“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”

“The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”( Matthew 13:31–33)

Yesterday, while I was at Giant Tiger, I watched a young mom with a baby in tow and a toddler in full-on toddler meltdown.

Right in front of the stack of paper towels.

I’m not sure exactly what the meltdown was about. It could have been the wrong snack. Or the wrong cart. Or the injustice of being told that no, we are not buying a giant inflatable flamingo today. Whatever the cause, this child was red-faced and sweaty, lying belly-up on the floor and bellowing at the top of their lungs.

The mama was red-faced and sweaty too, but working very hard at being calm and reasonable. The baby, strapped into the cart, seemed blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding three feet away from the Bounty.

I had a pang of sympathy for that mama. I remember trying to wrangle two children through the grocery store, both of whom had minds, preferences, and very strong opinions of their own. I remember how hard it was to keep my composure in the midst of an unreasonable toddler tantrum, especially when I was already tired and trying to get something done. I remember how overwhelming life could be: two littles, a job, a spouse, a house, laundry, meals, bills, appointments, and all the ands.

And the strange pressure we put on ourselves to somehow make it all look manageable.

Just as I was about to offer at least a sympathetic glance, an older woman stepped in. She said, “Oh, you really have to treasure these moments, don’t you? They grow up so quickly.” Which, frankly, might not have been what that exhausted mother most needed to hear in that moment. When your toddler is screaming on the floor of Giant Tiger, the last thing you need is someone romanticizing your misery.

But then the woman crouched down beside the tantruming child. With what looked like the practiced confidence of someone who had survived toddlers herself, she said a few quiet words. She held out her hand. And, somehow, she helped that little one back onto their feet.

A brief respite from the chaos.

Mama murmured some thank-yous. She looked mildly embarrassed, but relieved. And everyone continued their shopping.

A tiny moment.

But in the scheme of things, a big moment.

Because I remember those days. And I remember that the tiny, ordinary moments were often the things that made life manageable.

My dad showing up to look after the baby when the dishwasher leaked all over the kitchen floor. My best friend opening the door after I knocked, taking one look at my exhausted face, and putting the kettle on without asking questions. Then handing me a blanket and telling me to go lie down.My neighbour driving me to pick up the kids from daycare when my car broke down.

Meals cooked. Kitchens cleaned. Tea made and drunk. Someone noticing. Someone helping. Someone making room.

None of it was grand. There was no brass band. No glittering miracle. No heavenly voice booming out, “Behold! The kingdom of God has arrived in aisle six!” Just ordinary people doing ordinary things.

And maybe that is precisely the point.

Jesus says the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed. Small. Almost insignificant. Easily missed. It is not a towering cedar planted with great fanfare. It is a tiny seed put into the dirt.

And then there is yeast.

A woman takes yeast and works it into an astonishing amount of flour. Three measures of flour is not a cute little loaf for Sunday brunch. It is enough bread to feed a crowd. The kingdom, Jesus says, is like this ordinary domestic act: hands in dough, flour on the counter, something hidden quietly doing its work.

Jesus could have compared the kingdom of heaven to a palace, an army, a thunderclap, or a religious institution with a very impressive strategic plan. Instead, he talks about a seed and some yeast.

Something small.

Something hidden.

Something ordinary.

There are no minor things in God’s world. That feels important to me, because we have been taught to measure our lives by the big things: big achievements, big platforms, big announcements, big transformations.

But God seems entirely comfortable working through what we are tempted to dismiss.

A mustard seed.

A woman baking bread.

A cup of tea.

A ride to daycare.

An older woman crouching beside a furious toddler in Giant Tiger.

Perhaps grace does not always arrive in ways that make us gasp. Perhaps sometimes grace arrives quietly, with a casserole dish or a kind look or a hand held out at exactly the right moment.

One of my favourite theologians is Ivone Gebara, a Brazilian Catholic sister and feminist liberation theologian. Her work insists that theology is not only found in grand pronouncements from church leaders or complicated books written by very clever people. Theology is also found in the daily life of ordinary people; especially those whose work, pain, survival, and wisdom are so often overlooked.

Gebara writes about communion being present in something as ordinary as sharing a cup of coffee with a friend.

I love that image.

Because it reminds me that we don’t need grandeur or magnificence to experience God. We don’t need to have our lives tidied up before the holy can find us. We don’t need a perfect sanctuary, a perfectly worded prayer, or a perfect Sunday morning.

God is in the kitchen. God is in the grocery store. God is in the waiting room, the laundry pile, the school pickup line, the too-long text message from a friend who is having a hard time.

God is present in the small kindnesses that keep us from collapsing under the weight of all the ands.

The kingdom of heaven is not always flashy. Sometimes it is a seed buried in the dirt. Sometimes it is yeast disappearing into dough. Sometimes it is a tiny act of care that changes the texture of someone else’s day.

And perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps it is more than enough.

Because small things grow. Ordinary things matter. And grace, thank God, has a way of showing up where we least expect it.

Blessings today, my friends, and remember that you’re Loved.

~Rev. Lynne

Audio file: https://audio.com/lynne-gardiner/audio/office-hours-no-ordinary-things