I used to think holy people were recognizable.
They prayed differently.
They spoke differently.
They seemed to know exactly what to say when someone was hurting.
They probably woke up early to pray, kept their Bibles beautifully highlighted, and never once stood in the kitchen at 5:30 p.m. wondering what on earth they were going to make for dinner.
At least, that’s how I imagined them.
My mental picture of holiness centered on people doing holy things.
I pictured my pastor praying on his knees for Sunday morning inspiration.
His wife showing up at someone’s house with fresh-baked cookies because they were sick.
Moses meeting with God.
Mary carrying an unimaginable miracle inside her.
David standing in front of a giant with nothing but a sling and a whole lot of faith.
Those are the moments we remember.
So somewhere along the way, I decided holiness must look like that.
Then I saw “holy” people at home.
Years ago, I spent a summer living with a pastor and his family.
The circumstances that brought me there were complicated and, honestly, a little strange. But that summer gave me something I didn’t know I needed.
I got to see what happened when the people I had placed on a spiritual pedestal went home at the end of the day.
And they were…normal.
His shoes probably sat somewhere they shouldn’t have.
He had a habit of leaving cabinet doors open in the kitchen.
His wife couldn’t keep up with the laundry any more than the rest of us could.
He mowed the lawn.
She woke up with spectacular bedhead.
They got tired.
They had responsibilities.
They dealt with regular family stuff.
They weren’t walking around their house glowing with a faint heavenly light.
And I loved them for it.
Because somewhere in that very ordinary house, my definition of holiness began to fall apart.
Maybe holy people aren’t actually that different from the rest of us.
Maybe they just belong to God.
That changed something for me.
God meets people in real life.
When I went back to Scripture, I started noticing things I hadn’t paid much attention to before.
Moses wasn’t exactly eager to accept his assignment.
David spent years doing things that looked nothing like slaying giants.
Mary wasn’t living some peaceful, picturesque life when God interrupted it.
These weren’t people floating through perfectly arranged spiritual moments.
They had errands.
Responsibilities.
Fear.
Questions.
Bad days.
They had lives.
And God met them there.
I’ve spent a lot of years thinking I needed to create better spiritual moments.
A better quiet time.
A better prayer life.
A better version of myself.
Maybe you’ve done that too.
We see someone’s beautifully arranged Bible, coffee, journal, blanket, and perfectly placed verse on Instagram, and suddenly our own relationship with God feels like it’s missing something.
Meanwhile, I’m reading my Bible with yesterday’s coffee beside me while the dog wants out, my phone keeps buzzing, and I’m wondering whether I remembered to move something from the freezer for dinner.
This is not exactly Instagrammable holiness.
But maybe it doesn’t need to be.
Maybe God isn’t asking me to create a holy atmosphere.
Maybe He’s asking me to let Him into the atmosphere I already have.
That’s different.
Faith doesn’t have to look impressive.
Real life isn’t particularly photogenic.
Sometimes faith looks like praying while you’re driving.
Sometimes it looks like apologizing when you’d rather prove your point.
Sometimes it looks like opening your Bible when you’re tired and don’t particularly feel spiritual.
Sometimes it looks like forgiving someone who isn’t sorry.
Sometimes it looks like getting up tomorrow and doing the next right thing when yesterday was hard.
Sometimes it looks like sitting beside someone you love and saying nothing because there isn’t anything to say.
And sometimes…
it’s just making dinner.
There are days when I don’t feel particularly faithful.
There are days when I’m distracted, impatient, tired, discouraged, or simply over it.
Some days, my prayer life feels profound.
Other days, my prayer is basically, “Lord, help.”
I’ve decided that counts too.
Maybe especially that.
Because the older I get, the less interested I am in looking holy and the more interested I am in actually knowing God.
I don’t need my life to look impressive.
I don’t need every struggle to become a lesson.
I don’t need every morning to begin with a perfectly peaceful devotional.
I don’t even need to understand everything God is doing.
God has been faithful.
I’ve lived long enough to know that some of my biggest lessons came from things I never would have chosen.
Some prayers were answered.
Some weren’t.
Some dreams happened.
Some didn’t.
I’ve lost people I desperately wanted to keep.
I’ve walked through seasons I never want to repeat.
And somehow, through all of it, God has remained faithful.
Not flashy.
Not always obvious.
Just faithful.
That’s the part I notice more now.
I notice Him in my granddaughter’s laugh.
In a conversation that comes at exactly the right time.
In the sudden realization that something I once prayed desperately about no longer hurts the way it used to.
In a quiet morning.
In a hard day that somehow gets me through to bedtime.
In the comfort of Scripture I’ve read a hundred times but suddenly understand differently.
Even in a crochet hook moving through yarn while I watch another British mystery.
I don’t think those moments interrupt my spiritual life anymore.
I think they are my spiritual life.
Maybe this is what holiness looks like.
Maybe that’s what growing older has taught me.
Holiness isn’t always dramatic.
Sometimes it is incredibly ordinary.
Sometimes it looks like getting up, making coffee, going to work, loving your people, doing your best, messing up, apologizing, trying again, and trusting God to meet you somewhere in the middle of it all.
Not because the day was extraordinary.
But because He was there.
And maybe I’ve had it backward all these years.
Maybe I don’t have to make my ordinary life holy.
Maybe I just have to recognize that God is already there.
So today, I’m not looking for a mountaintop.
I’m looking around my kitchen.
My living room.
My car.
My messy schedule.
My ordinary day.
And I’m wondering what I’ve been too busy trying to make meaningful to notice was already sacred.
Something to think about…
What if you stopped waiting for a holy moment?
What if you simply looked at the life you already have and asked:
Where is God here?
Not in the perfect moment.
Not in the impressive moment.
Here.
Right in the middle of your ordinary life.
