicities, theological traditions, and denominations—serving wildly different demographics and neighborhoods—brought together for the eighth year by an organization called Transforming the Bay with Christ.

If you had crashed the party, you might have considered it more reunion than conference. Tenderloin, mashed potatoes, and laughter around dinner tables. Side conversations on a bench or a short walk under the redwoods—catching up on life or scheming to reconnect after the retreat. The occasional squirt of a water gun to the glasses. A promise of good-natured retribution. Sages disseminating their wisdom to eager young ministers, hungry for hard-fought lessons that Claude cannot teach.

All of it seasoned with joy and grounded in love.

The church in the Bay Area is quietly coming together. In a world rent apart by party, class, and religion, the story of the church that makes headlines tends to fit the factious mold.

“Local church divides over politics.”

“Denomination splits over theological dispute.”

“Christians migrate from one perfectly good community of faith to another in a vain attempt to find the ‘perfect fit.’”

Tribalism, far from being a concept relegated to history books, has reasserted itself in a society of limitless options and online “community.” Unity across difference? A quaint dream of people who remember what life was like prior to social media. And yet it’s happening in one of the least churched regions in the country.

The headlines may be filled with stories of factions and fragmentation. But I’m reading a different story in the lives of Bay Area churches. The retreat was just the tip of the iceberg of the Church’s unity. Each one of these ninety leaders is nurturing one of forty-eight networks representing five hundred churches from Sonoma to Monterey, from San Francisco to Dixon. These networks are supporting struggling pastors, planting churches, preparing for wildfires, coordinating mental health services, organizing outreach, and praying for each other’s congregations on Sunday.

———

Jesus prays to the Father:

I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one— I in them and you in me—so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me (John 17:22-23 NIV).

It strikes me that Jesus did not say, “so that they may be brought to complete certainty.” He neglected to add,“so that they may create relevant outreach programming.”

Jesus says that unity will be the engine of effective gospel witness.

Unity is what Jesus said would convince people that Jesus is who he said he is.

Unity will compel people by God’s love.

The Church is forming a web of living hope across the Bay Area. And nothing could be closer to the heart of God, or more crucial for the church’s mission.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (ideally) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

In fact, everyone in your neighborhood does.

Most days when I walk, I’m praying: Jesus, give me Your eyes.

Some days that prayer looks like slowing down enough to notice what my kids notice. The way they drop everything to chase a lizard up a tree. The way they press their faces into a bush, convinced there’s a bird hidden inside. The way curiosity pulls us right up to someone else’s front steps, where a conversation could begin if we let it.

A few months ago, we were eating dinner with the windows wide open, lingering in that in-between space of imagination and ordinary life. We saw someone walk past. Then came a knock at the door.

It was a ten-year-old girl asking, “Can your kids play?”

I remember thinking, God just knocked on our door.

We stepped outside, grabbed scooters, and started doing loops around the neighborhood. Before long, we met her mom. She loved Jesus and carried a story that had clearly been shaped by Him, not once, but over and over again.

Their little girl who had knocked on our door was unexpected. They already had three older children and thought their family was complete.

But then, they discovered they were pregnant. And almost at the exact same time, they made another discovery: her husband was diagnosed with cancer.

Part of his treatment meant he couldn’t touch her. For months, they slept in separate rooms, carrying the fear that even something as simple as his hands could harm their unborn child.

It was a hard, lonely season.

And yet, if you met them now, you wouldn’t guess it. There’s light in her. There’s joy in both of them.

The timing of meeting her wasn’t lost on me. A close friend of mine had just been diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time. I had been carrying that weight, heavy in my heart and soul.

And then, there we were, circling a neighborhood on scooters, listening to a story of someone who had walked through something devastating and still carried joy on the other side.

God meets us like that: in the interruptions; in the unexpected knocks; in the conversations we didn’t plan.

To remind us we’re not alone. To place us, even briefly, in the path of someone who has walked through the dark and found light that held. You never know the kind of people you’re going to meet. You never really know what they’re going through. And that’s part of the adventure, the grand story God asks us to participate in. We’re all beautifully knit together in a web of unseen sufferings that pop out now and again to remind us we’re not so different.

We don’t see this neighbor often. Our lives don’t overlap in big ways. But every so often, her daughter wanders over, and we ride again.

And with each ride, it’s a constant reminder, how often God hides something remarkable inside what looks like just another ordinary day.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

“How are you?” we would ask.

“Just peachy,” he told us every time.

As a child, seeing Millie care for her husband through those long and lonely years, I realized that marriage could look like this. “In sickness and in health,” my cousin said at her wedding, one healthy twenty-something to another. At the time I thought she meant the flu or a broken leg. But watching Millie and Jack deepened my view of marriage. Their life was a sermon. They were radiant.

I remember wondering, even at that early age, if God would one day call me to care for my husband in serious ways. I had a practical brain that liked to think through everything and talk about it with Jesus. I considered that if I did not have what it took to care for someone in long-term sickness I should never say those vows. I also knew that Jesus gives His people strength.

I grew up and met my own Jack.

We were deep friends. We bonded over Jesus, music, and the Boston Red Sox. We served together in our college ministry and at church. We made a great team, a fact I was keenly aware of. One night he turned to me in the half-dark and laid out his heart. I laid out mine.

I made sure to bring up my chronic illness in our pre-dating conversations. It was not too limiting in those college years, but I wanted him to be aware of all the dark corners a disease like this might bring to his life should he choose me. He was unphased.

“I’m just not sure how it will affect our relationship,” I told him.

“I’m not worried about any of that, Alicia.”

I was slowly healing. I was hopeful.

But weeks later, external factors led to a twist in my illness. Neurological symptoms crept in, surprising us all. I was worsening at an alarming pace, crushed under the new shape of a limited life. I couldn’t go to grocery stores or restaurants without neurological attacks. Sleeping became challenging. I couldn’t drive. I had to move home from school, drop out of everything but my classes, and sleep most of the time.

And Jack stayed.

“I’ll rest this year and hopefully be back on my feet next year,” I said.

But I wasn’t.

So I dropped out of my graduate program.

Cried a lot.

Prayed a lot.

Watched God do new things in my heart.

Jack asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

Because of the prayers of the saints, I made it through our wedding day without symptoms tearing me apart. We had torrential downpours, but the day was golden. Jack looked into my eyes and I looked into his and we promised: “In sickness and in health.” We stepped into our future.

This spring marked five years of marriage, and I thought we’d be out of the woods by now. I can drive. I’ve started grocery shopping again. Sleep is easier. The neurological symptoms are loosening their grip. But the sickness still lingers.

Jack’s life is a sermon. He lays his life down for me over and over, riding the waves of this unpredictable illness. His care and comfort reflect that of Christ for me. I am not bedbound, nor am I dying. I have more and more good days. But in the darkness of my symptoms, he points me to the Light. In the crippling exhaustion, he labors for our household and for me in ways that I cannot. And in these quiet sacrifices, in his daily patience with the brokenness of the world showing up in the brokenness of my body, I see the gospel.

I was unaware that watching two older saints live out marriage as a picture of the gospel in my formative years was God’s preparation. We’re all waiting for the Marriage Supper of the Lamb, practicing loving one another as Christ loves the church, but it is in my particular suffering and my particular marriage that I have learned this most dearly. I don’t know why I had never considered that I might be the one in a marriage that needed taking care of. To be on the receiving end of Christ-like care is both comforting and humbling. Too often, I feel guilty for things I can’t control. I wish this burden was not a shared one. And yet, my husband shoulders it with a grace that echoes Christ’s.

Jack and I are hopeful for my healing in this lifetime. But when we held hands on a rainy day five years ago, he looked into my eyes and promised that if not, he would stay.

And we’ll stay.

//

Love is patient, love is kind. Love does not envy, is not boastful, is not arrogant, is not rude, is not self-seeking, is not irritable, and does not keep a record of wrongs. Love finds no joy in unrighteousness but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

–1 Corinthians 13:4–7 CSB

Then I heard something like the voice of a vast multitude, like the sound of cascading waters, and like the rumbling of loud thunder, saying,

Hallelujah, because our LORD God, the Almighty, reigns!

Let us be glad, rejoice, and give him glory,

because the marriage of the Lamb has come,

and his bride has prepared herself.

She was given fine linen to wear, bright and pure.

For the fine linen represents the righteous acts of the saints.

Then he said to me, “Write: Blessed are those invited to the marriage feast of the Lamb!” He also said to me, “These words of God are true.”

–Revelation 19:6–9 CSB

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

We fell out of touch for a while because I started following Jesus and he was more interested in, to put it uneloquently, doing drugs.

