The Window Over the Sink

Every home has one.

A window that quietly bears witness to the ordinary rhythms of life.

Mine happens to be above the kitchen sink.

It's not a place anyone lingers intentionally. It's where dishes are rinsed, vegetables are washed, and coffee cups are set down before another busy day begins. There is nothing remarkable about it—at least not at first glance.

And yet, I think I've spent some of the most meaningful moments of my life standing there.

I've watched spring arrive one tiny bud at a time. I've watched summer settle over the garden until every shade of green seemed impossible to count. I've stood there while rain traced slow paths down the glass, and I've smiled as the first snowfall transformed a familiar backyard into something almost sacred.

The view itself hasn't changed nearly as much as I have.

Years ago, I would stand at that sink thinking about everything waiting for me once I finished the dishes. My mind was always somewhere else—tomorrow's responsibilities, next week's plans, the next season of life. The window was there, but I rarely looked through it.

Now I do.

Now I notice the cardinal that returns to the same branch each morning.

I notice the breeze moving through the hydrangeas before I feel it on my own skin.

I notice the first daffodils pushing through frozen ground and the quiet way evening light settles across the garden before the day slips away.

Perhaps the view has always been beautiful.

Perhaps I simply wasn't paying attention.

I wonder how many ordinary places become holy simply because we finally become present within them.

A kitchen sink will never appear on a list of life's most extraordinary places. No one plans vacations around it. No one frames photographs of it. And yet, it has become one of the places where God has gently taught me to slow down.

Not through dramatic moments.

Not through grand revelations.

But through the quiet invitation to look up.

To pause.

To notice.

It reminds me that the life I've been hoping for isn't waiting somewhere beyond today's responsibilities. It is unfolding in the middle of them.

Between rinsing the plates and watering the basil.

Between pouring another cup of coffee and wiping down the counter.

Between the ordinary tasks that quietly make up an ordinary life.

Maybe that's where God has been all along.

Not waiting for me at the finish line of a busy day, but standing beside me at the kitchen sink, inviting me to see what I would have otherwise hurried past.

This morning, I stood there with warm water running over my hands and sunlight spilling across the garden outside the window. Nothing remarkable happened.

And yet, somehow, it felt like enough.

Maybe that's the gift of noticing.

Not that our circumstances suddenly become extraordinary, but that our eyes are opened to the quiet beauty that has been there all along.

"Be still, and know that I am God." — Psalm 46:10 (NKJV)

🌿 What are you noticing today?