Living in the great, white north, there’s about a month or two when my son boards the bus in the dark. The temperatures hover around 0… Fahrenheit! I bundle up in snow pants and my lumberjack hat and keep him company while he waits.

Mostly, I just pray for the bus to come quickly.

Today, on this day, the flurries drifted down in the halo of light from the streetlamp. My son and the neighbor boy wordlessly played a game of their own making.

“This moment was holy.”

It started simply. One boy kicking a chunk of ice. The other mimicking. Then passing between them. A game of catch with snow boots and frozen water.

My breath caught in my throat. This moment was holy. The only sound the scrape of ice sliding between them.

I’ve been looking for the beauty of God in ordinary moments. A decade at least. One thousand ways I can be grateful. So easy to forget.

How easy it is to rush past holy moments. The gifts we have in every day.

So grateful I remembered to look.