I ran into a couple old friends a little while after falling out of touch. I asked about Jude. They said he was too far gone—bad enough that they were expecting to see an obituary anouncement any day now. Which might sound crass, but he would’ve been the third from our old friend group to overdose, so it wasn’t unrealistic.

So I started casually praying for him, whenever I remembered to. I told my college ministry about how worried I was about him while we were away at some cabin retreat in the dead of winter, and unexpectedly found my face wet after asking them to pray for him.

Three years later, I hear from him out of the blue. Wants to get coffee. He tells me his life is a wreck and wants to know what I did to get help. I lay out the Gospel. It doesn’t go well. I drive him home. I keep praying for him.

Three years after that, I hear from him again. We get coffee. He wants to come to church. So I pick him up again. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t come back. It was all too peppy and formal and syncopated. I drive him home again and we talk in the driveway about anything that comes to mind. I tell him I’ll keep praying for him as he gets out of the car. So I keep praying for him.

I hear from him again a year later. His dad, someone we all knew pretty well from back in the day, passed away from Leukemia. He sends me the funeral details. I give Jude a hug after the ceremony and he cries on my shirt. I tell him I’m praying for him.

Two years after the funeral, he asks to get breakfast. His eyes look healthier and he’s less fidgety and even offers to pay for the meal. He’s been sober since a little bit after our last talk. He’s now a confirmed member of a local church.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that this was quite literally the last guy you’d expect to get his life on track.

—

Not sure what the point is, but just wanted to write this out as a reminder that no one is a lost cause—too far gone is an impossibility in God’s mind.

Also: prayer matters. Not even the earth-shattering, dramatic, open the floodgates of heaven type prayers; just a casual “Bring him near to You” goes a shockingly long way.

It’s easy to get discouraged to the point that you rope off the possibility of God restoring something, but maybe that skepticism makes God laugh and begin proving us wrong. Reflecting back on the whole arc of Jude, it’s almost like God said “watch this” just to show us our naïveté. He used Jude like a beautiful canvas to display His own glory.

And this transformation took almost a decade. I remember getting discouraged that Jude wouldn’t ever change his mind or heart after that first meeting. But it really was a matter of sowing seeds and letting them grow—which is a christianese kind of phrase that turned out to be literally accurate in this case. If I’d given up immediately after that first meeting, I would’ve missed out on seeing his evolution. And it’s been so restorative to watch it unfold. Jesus really does have the keys to eternal life, there’s no where else worth going (John 6:66-68).

Lastly, I (Griffin) don’t like to center these stories on the author, so apologies if I’ve done that. But just want to clarify: this is not a testimony to me and my faithfulness and perseverance; that would be ridiculous. It’s a testimony to the way God flattens our expectations and prove Himself Lord over all our reality—our doubts, our skepticism, our moments where hope’s void.

There are many terrible, horrible, awful things happening in the world; not everyone’s story ends up like Jude’s. But it’s worth contending for everyone, even if we don’t see results right way; the good is an uphill battle, but all labor expended toward it is never in vain.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Katherine said this to me while we were sitting by the pool, and it opened up a whole conversation about the woman who gave her that book, the same one she was now passing on to me.

The book, Gentle and Lowly, had come from a woman named Margo.

Years ago, Katherine had been deeply praying that God would bring someone into her life that she could read the Bible with—essentially, just a good friend. The person God brought into her life was Margo, and the very first book Margo wanted to read with her was this same book, because she wanted her to know how much Jesus loved her.

Their connection came through ordinary circumstances. They had a mutual friend who had been helping care for Margo in a living facility, and because Margo never had children, there wasn’t anyone consistently checking on her well-being. As it turned out, the facility she was in was not a good place. When that friend needed to leave town, she asked Katherine if she would step in and help for a bit.

But what started as simply lending a hand became something more. God was not only meeting a practical need, He was connecting these two women and stirring something in Katherine to stay, to be present, and to advocate for her.

After they reconnected, Katherine began spending time with Margo regularly, helping with the small, ordinary things like sorting papers or going through her books. Margo is a devoted reader, and every room in her home is lined with shelves. At one point they thought they might begin filling a box to give some away, but it rarely works out that way. Every time they pick one up, Margo begins telling the story of it, where she got it, when she read it, what was happening in her life at the time, and why it mattered. You can feel, just listening, how much those books have shaped her.

Katherine told me she has a growing stack of books from Margo at home, each one chosen with care, each one somehow fitting the moment. She laughed as she said she could never possibly get through them all, but she keeps receiving them anyway, because that is how Margo loves.

Margo is eighty now. She goes to dialysis three times a week and is mostly bedridden, though she is hoping to regain enough strength to get back into a wheelchair. She was once a very strong and independent woman, but the limitations of her body have been deeply painful. Katherine has watched her wrestle with God in that, asking honestly what He wants her to do with the rest of her life.

But even as her body has weakened, her mind remains sharp, and her capacity to love has not diminished. She has become one of the fiercest prayer warriors, no longer limited by walls.

It’s important to say this isn’t how things have always looked. There was a season leading up to this where Margo was angry, where she could be difficult, even with the people she loved most. Katherine told me there was a time she had wanted to give her a book about Corrie ten Boom, about how in her later years, when she could no longer move freely, she became someone who prayed for people all over the world. But at the time, Margo was still carrying a lot of anger, and Katherine was afraid of how she might respond.

But not today. Her circumstances have not changed, but her prayer life has. In prayer, a person is not reduced by what they cannot do. They are joined to what God is doing. What is spoken in a quiet room is taken up by God and worked into the lives of others, often far beyond what the one praying can see. Prayer is where a person is invited into the presence of God Himself, and where God creates space to do things no one could arrange on their own.

Katherine shared that around the same time she had been praying for someone to read with, Margo had been praying too. Margo was asking God to bring someone into her life that she could share everything she had learned with, someone she could invest in during these later years. And without either of them realizing it, those prayers had already met in each other.

What’s remarkable in this story? Is it Margo’s journey through limitation into a life of prayer? Is it her generosity in giving Katherine a book with the sole intention of wanting her to know how much Jesus loves her? Is it Katherine’s willingness to visit the living facility, or her patience to return week after week to help with the mundane? Is it that both of them were praying, vulnerably asking God to bring a friend?

Or is it that now, years in the making, Katherine is the one placing that same book into someone else’s hands, with the same words, “I want you to know how much Jesus loves you.”

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Not too long after that meeting, my wife and I ended up leaving that church. I don’t harbor any animosity toward anyone involved. As with most things, looking at how it all unfolded in the rearview mirror allows me understand it better. The instinct of those church leaders to lead an inquiry to protect the church body that was placed under their charge is one with which I’m very sympathetic now. In other words, while I don’t necessarily think I was wrong about the initial issue, I was definitely young and dumb.

I’m older now and (slightly) less dumb, but what I’ve become convinced of is that many of the labels and fences we as church leaders erect to safeguard those we love and are called to lead, however well-intentioned, can just as easily become walls that keep more than just doctrinal error out of our homes or auditoriums. They can ostracize people, too, suppressing sympathy and stiff-arming mercy. This isn’t a demeanor I’m at all interested in fostering. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve come to hold a lot of things loosely, save for Jesus Christ. He’s the only thing I want to unapologetically hold fast.

Since I’ve probably sufficiently buried the lede already, I was recently reminded of the profundity of “Jesus plus nothing” during a small, ecumenical effort to serve our community by providing a meal to those who likely hadn’t had a made-from-scratch one in a while. This event wasn’t a flashy affair. There were no streamers or banners or clever marketing campaigns. It was just a couple of dozen people from several different local churches or ministries collaborating to do something rather simple: feed people in need.

I couldn’t tell you how many folks we ended up feeding; all I know is that we barely had any ham left. Individuals from all different backgrounds and all walks of life were welcomed and waited on. It wasn’t much, but I know Jesus was there.

I share this story, not because I’m looking for applause or a pat on the back for the grand display of altruism and service I was able to contribute to, but because this is the kind of ministry that ought to be normative within the big “C” Church. The kind where the fences that normally keep us sequestered are gladly vaulted to demonstrate God’s love for the least of these. After all, it’s not every day that a team of Lutherans, Baptists, Southern Baptists, and non-denominationalists set aside their traditions to link arms for the good of their neighbors.

Having grown up in a particular stream of Christian subculture, one that wasn’t too fond of crossing the denominational aisle, I’m aware of the rarity of this phenomenon. At the risk of sounding too much like the Philippians 3 version of the apostle Paul, I was raised as an Independent Baptist in the buckle of the Bible Belt—Greenville, South Carolina—home to an institution that may or may not have founded Christianity in the South.

