If you haven’t discovered Glennon at Momastery, check her out. She’s what I’d call one of the Mega-Bloggers — one of those people who, with dedication, humor, brilliance and je ne sais quoi, has created a mass following.

Stumbling around the cyber-world the other day, I discovered one of her posts about the gift of an ordinary day.  “Let it Begin with Me”, posted on September 11, 2013, chronicles Glennon’s ritual for honoring 9/11. But, what struck me the most was the opening line of her post (click the link in the previous sentence to read it) and her reverence for “the ordinary.”

I lost ordinary over five years ago. I can tell you the conversation, the moment, the date when ordinary left and chaos begin to build like black clouds over a calm sea.

It was October 2008. The Wizard and I sat in the basement watching TV. The Kids were safely tucked into bed. Our cocktails — booze on ice — were dancing in our glasses, in our brains, off our tongues.

“J’s neighbor has a Harley for sale,” The Wizard said as we flipped between travel adventures and cooking shows. It was our ordinary.

“Really? How much is he asking for it?” I said.

“$10,000. It’s a great deal. 2003 Harley Softail Deuce Anniversary. Very low miles. The guy has brain cancer and probably won’t make it. He’s selling.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

Pause. Silence. Flip. Commercial for fabric softener. Flip Anthony Bourdain. Flip. RV travel in Alaska. Flip. Silence, except for whatever flashed on the screen and the tinkling of ice in glamorous booze holders.

“I told J I’d buy the bike.”

“YOU WHAT? Buy the bike???” I sat my booze down and turned to The Wizard. “That’s $10,000. You just told me that we had to cut back. I’ve been buying the kids’ clothes at the thrift store and getting books at the library.  Where the hell is $10,000 coming from?”

“I already bought it. I gave him the money today.”

And the storm began. The winds began to blow ordinary away. It slipped through the cracks under the door. It oozed out gaps in the windows. It billowed out the chimney.

The arguments grew. The motorcycle. Our sex life. My spending. His spending. His drinking. His time away. The kids. The way I read books. The way he drove. The tornado roared sucking any ordinary away.

I grasp at the shreds, the shards, the dust particles, trying to hold ordinary, as I knew it then, in my hand.

Ordinary cannot be held in desperation.

Over the last five years, chaos has formed my days. I went from drunk, stay-at-home mom to sober, divorced, full-time working, single parent.  Nothing from 2008 remained intact. The tornado destroyed that ordinary.

I craved ordinary. I prayed for ordinary. I wanted ordinary. I tried to pick up ordinary in the wreckage of the past. But no amount of duct tape would hold the former ordinary together.

Last night, The New Beau met me at church. We attended another Mass together. Then, we went to a dinner hosted at the church. Sitting with three older couples, each married 40 to 50 years, we listened to their stories, their laughter, their ordinary lives. We stuffed ourselves with ordinary food.

This morning, I made The New Beau his favorite breakfast and a cup of tea. I drank my coffee. We sat at my kitchen counter, munching and reading sections of the Sunday newspapers to each other. He told me about how his favorite sports teams are doing; I read snippets from the travel section to him. The rumple of paper echoed in the kitchen. The conversation meandered across the newspaper sections.

It was an ordinary morning: newspaper, coffee, tea, breakfast.

“This is feeling more and more right every time,” he said as he headed out for the rest of his ordinary day.

“Yes, it is. Very. Very right.”

And, ordinary.

Dear God, thank you for blessing me with ordinary. There’s something so nice, so right, so sacred about ordinary.