The Sacred Ordinary: Benediction in the Washroom

The Sacred Ordinary: Benediction in the Washroom

Invocation

I spent my life in classrooms, absorbing what I was told I needed to know. I thought that once I graduated, the world would welcome me with open arms. But it didn’t. The world didn’t care.

So here I am, in a low-level job at a chick hatchery, scraping chicken droppings off wire trays where life first cracked open. The smell is sharp. The work is repetitive. The trays are caked with feathers and filth.

Meditation

My coworkers retreat to the washroom on breaks, slumped over in silence or muttering about how bad they feel. I take pity on them sometimes. “This is essential work,” I say. “We’re midwives to the miracle.” They smile for a moment, until the boss storms in to bark orders and reclaim his borrowed sense of importance. The smiles vanish. The bummer returns.

But I stay awake. I stay aware.

And in my mind’s eye, I hold another scene:

A misty morning on the farm. A young woman stands in faded jeans and a flannel shirt, rubber boots planted in damp earth. Her hair is tied back with a plain bandana. Behind her, a black and white cow waits quietly in the fog, autumn leaves scattered like blessings at their feet. The barn leans into the mist, weathered and holy.

This is the world that does welcome me.

Not with applause, but with presence.

Not with status, but with stillness.

Benediction

Even in the washroom, scraping trays, I carry the image of that morning—

the cow, the mist, the girl in work clothes—

and I remember:

The sacred is not elsewhere.

It is here.

In the shit and the silence.

In the fog and the flannel.

In the ordinary, made holy by attention.