I jest, but only slightly, because depending on whom you interact with, you may be led to believe that that’s true. I won’t bore you with chronicling all the examples of the denominational tribalism that often sprang out of the aforementioned institution, mainly because that’d be well beyond this article’s purview.

I’ve often joked with friends and/or acquaintances that the Venn Diagram of my theological persuasions and interests would have lots of circles representing lots of different traditions, each of which would overlap a small yet significant center: Jesus and the story of redemption that culminates in him. The point isn’t that I’m narrow-minded, though some may accuse me of such, especially when it comes to dialogues about Christopher Nolan’s filmography or LeBron James’s G.O.A.T. status or the scourge on coffee that is the K-cup industry. Rather, the point is that I’ve grown to love finding commonality in those and with those who aren’t necessarily within my stream of Christianity. I hold all things loosely, save for Jesus.

This is what I was reminded of during that ministry event, at which there was no such thing as fences keeping us over here and them over there. There were just people who loved Jesus serving a meal to men and women who hadn’t had a hot meal in who knows how long. There were brothers and sisters from other church families sitting with moms, plating food, and laughing with new faces as though they’d known each other forever. I’m not trying to be cliché or schmaltzy. I just know that no one stopped the meal to compare doctrinal statements. We just served and loved, and for a few hours, I was struck by what it means to be the Body of Christ.

I recently pulled a 1910 edition of Brooks by the Traveller’s Way off the shelf, which is a compendium of short messages or devotionals written by John Henry Jowett, a 19th to 20th century British clergyman. In one meditation, Jowett touches on what it looks like when we stay behind those fences — namely, sympathy becomes confined, and life itself becomes crippled:

It is a sure sign of dwarfed and crippled life when religious interests are self-contained and exclusive, when we cannot see the beauties in another mode of worship, nor find a single foothold for kinship and communion. But our sectarian fences are so emphatic and pronounced that it is difficult for our sympathies to get beyond them.1

To be sure, I’m not advocating for a label-less orthodox experience. Fellowshipping, worshiping, and assembling with those with whom you share convictions is a good, right, and blessed thing. But for as beneficial as those labels and fences may be in certain contexts, when taken to their extremes or lionized as cherished commodities, mercy, love, and sympathy become stifled, bordering on absent. And, as Jowett says, “Absence of sympathy means absence of vision, lack of space, life confined to one’s own courtyard.”2 The more we circle the wagons, the more limited our lives become. We become bigger and the world around us smaller, and grace more forced.

The antidote to such crippling self-imprisonment is the gracious mind of God as seen in the person of Jesus, which, among other things, imbues us with a deferential, self-sacrificial love that frees us to get out from behind that fence. “When self is seen in large associations,” Jowett concludes, “then self assumes accurate proportions, and self-conceit subsides into a healthy self-esteem.”3 The “ecumenical spirit,” which is so often regarded as the boogeyman of certain pockets of Christianity, might just be a consequence of the gospel itself. It’s what happens when we earnestly pursue a life where we decrease, and Jesus increases in importance.

Paul’s words at the beginning of 1 Corinthians 3 come to mind. The old yet familiar “I’m of Paul, I’m of Cephas, I’m of Apollos” spirit doesn’t really have anything to do with “the faith once delivered to the saints,” especially when you’re handing a plate full of food to someone who’s hungry. And maybe that’s the point.

Not that those labels and fences don’t matter or don’t have a purpose, but that they fall into place beneath the One who draws all men and women to himself through his own willingness to love them to the point of dying for them. It’s in those moments when we’re made to see what we’re here for—namely, sharing in the love that refuses to stay confined.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

I used to think this was just a Western problem, but the more time I’ve spent engaging the global church—I’ve come to realize Christian celebrity culture can be just as prevalent in other places as well. Perhaps it’s in part the flattening of culture through the internet and social media. Or, maybe it’s just a deeply ingrained human phenomenon.

Recently, Christian social media was aghast at the moral failure of one of its long-term influencers and “great men.” Of course, Christian leadership failure is objectively tragic, and hurts the work of the Kingdom. It was telling however to see how every Christian leader and thinker seemed to feel the need to comment on what had happened. Most displayed shock, surprise, or outrage. Perhaps an emotional response is warranted on some level. But should we really be all that surprised when gifted people who’ve been put up on a pedestal take a tumble? All idols are bound to fall to the ground sooner than later. Perhaps we bear some responsibility for the disappointment we experience, given that we allowed “great men” such outsized admiration in the first place.

God, I believe, is always trying to pull us away from this kind of thinking, despite its strong gravitational pull. One way he subverts our expectations, and adjusts our values is by choosing to work through unlikely persons. These are the people we count out and wouldn’t think of as having a shot at being “great.”

This shouldn’t surprise us of course. Scripture reminds us again and again that this is how God operates (1 Corinthians 1:26-27). He chooses the foolish things for the purpose of shaming (disproving) the wise, and weak things to shame the strong.

One of the most striking examples of this I’ve come across in recent years is E.J.H. Nash, known to many simply as “Bash.”

Unless you are a student of British evangelical history, you have probably never heard his name. He didn’t write a single bestseller. He didn’t pastor a megachurch. He loathed crowds, his voice was unimpressive, and he was known for being fussy and anxious, even at times ill-tempered and hyper-critical.

But arguably this obscure, eccentric man did more to shape the course of 20th-century Christianity in the United Kingdom (and by extension, the global church) than almost anyone else in his era. His life is a portrait of how God uses the “weak things of the world to shame the strong” (1 Corinthians 1:27), and offers a paradigm-shifting example for those of us seeking to do great things for God in ordinary places.

An Unlikely Candidate

On the surface, Bash was almost aggressively uninspiring. Physically, he was underwhelming. He was a hypochondriac who was frequently seen wearing a heavy wool scarf, even indoors. He took a vast array of medicines for various ailments, many of which could barely explained, and was annoyingly particular about his diet.

His background was also unremarkable. In school he never garnered much attention for his intellectual or athletic abilities. He wasn’t artistic or eloquent. One man bluntly noted, “There was nothing particularly impressive about him.”

But, as a low-level Anglican clergyman in the 1930s, Bash felt called to evangelize the top public schools in England. These schools (i.e. Eton, Harrow) were institutions that belonged to the British elite. Students who attended these schools were worldly and destined for economic and social success. The British upper class at this time was also suspicious of anything that seemed like “overly-enthusiastic religion.”

For some reason, Bash believed that despite having no special social status or connection, nor the kinds of qualities that would have made him compelling to boys coming from such backgrounds, that he was the man for the job to reach them for Christ.

Letters and Prayer

Bash’s main ministry venue were camps. He ran built relationships with local schools and through existing programs in the Anglican church organized youth ministry to teenage boys. He built mentoring relationship with these boys that lasted well into adult hood and even their professional careers.

He was legendary for his correspondence. It’s estimated that Bash wrote around twenty to thirty personal letters every single day. During the lean years of WWII, he would sit on trains, scribbling notes by dim light, asking former students and mentees about their struggles, their prayer lives, and instructing them in scripture.

His vision was one of encouragement, accountability, and empowerment. He knew that a young man’s faith is fragile, and there was great risk of them becoming distracted and unfruitful in their work for the kingdom, even as they succeeded in their careers. He viewed it as his responsibility to continue building them up as long as he could.

John Stott

In 1938, a teenage John Stott was a student at one of these prestigious schools, and sat in a room listening to Bash speak. Stott later recalled that while he had been “religious” all his life, Bash was the first person to tell him that he needed to actually do something, and respond to Jesus. That afternoon, Stott opened the door to Christ, forever changing the course of his life.

Bash mentored Stott all the way through university, guiding his early theological formation, and praying for him daily. Stott went on to become the architect of the Lausanne Movement and perhaps the most influential theologian of the 20th century. His book “Basic Christianity” was one of the first Christian books I read after coming to faith. I recently read it again with a friend I’ve been discipling. His book “The Cross of Christ” is one of the most celebrated works of all time on the person and work of Jesus.

Stott did for a time serve alongside Bash at the youth camps. But ultimately, he was happy to follow his own calling with Bash’s constant letters of encouragement and admonition to guide him. When describing Bash’s influence on his life, Stott said “I sensed a deep humility... He was a man who knew God.”

How Ordinary People Change the World

So, what does a man like Bash have to teach us today? Most of us aren’t running camps for the British aristocracy. We are raising families, working normal jobs, and perhaps discipling a friend, or leading small Bible studies.

However, Bash’s life is still instructive in that he was a dedicated man who gave everything in had in faith where God had placed him. As a result, he was wildly fruitful, and the impact of his ministry is still felt on many who don’t even know his name.

Here are four things we can take away:

1. Live With Focus

Bash was incredibly effective in part because he was willing to be incredibly narrow. He didn’t try to save the whole world, or be something he was not. He had a vision and bent his whole life and ministry around executing it. He tried to save high school boys in thirty specific schools. He said “no” to almost everything else that would have been a distraction.

Pastor and author Eric Mason in his book on Nehemiah points out,

“Focus matters. You can have all the abilities and opportunities in the world, but if you don’t have focus, you’ll never get anywhere—not in your life and not in your service of God…The only way to be focused is to know and value what God has called us to do. We have to develop an affection for the will of God that allows us to not only know what he wants but also to value it when he shows it to us.”

We live in an ever-optimizing society. Everyone has a side hustle, and a few passion projects, alongside their normal responsibilities. But what is the one core thing God has put in front of you? Is it your neighborhood? Your specific small group? Your coworkers?

Basically, the message for us today is pretty blunt: stop trying to be famous and start trying to be faithful to your specific assignment.

2. Spiritual Confidence

Bash knew who he was and understood his calling. As a result, he was deeply secure. He didn’t need promotion or approval. He just needed to know he was being faithful. Other than that, his surety was found in Christ. This allowed him to move, think, strategize, and operate uncontrolled by fear. One of his former disciples remarked,

“First there was his realism, an almost ruthless ability to see things as they really are, rather than as sentiment, convention, prejudice, or regard for good form, might dictate how they should be seen.”

This quality is also deeply inspiring, even when possessed by someone who otherwise might seem “unimpressive” according to our standards or expectations.

3. Dedicated to Scripture and Prayer

Bash prayed constantly and was soaked in God’s Word. However, he went about it in characteristically unconventional ways.

One close friend observed,

“If one’s vision of the prayer warrior is the saint who gets up at four in the morning, Bash does not fit this stereotype at all. Convinced of the primary importance of having adequate sleep, he had no intention of getting up early.”

Instead, Bash bought up the in-between moments, and often initiated prayer in the presence of others.

This pragmatic simplicity was also present in how he taught scripture. While he certainly grasped and believed deeper theology. He had a strong evangelical sense of emphasis.

“The points he repeatedly urged were…the very basic tenets of the Christian gospel. Man’s need; God’s provision in Christ; the possibility of forgiveness, followed by a life of discipleship…His instincts taught him these were the essentials so badly needed by most his hearers, and he was reluctant to move far beyond them.”

The simple Gospel yields genuine faith, no matter how educated or erudite the mind. Bash wasn’t given to faddishness or preoccupation with Christian intellectual trends. He wanted boys to know Jesus personally and the basics of what it meant to follow him. Everything else was tertiary at best.

4. Empowering Discipleship

Maybe because he never viewed himself as the main character in the first place, Bash always understood himself to be in the business of promoting and putting others forward.

He was willing to fight for faith and fidelity of the men he discipled.

“His expectations for all those whom he led to Christ were extremely high…If a clear doctrinal or moral principle was at stake, he was fearlessly outspoken…Many will receive greater rewards in heaven as a result of Bash’s promptings, even late in life, than if he allowed them to pursue unprofitable courses unchallenged.”

Are we willing to bring truth-based tension and fight with love for what is right? Bash, it seems, couldn’t imagine settling for less than seeing each of these men reach their full potential for Christ.

For this same reason, he was willing to radically empower even young men so they would gain a vision for what God could do through them.

“[He was] so anxious to bring others forward and see them develop, that he took extraordinary risks and gave some people responsibilities which were well beyond their years, experience, or capacity…he went out of his way to encourage others, especially young men at the threshold of their ministry.”

Conclusion

E.J.H. Nash died in 1982. He left behind no biological children and very few public accolades. By the world’s standards, his life was small. But the spiritual family tree that grew out of his faithfulness now covers the world.

We don’t need more celebrities. We need more men and women like Bash. We need more people who are willing to be obscure, focused, and doggedly faithful in the quiet work of making disciples.

Thanks again to for contributing another piece for The Remarkable Ordinary.

As one of our most frequent contributors, we’d like to shoutout Josh’s new book A Life that Leads—available everywhere now!

If you’ve liked any of Josh’s previous writings, I strongly suggest checking out his book. In my personal opinion, it’s genuinely excellent!

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

How many more sunrises like this will I see, he solemnly thought. Like most men, he had been born an optimist but let life have its way, a reality that greatly bothered him.

The smell of coffee caught his nose and the inhale of caffeine woke his mind. The start of a new day with new people with new problems. He took a deep breath and heard the usual rebuttal from his more gracious side: No, no, stop thinking like that, there’s no time for it. It was a new day but his routine was familiar and his problems were old.

Hershhh, pughhh. The faded yellow school bus outside came to a tired stop. Three children in four years had filled the unspoken gaps of his heart and done so at a cost. Shuck kuhhhh. The door opened as the still groggy children climbed the steps. They did not want to go and the parents did not want to send them. Yet, the parents must work and the kids must leave the house and so they went.

Only as the bus left did he realize he had not seen the kids until it had arrived. Deep in his soul where he did not like to go he felt the same thorn poke him again. Are you so focused on yourself to forget those around you?

Another sip of coffee and jolt of energy to his brain. Not again, not today.

He looked down to his journal lit up by the incandescent bulb in the lamp over his right shoulder. His thumb slid down over the leather binding and unnotched the elastic band that held it closed. Finding the page he had finished at the day before, he look through weary eyes to see the words.

He could feel the words staring back.

They had become a weight. Not the kind that turns into a burden to be endured after a long fight to avoid it, but still heavy. The type of heavy that weighs down the heart and soul and mind with things that are true and right and wise. And hard to follow. Scribbled ink on the processed and flattened mulch of a fallen tree. Could it all be reduced to the sum of individual matter? No. The weight of the words did not hold him down, but rather reminded him of the standard of character and faith and action to which he was doubtful he could uphold.

A fresh sip of coffee. The warm liquid crept down his throat as the chemicals once again entered his blood stream. His brain felt as if it were catching the spark of a firework. Like the colorful embers spreading against the pitch black sky on the fourth of July, the caffeine seeped into every corner of his brain. He was not surprised. For six years now he had been devoted to this daily luxury. Keurig K-Cups, Starbucks, and drive thru’s were for the ones who did not care. For the ones that would consume a drink every single day with no concern to the taste and quality and impact. In this area, he thought of himself as a moderate. For the same price and an extra five minutes each morning, he could brew one cup of coffee and get the same effect as three trips to a drive thru or five to the office break room.

His hands cupped the gritty clay mug, rough on the outside and smooth on the interior. The heat radiated through the cup and to his hands and to his body. The black liquid inside revealed a murky reflection and the sight of his eyes peering back reminded him. He did not wake up early to admire his coffee, but to read his journal. A soft clank echoed in the house as the mug rested on the side table.

“If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end. If you look for comfort, you will get neither truth or comfort.”

“Your mind will take on the character of your most frequent thoughts, souls are dyed by thoughts.”

“The sin of respectable people reveal themselves in the flight from responsibility.”

“We must realize that our difficulty is not the fault of our places, but of ourselves.”

In the monk like stillness of the living room he read each of the ninety one quotes in the journal, now cracking after ten years of use. Some days some quotes meant more than others.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

The words had not changed from one day to the next and he knew the meaning hadn’t either, just his measly human interpretation.

He looked up towards the window and caught the last glimpse of orange as it slowly gave way to the blue light of the day. The blue consumed the other colors of the sunrise and nearly erased it from his memory.

It was a Tuesday.

He had woken early, made his coffee, wrestled with his doubts and reminded himself of the truth. Today was just one day. One day full of its own worries and issues to overwhelm the brilliant colors of the wisdom contained in those quotes and retained in a cheap leather journal. Or, one day for it to be the reverse.

This is the start of a new day with new people with new opportunities.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

As I’m driving from daycare to school the GPS takes me on an unusual detour through downtown Baltimore. The graying snow still piled feet high caused the roads I usually drive on to shut down. I venture on a new path. As I’m driving, trying to ensure I don’t miss my turn as I often do (my husband says I have a knack for taking the scenic route), I notice out of the corner of my eye a disheveled blanket lying flat on the sidewalk. Two shoes peer out. The blanket is not moving.

As a medical student and doctor in training we are told to look for chest rise and fall. Something that is a sign of life that the patient, a person, is there. At that moment, there is none. The blanket looks more like the shroud that was used to cover my cadaver in anatomy lab than a blanket shield from the cold. In the split second it takes me to realize what’s going on, I almost don’t stop. A list of excuses runs a mile a minute through my head as to why I shouldn’t stop. I have too much to do. Yet, providentially, there’s an open street parking spot right in front of me (a rarity in downtown Baltimore) and I take it as a sign to pull over.

I park without metering and say a quick “God, please don’t let me get a ticket.” I’m shaking with a combination of fear and adrenaline and yet I swallow it down and run the two blocks to the pile of blankets. I’m not sure what I’m running to or what I’ll uncover. As I’m running, carefully trying not to slip on the slick ice coating the sidewalk, I see a disheveled man with ulcerated fingers from the cold approaching the blankets. He gets there just before I do and wakes up his friend from under the blankets. His friend rises, groggy from the cold. I start tearing up, weeping like Jesus did at the sight of Lazarus. I breathe a sigh of relief. The man is alive.

I’m now a block away when the white-LED walk man sign at the crosswalk pops up and now that I know he’s alive I don’t know if I should keep running towards them or turn around. But, something in me or maybe the Holy Spirit says just check in, make sure everything is ok, keep running.

I cross the street. I approach the two men and say “Hey, I just wanted to check in, are you guys ok?” They mumble “We’re ok” and though I could leave, something in my soul challenges me to stay and say “Hey, can I buy you guys a cup of coffee?”

They look confused at my offer, as if it was a novel suggestion. We’re in a part of Baltimore I’m not too familiar with and out of the corner of my eye I see a 24-hr Subway. We walk there together. I approach the counter and ask the woman working there for two coffees and two cookies. She, groggy from working the graveyard shift, says that they don’t serve coffee so I ask my two new friends if they will take a Pepsi instead. They answer yes, and I tap my card and $10.48 with tax later they each have a drink and a small snack. I see the blood slowly returning to their hands and faces in the warmth of the empty Subway sandwich shop. As I go to leave to return to the normal rhythm of my day, with them staying behind in the warmth, the words “I love you guys, stay warm” slip out of my mouth almost as reflexively as it would to my husband and my daughter and my friends. And weirdly, despite them being basically strangers It’s true, I do love them as people made in God’s image and I’m so relieved they’re at least momentarily okay.

I walk, this time much slower though still ever cautious of the ice back to my car. I’m relieved that there isn’t a ticket in the dash, my brief supplication having protected me from an overzealous meter maid. As I drive away I realize how much beauty I saw and contributed to just by stopping. The traffic is now heavier, my tightly controlled schedule is slightly thrown off, but I still somehow make it to school on time. And as I continue my drive I think about how often I choose not to stop, and how much I miss out on when I let the to do list dictate where I go and when I help. Though perhaps the scenic route (in many senses) is the one that allows me to best see all of God’s creation. I hope to take more detours from now on.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Speaking of the Christmas concert, this is where this whole story starts.

Amongst the staff at my church, I’m starting to get the reputation that I’m the guy that will happily promote any event face-to-face with any stranger. The reason I have this reputation is because I explicitly told them I would do that. And this is why I drove to the church during the workday to grab the leftover yard signs promoting our annual Christmas concert. The plan was to take those yard signs and walk up and down the local greenway, posting them along the path. Once that was done, I would move on to the local apartments to give each of them a stack of flyers promoting the event.

I got to the church later than I expected; but I still had enough time in my schedule to post the signs and maybe squeeze in one apartment if I moved really quickly. Of course, this didn’t stop me from having high-quality banter with the church staff when I picked up the signs. However, it did lead me to turn down a free lunch of leftover pulled pork (my most unremarkable choice in this story).

I got back to my car and drove to the local access point to the greenway. When I got out of the car, I noticed a man who looked homeless walking through the park. Thankfully, I wasn’t so absorbed in my ministry task to miss the potential need of a person in front of me; but I also rationalized that I didn’t need to go out of my way to interact with him.

The route I’d planned took me in the opposite direction of him. After placing the first sign, I would turn around and head to the park. But in my mind, I knew he might be gone by the time I got there.

I crossed the street, walked across a bridge, and planted the first sign in a visible location. As I was walking there, I wondered if this task would be easy. It was barely above freezing, and it was below freezing last night. Yet, to my delight, the first sign went into the ground smoothly and easily.

The parable of the sower came to mind. This particular spot was the good soil that received and held on to the good news. I prayed that this task of planting signs and handing out flyers would bear fruit. That it wouldn’t just be an ordinary, mundane task. This could kick off a chain of events with an extraordinary conclusion. If even just one person would see the sign and decide to come, they could learn that God loves us in such a way that he sent his only son to earth to die for our sins and offer us the gift of eternal life.

These thoughts ran through my head as I walked back across the bridge towards the park. I crossed the street where I initially saw the man. I didn’t see him. But this park is a hub with many connecting trails. So I figured he could be nearby.

I move forward with my plan, planting sign number two. This experience could not have been more different than the first. I found a spot where two paths cross. But the ground didn’t accept the sign. There were too many rocks, and the ground was hard. That didn’t stop me from trying. And trying. But after bending the metal stand to the point that it couldn’t display a sign, I relented. The spot did not work. I walked across the other path to try out a third spot.

But then the plot twist happened. The man with unkempt dreads that ran all the way down his back. The man with a beard longer and scragglier than a weathered sea captain. And velcro sandals that revealed his sore covered, cracked, and swollen feet. The man I had seen earlier was standing on the trail, reading a sign, in the direction I planned to go. The man who wouldn’t have been standing there if the second sign had easily gone in like the first.

Without hesitation, I walk towards him to say hi and see where this goes. Before I can open my mouth, he looks up at me, points at the sign he was reading, and says, “These stories don’t even rhyme.” I didn’t even have a moment to acknowledge what he said before he asked me what I was doing.

I tell him that I go to church nearby and we’re having a Christmas concert. I’m planting signs to let people know when it’s happening. We were chatting about the details of the event. I blink. And he is passionately detailing his tenuous relationship with the food spots surrounding our church. They’re nicer to him when it’s colder, but no matter the time of year, they’re trying to get him out of their place.

He changes the topic. I try to reset and listen. He asks me where I work, and as soon as my company’s name leaves my mouth, he asks me where I’m from. If you know me, you know this is a complicated answer:

“I’m from a military family. So that’s about the hardest question you could’ve asked me. But I spent most of my time in Virginia.”

This is the rabbit hole he wants to go down. This is where I completely lost control of the conversation. He asked me where in Virginia, what bases, and what my dad did. I answered the first two questions in detail and then gave a generic answer to the third.

“My dad served for over 30 years, so he did a lot of things.”

“Oh, could he not tell you what he did?”

“He could. And did. But he told me a lot of it when I was a kid and didn’t pay attention.”

“Oh, so you’re not close with your dad now.”

“No, I am.”

I proceeded to go into as much detail as I could about my dad’s career. It wasn’t that detailed, but it was a lot more than I planned on sharing. After all, a casual, one-sided conversation isn’t what I was hoping for with this man. But when I told him my dad worked to armor boats for a portion of his career, that’s when I got bulldozed.

The next twenty minutes were a monologue. This man is fascinated by the military. He knows more about it than I do. He started talking about a military guy who was on a Joe Rogan podcast. This man was smart. He was captivating. But he wasn’t so captivating that my mind didn’t wander while he was talking. I found myself wondering if he had fallen outside of the system because he wanted to. After all, he was so well read and a captivating storyteller. He could easily be successful in our world. But maybe he saw our world caught in a game he was uninterested in playing.

I became increasingly aware of how much time he had been talking. I was more than happy to care for him by listening. But I kept thinking about how little time I had to have this conversation.

My wife was trying to work from home with a sick toddler and a baby. And now she was going to have to juggle nap time alone. I thought about the meetings I had later in the day and the work I needed to do beforehand. I thought about how I was going to have to pass out flyers another day.

But I kept noticing his rubber Jesus Saves bracelet and a beaded one with the word Patience spelled out in little square tiles. The irony was not lost on me.

I know it sounds dramatic, but I found myself crying out to God. I literally prayed for a way to get out of the conversation. A conversation I felt led to initiate in the first place. My flesh was weak, and my spirit was fading. I was done.

I tried non-verbal communication. Shifting my stance. Checking my phone twice and looking surprised. That had no impact. I finally spoke up and said I had to go plant the rest of the signs. Which he seemed to acknowledge but kept talking for a few more minutes.

But then he stopped. I reach out to shake his hand. He shook mine. I finally asked him a question.

“What’s your name?”

“If it all works out, call me Hippie.”

After all this time together, he still was able to catch me off guard. I started to walk away. But first he motioned toward me (and the remaining yard signs I was holding) and said, “Pray for me. That I can get into that place.”

At that moment, I thought he meant Heaven. And my response was “Can do.” Looking back, he may have just meant to get into our church building for the concert. As you recall, he has a tenuous relationship with a food spot we share a building with.

But in the moment, I was stunned again—this time, at myself. Salvation was something that I would’ve been eager to talk about twenty minutes prior. And now all I could muster up was a hesitant “Can do.”

This truly felt like I was experiencing what Ralphie felt when he met Santa in A Christmas Story. Having a perfectly prepared speech only to be too overwhelmed to speak. But like Ralphie, I turned around before I slid away. Except my response was far less coherent than his Red Ryder air rifle spiel.

My heart still wanted to connect with this guy. But I faced a herculean task: overriding my brain which had already decided it was time to move on. So all I could ask was a vague question.

“Are you around here often? Do you stay…hang out around here?”

Now it was his turn to be stunned. He couldn’t formulate a coherent answer. I didn’t get a yes or a no. I honestly can’t remember what he said. I think he just mumbled and shrugged.

At which point, I waved and said, “I hope to see you around.”

As I was walking away, I went into damage control. I pulled out my phone and saw that my wife had sent me a picture of our baby monitor. The monitor showed a split screen view of both girls sleeping. That made me feel a lot better.

I planted sign number three and four. Then as I turned around to walk back to my car to drive to the spot picked out for the fifth and final yard sign.

My mind was consumed by how I got absolutely steamrolled in that conversation. I don’t know how to balance serving everyone. I have a wife, the kids, the church, the people of this community, my work. I’m supposed to be present with this guy while he’s talking about things I don’t really care about.

But I’m supposed to care about him.

There are so many people and so many needs to be met. Physical needs. Emotional needs. Relational needs. Spiritual needs. Honestly it feels like there’s no end to this list. I could keep speaking or writing or thinking about needs that people have. I would never run out of things to say.

There’s so many people who need their needs met.

My wife. My kids. My team at work. The coworkers we serve. My church staff. My church community. My local community. My immediate family. My extended family. Friends who I’m close with. Friends I used to be close with. Friends I barely can call friends.

After an interaction like that, it all feels daunting. I guess this is a better head space to be in. As opposed to thinking the world is fine because my world, in this particular season of life, is fine. Nonetheless, it’s still daunting.

I fully understand that Jesus is a reservoir, or shall I say the reservoir that I can draw from, in order to have the capacity to love those around me. And to do it in a way that is wise. A way that protects me and my family. A way that honors the prior commitments that I have made.

But in that conversation with Hippie, with each passing minute, I had no clue how to draw on that reservoir. But at least I didn’t get so absorbed in doing a ministry task that I forgot to try to care for the person in front of me. At least I wasn’t bothered by having a long conversation with a stranger. I just didn’t feel I had time for it.

Yet ultimately his salvation isn’t in my hands. I can trust that God has a plan for him and me. He will continue working out his plan independent of me and I can learn from this and seek to be more faithful in future conversations. We don’t know if the conversations we have—even the ones that might seem unimportant in the moment—will change anyone’s life, but it’s always worth it to have them.

So if God’s plan is for Hippie to show up to church, I don’t have to fret. God has a habit of working through ordinary, unremarkable Christians. So I can rest assured that He’ll do more than I ever could. And that is true comfort: an antidote to the anxiety of never feeling like I can do enough. He’s an extraordinary God who can work through ordinary conversations.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

It all started on a beautiful autumn day in Cairo—which might not sound ordinary to some, but for me has become quite routine. Yet, that day I was marveling at something unordinary: the cavern church of the humble Coptic neighborhood in Cairo. They say this ancient church was utilized to shelter the Holy Family as they fled to Egypt from Herod.

And while praying in the pew on an ordinary day, in an ordinary outfit, alongside other ordinary people, I felt a sense of awe at this powerful juxtaposition. I of all people got to sit in and pray and stare in wonder at the sanctity of the place—its ancient power, rich history, and unique beauty.

As I sat, I wondered about all of the powerful stories this place likely holds that no one would ever come to hear. I mean, against all odds, this church has remained an active place of worship through the Roman empire (and subsequent Christian persecution), the Byzantine empire, the Arab conquest, and the more recent infiltration of extremist terrorist organizations.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: how many ordinary believers held the existence of this place on their back? How many fled into the tunnels underground as Romans raided the building? How many parents whispered stories of Christ to their children by candlelight, determined to keep the gospel burning?

Who are these powerful but ordinary creatures that kept the Egyptian Christian faith alive?

Then, I had an epiphany: most (if not all) great movements, extraordinary historical milestones, and powerful kingdom-works are the product of an ordinary majority. Sure, we may remember one person’s name—like George Washington of the American revolution—but, at the end of the day, even the success of the revolution was in the hands of the conglomerate; without the random soldier, spy, or seamstress, the revolution could’ve failed.

So, in the church that Autumn day, I decided to write a poem about the ordinary saints in my life—the ones of which I was so glad were not pastors, church employees, or social media influencers. People I am grateful exist in all the small, unseen places. I wanted to honor what I knew all along—that it is there, and through them, where true change happens. Then, to commemorate that day, I bought exactly four rosaries at the church, three of which were not ascribed to any saint. I am not Catholic, Coptic, or even Orthodox. I bought these rosaries, simply because they were beautiful—they were small yet mighty (and very pretty!) reminders of an ordinary day that pointed to an extraordinary truth.

Yet my story does not end here; in fact, it didn’t begin there either. Long before this, I was in my home bedroom where I showed my roommate Caroline my four rosaries. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the dainty pink and gold rosary—my secret favorite of the four. “Oh, how beautiful,” she exclaimed before adding, “and it is for my favorite saint! Saint Therese—the little flower of Jesus!”

“Oh! Um, cool!” I responded (or something that was probably as lame and uneventful). Truth be told, I had never heard of her and probably (definitely) didn’t admit it. I hadn’t even noticed that there was an icon on the rosary at all.

The only thought I had after Caroline’s statement was that I suddenly knew the fate of my little rosary. I had to give it to my friend Nora. Why? Because her last name means “little flower” in Italian—something she’s proud to share (considering it is also her Instagram handle and she has a tattoo of little flowers on her arm).

I wasn’t sure if Nora was even aware that there was a saint called “little flower.” It wasn’t until a couple weeks later that she talked about a book she was reading about a Christian woman of whom she felt lived a life so kindred to hers. I asked her who this woman was and, you may have already guessed it—Saint Therese. She felt so known in reading through her life—her struggles, her small but mighty faith, her giftings.

The two not only shared a name, but a likeness. Of course, I was delighted to hear that this rosary had now become that much more relevant.

I could go on about the other strange little God-winks that happened, but for the sake of brevity and to get to the point of the message: just because moments, people, and experiences go unnamed does not mean they lack any sort of relevance, power or beauty.

On another occasion, I was on my short drive to Nora’s house to give her the rosary, I pressed play on a 3-hour podcast I was in the middle of—one that had no relation to saints or even women of the faith. But as I clicked play, one of the voices diverted the interview and asked the podcaster: “Have you ever heard of Saint Therese?”

I immediately paused the podcast and did as any good doubting Thomas would do and went to Google if there was a different Saint Therese. But sure enough, there is only one little flower of Christ. Of course, I felt then that I was meant to listen closely to whatever the podcaster, who was a priest, was going to say next.

He mentioned that Saint Therese, a young French woman, also lived a life with a heart for many nations. Therese specifically desired so badly to live in China, work there, and spend her days loving others there. However, it never came to fruition. In the words of the priest in the podcast, she actually lived a very ordinary life. She never travelled to Asia. She never travelled anywhere at all.

Apparently, “a sickness prevented her from going,” and her “mission field existed primarily within the four walls of her home in Lisieux, France.” And then Therese died young, at the age of 24—a life cut short by sickness, yet a life so full of sincere love and mission work. However, her life was far from what the average person would consider “extraordinary” or “heroic.”

This is where Therese’s story really hit home. Everyone close to me knows that I too have always felt a lifelong fascination for many countries and cultures and, like Therese, have always held a deep fascination with China—their culture, history, and customs. Not only that, but I too desired to live abroad after college graduation. At 20, I committed to finding a teaching job in a country abroad that would allow my deep curiosity and sense of adventure to be satisfied. And I figured that it would all come together. And it almost did.

I have always felt that the Lord made me an adventurer. As a young 18-year-old, I felt that this would look like many things but would probably manifest in my exploration of nations unknown to me—not just to travel, but to live.

And yet, it never happened. A life living in a “dream country” (like Therese dreamt of) didn’t come to pass. Like Therese, a “sickness prevented me from going.” The COVID pandemic swept and halted the world and took me with it.

I’ve spent much of my 20s wondering why I was presented with so many opportunities to live across the pond post-graduation, all for it to never come to pass. It seemed to be such an obvious open door for me, all for it to be shut so quickly and loudly. Now I wonder if it was for this very moment—for the Lord to continue teaching me what He has, in fact, been teaching me for a while now: that an ordinary life, loving others within the walls of your home, in your home-country, is just as powerful; that being an integral member of your community is much more vital than the experiences you have gotten to tack onto your adventure-resume (something I probably—no, definitely—did not believe at the age of 20.)1

Saint Therese is actually revered for being “outwardly unremarkable” but exhibited “exemplary spiritual accomplishments.” This is why she is called “the little flower.” In her writings, she often compared herself to a simple, unassuming wildflower. She was no red valentine rose, no beautiful springtime tulip. She existed as a simple wildflower—organically growing and blowing only wherever the wind takes her…which, for her, was a life in her home country of France.

Knowing this, you would then likely assume that Therese would be the patron Saint of “ordinary folk” or “wallflowers.” However, she is actually (get this) the patron saint of missionaries. No, the Patron Saint of Missionaries is not a martyr who traveled to a country where Christianity is illegal and lived, what the world would call an extraordinarily brave and adventurous life—a life we so often equate to “a true person on mission.” And the Patron Saint of Missionaries isn’t even a popular pastor who existed to send missionaries out to every corner of the Earth.

No, the Patron Saint of the Missionaries is a 24-year-old girl who never even left her hometown. And I think this is why she is one of the most beloved saints of all time. Not because she was extraordinary and not despite her being ordinary. It is, in fact, because of her ordinary life that we love her so.

Saint Therese is a representation of us. Of course, she is “famous” nowadays. But her life exists as a representation of the great majority of the devout living out their day-to-day life in the ordinary world. Unseen. Unknown. She represents all of us.

Unless you happen to be C.S. Lewis or Tim Keller or Mother Teresa or MLK or Corrie ten Boom, or Jim Elliot, the world will likely forget you. Heck, even if you do achieve some level of notoriety or attention for your accomplishments for the faith, you still most likely will not be remembered for centuries to come. It’s just statistics.

Indeed, we’re all mere “little flowers”

We love Saint Therese for the same reason we all feel such a fond kinship to George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life. We all, to some extent, worry we’ll never get to do the thing that really fulfills us. Even when we do accomplish our “dreams” (of which I do feel I have accomplished many) our lives are still mostly ordinary. Unseen. Small. But it is in the small, day-to-day places that the most powerful work happens.

After this experience with the little flower of Christ, I’m able to understand—and articulate—why I so often resent when people equate Christian movements that happen on a grand scale to being inherently “better” than the ones that happen on a small scale; why it bothers me so much to see people praise and aspire to the production of grand revivals (not bad in and of itself) but then forget to pay attention to the undocumented, unseen love and service of ordinary, daily Christian life.

Numbers and statistics and business growth-models are not indicative of having lived a more “faithful” life. In fact, I am coming to believe that the small, unknown things done for the kingdom are not just powerful despite their anonymity, but because of it.

Today I thank God for the little flower of Lisieux, and all the little flowers of the faith: the little flowers of the Coptic church in Cairo, the little flowers of my home in Nashville, and even the little flower of myself.

So it’s no wonder that this little saint—the little flower of Lisieux—arrived in my lap so anonymously. Just as she worked in small and secret ways for the lives of those around her, so had her rosary so quietly (and accidentally) found its way into my home. A rosary never meant to amount to more than a souvenir in my life—at most, a reminder of a day spent at the Coptic church—had suddenly become one of the most powerful encouragements of my year.

What could be more fitting for a true Saint?

Amen.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Certain smells can snatch you straight back to childhood. For me, it’s not a fresh cut Christmas tree or an apple pie. It’s fried chicken. Not the KFC kind, but the real, homemade fried chicken. The moment I smell a fryer filled with bubbling peanut oil and fresh chicken, I am transported to Attapulgus, Georgia, eating Sunday dinner after church. My grandad would stand in the boat room dropping each piece from a paper sack into the hot oil while my granny made all the sides in the kitchen. For me, that smell means family and great food.

So when I saw a throwback YouTube video about a sweet lady named Agatha Burgess from Buffalo, South Carolina—an 80-year-old widow waking up at 5 a.m. to cook meals for her town five days a week—I immediately recognized it. Her kitchen, the rice and gravy, her accent, her joy, her contentment, and her hospitality—it all felt like the South I grew up in. And her life became one of the truest examples I’ve seen of a long, slow obedience in the same direction.

Buffalo, South Carolina in the Early 1980s

Buffalo was a tiny mill town of about 1,600 people in the early 1980s. Like many Southern communities, it grew around one employer: the cotton mill. The mill shaped the town’s identity and economy, and nearly every family in some way depended on it.

Agatha’s husband, William Burgess, passed away in 1970, leaving her widowed for more than fifteen years. But rather than withdrawing, she poured herself into the people of Buffalo. Five days a week, she was up at 5:00 a.m. cooking until 10:00 at night.

Cornbread muffins, homemade biscuits, dressing, rice and gravy, butterbeans, peach cobbler, and turkey came out of her kitchen on a regular day. She never rationed her food. Each plate was a full feast because generosity was her default posture.

Once the meals were prepared, they didn’t stay in Agatha’s kitchen. By 11:00 a.m., volunteers were delivering plates across Buffalo to people confined to their homes by age or illness. These neighbors relied on her cooking. She charged two dollars if someone could afford it, and if they couldn’t, she fed them anyway.

After 11:00 a.m., the town came to her. Car dealers, mill workers, and business owners lined up to eat at her house. At her table, people served themselves, helped themselves to seconds, and were always welcome. Meals cost two dollars and seventy-five cents, but even that was flexible. There was no register or cashier, only a payment box on a side table and the honor system. It was simple and hospitable, and it worked.

Why Did She Do This Every Day?

Agatha answers it simply: “I fall in love with people.” She believed this work was her calling. Even thinking back to childhood, she said she always wanted to be a friend to man. She never chased comfort or wealth. At one point she teased the host about his “big, fine home” and said she never wanted that. She said she knows what to want.

For her, this daily service was meaning itself. She asked, “What would I have to live for?” if she could not do this work. Her sister warned she might be taken advantage of, and Agatha did not hesitate. In her sweet Southern tone, she replied, “No, God’s always took care of me.”

God is mentioned only once in the entire video on Agatha. Yet I cannot think of a clearer picture of loving God and loving people. Everything she did flowed from those two commandments. Even the journalist Charles Kuralt recognized her faith, calling her a “saint.”

Her time at Buffalo Baptist Church quietly shaped everything she did.

Why Her Story Matters to Me

Agatha represented everything I love about the South: generous hospitality, good food shared freely, a deep sense of community, quiet confidence, and a simple way of living shaped by love for God and love for people. She wasn’t a theologian, yet her life communicated the gospel with a clarity that rivaled any theologian.

I saw those same qualities in my own grandmothers and in many of the sweet older ladies in our church. What Agatha did was incredible, but it didn’t feel unusual to me. That kind of hospitality and community defined the South I knew growing up.

When Eugene Peterson described discipleship as a long obedience in the same direction, I will think of Agatha Burgess. She spent her entire life in Buffalo. Even after losing her husband, she kept serving her community in the way she knew best. She used the gifts God gave her to bless people. Every day. Five days a week. She cooked meals for anyone who wanted one.

She was not trying to scale her work or institutionalize it. She was not trying to build a platform. She simply cooked for the people she loved and served them with a simple, hospitable, and unmistakably personal touch.

Her legacy proves the strength of that quiet obedience. More than forty years later, we are still talking about Agatha Burgess and her generosity. People in Buffalo remember eating at her house: “an excellent cook,” “a very nice lady,” a “sweetheart.”

When I think of her legacy, I think of Barnabas. Acts 11:24 introduces him this way: “He was a good man, full of the Holy Spirit and of faith.” That is how Agatha is remembered. A good woman, full of faith, who used what she had to love the people around her.

The Legacy Agatha Leaves

God has given each of us gifts to bless his creation. For Agatha Burgess, that meant feeding her community through her cooking. Her story challenges me to consider how I might serve the people around me in the same spirit.

Stories like hers are not rare in the South or in other places around the world. They remind me how God often works. He works in the small and the ordinary, in ways that feel understated and unnoticed in the moment yet somehow become stories still told decades later.

And to me, that is the legacy of quiet faithfulness. Ordinary people serving God in ordinary places.

If you’re interested in seeing the full video on Agatha Burgess, here it is:

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Well, in the modern sense of the word, that is.

My son, Ambrose, was born on November 14th at 1:25 PM, and aside from a coffee run for my wife, I’ve been at home with him and Reagan since. I’ve not slept for more than four hours at a time (which is effectively cut in half, accounting for my sleep disorder) for almost a week straight, and yet, I feel more energized and alive in certain ways than I have in a very, very long time.

Time has ceased holding “value” during this season. By this, I mean to say that efficient (or monetary) time has effectively stopped, and all there has been to experience is pure goodness. My phone has been off almost the entire time, save when I message friends and family or read an article. Any kind of work has stopped, and the space created in its stead has been entirely leisurely. Showerless, dark-eyed, sacrificial leisure.

The days have been transformed into a kind of perpetual liturgy in which my son stands in the role of priest. This call and response is made up of wordless invocations to which my wife and I respond in various ways depending on the particular inflection of the officiant.

One call is a cry of hunger, and the response is given by my wife, who serves as the deacon in this liturgy. In this call, as the layman, I simply echo her incarnational service with steady presence.

Another call is a cry of discomfort, and my response is to wash feet, or, in this case, a dirty bum. Maybe an entire onesie, actually. Sometimes, if I’ve issued the response particularly well, the officiant offers back a blessing in the form of a gurgling smile.

In succession to these two calls is the passing of the peace, or as we new parents would call it, sleep. The officiant takes his seat to offer space for the deacon and laity to say their prayers. In this liturgy, those prayers often look like tea and cookies on the back porch shared with heavy eyelids, light chuckles, and sometimes tears.

In place of the reading of the Gospel, where the cross and Gospel book are taken from the altar into the midst of the people, is the visiting of friends and family, bringing their Spirit-filled presence and homemade goods into our home.

And this divine service is perpetual. There is no procession or recession. The liturgy doesn’t start or end; it only has spaces between the more formal sections. These spaces take many different forms and are seldom consistent.

Sometimes they’re two hours, and sometimes they’re five minutes. I’ve read more essays during these last six days than in my entire life, but almost all of them have been stretched over numerous spaces like these, turning a five-minute read into an all-day meditation.

I think it’s in this divine uselessness that I’ve had an intense amount of clarity and room to think, freed from the pressures and stresses of modern life. In other words, it’s in sacrificing every part of my being towards this perpetual liturgy that I’ve found the chance for some of the deepest contemplation the Lord has ever graced me with.

The last six days have already been pretty wonder-filled, and it feels like my heart has actually been tenderized enough to see the world around me in this enchanted, sacramental kind of way.

It’s one thing to love the idea of seeing life sacramentally; it’s another to actually feel it. And for once in my life, I actually feel it. It makes sense to me, behind my intellect, on a soul level.

When I think about what I want for my boy, I want my son to carry terrific boldness — the kind of boldness of the saint we named him after. Not the culture war kind of boldness, but the kind balanced with a true desire for reconciliatory love.

I pray that, despite his father’s weakness, the Lord would lavish on Ambrose every grace. I pray that he would be a saint.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!

Sometimes, I need to reject common sense in order to live an uncommon life.

My husband and I went out for a sort of State of the Chapmans breakfast on Friday. We’re in a season of life where both of our plates are full. After a long day of work at the office (him) and keeping kids alive and also teaching them how to be humans (me), conquering bedtime and talking about a few logistical things (“Did you add that party to the calendar?” “Have you seen the tape measure?” “Has anyone gotten the mail lately?”) is about all we can muster.

Getting aligned on things like The Actual Purpose and Vision for Our Family have been tossed to the side lately in favor of checking off all the necessary to-do’s and taking care of everyone’s daily needs.

So when I tell you that Friday’s hour-and-a-half-long breakfast date was a rare breath of fresh air, I mean it.

We sat down at our favorite local breakfast place and ordered chai lattes, like we always do—but this time, we didn’t need to push the steaming hot mugs away from the baby’s flailing hands or clean up orange juice that the preschooler inevitably spilled all over her shirt.

It was just us.

Which happened to be just what we needed, because we had some Big Family Decisions to make and Important Values to talk about and questions like “What is the purpose of all of this again?” to answer.

We had One Main Question to answer and several other Little Questions to throw around, as well as some fun stories to tell and notes to compare.

I’m going to be annoyingly vague about the One Main Question (I know, sorry), but what I’ll tell you is: we were trying to make a decision about a pretty big part of our lives. And we basically had two main options. One felt easy and practical. It just made sense. And the other option was the difficult one. The narrow road, if you will. It didn’t make much sense. It could lead to a lot of hurt. And the fear of getting hurt is actually what drove us to prolong making the decision for so long. But underneath the fear was something else. It was a strange sort of hope that told us if we could stick through the difficulty, we might just experience beauty and purpose on the other side.

To my surprise (disappointment?), my husband and I were almost immediately in agreement that we should choose the path that looked more difficult. Not because it was difficult (life is hard enough; so trust me, we’re not trying to choose difficulty for its own sake), but because we both felt a strange internal pull toward it. We’ve come to learn that the Strange Internal Pull we feel, especially when it’s related to something that doesn’t make outward sense, and especially when we feel aligned on the not-making-sense-ness, is probably God intervening on our behalf.

After we made the decision to walk down the more difficult path, I felt a strange sense of peace (and, you guessed it, that Strange Sense of Peace often accompanies decisions you make because of the Strange-Internal-Pull-that’s-actually-God).

And then we started to talk about the role of friction, difficulty, and resistance in our lives.

“Yeah, I guess we shouldn’t be avoiding it just because it’s difficult. That doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re not called to it. Actually, it could mean we’re especially called to it,” I verbally processed. I felt dumb. It felt obvious. This is a truth you know well as a Christian. But it’s easier to believe it than to make it a reality in your own life.

We talked about a few other aspects of our lives that are difficult and require sacrifice, but are worth it because of the full life on the other side.

Like the weekly Sunday “community nights” we’ve been hosting at our house for a big mix of people from different areas of our lives. People at our gatherings and online keep asking if it’s difficult to host that many people every week. And my answer is, honestly, yes. It’s more difficult to host every Sunday than to just hang out as a family and leave the house as messy as we want to. But the extra work required for hosting pales in comparison to the beauty, friendship, and joy that’s come from these weekly gatherings. Real, deep friendship requires work. It isn’t always easy. With friendship inevitably comes friction. But we’ll never taste the goodness if we don’t embrace the friction.

It’s like cultivating a marriage, or raising kids. These both require massive sacrifice. But the reward is like nothing else.

Or like how the other day, I asked my husband, “Should I just stop writing so I can fully focus on the kids, and the house, and you? Because my life feels pretty perfect if I’m not writing. I actually have time to keep the house in near-perfect order and plan Pinterest-level kids crafts and sit by myself and think about nothing during the girls’ quiet time. Writing is the thing that seems to tip everything out of balance.”

“Definitely keep writing,” he said. “We’ll figure out the rest.”

He knows I could never stop writing, even if I wanted to. Despite the difficulty, he and I both know I’ve returned to it over and over. There’s that Strange Internal Pull again. It’s God, calling me to shape ideas and thoughts into words and sentences, for his glory and my good (and hopefully the good of some others, too).

Cue the footsteps, once again, on the path of most resistance.

Recently, I was talking to my sisters about a small routine I’ve been wanting to implement for years now. But I gave them my list of minor roadblocks (excuses?) and ended the list with a sigh. “There’s just too much friction,” I said. As the words rolled off my tongue, I knew what choice I needed to make. And I still need to work up the courage to choose that one.

I’ll repeat this: I never want to choose difficulty for difficulty’s sake. That would be counterproductive. But making choices I know I need to make, even though they’ll lead to sacrifice or difficulty, seem to lead to the most beauty in my life.

Usually, the things that are most worth it are on the path of the most resistance.

The Remarkable Ordinary is a (typically) weekly publication highlighting Christians performing ordinary acts of kindness, hospitality, and integrity. Its goal is to be an anti-moral failure, anti-church scandal, anti-hypocrisy kind of journalism.

For more info on the “why” behind The Remarkable Ordinary, check out this essay.

Have a remarkably ordinary story? Feel free to reach out and send one in to Griffin Gooch’s direct messages!