How to Overcome "Temporary Blindness" to See the Sacred in Ordinary Moments

I'd like to welcome new subscribers to PAUSE MORE. RUSH LESS. I'm glad you're here. This free monthly newsletter is designed to live up to its name. Instead of succumbing to the "pace of the rat race," the thoughts and stories recorded here are intended to help you "maximize your life by reducing the speed you live it." To "pause" more. Why? So you can see more. Hear more. Feel more. And LIVE more. And from time to time, I'll update you on my writing projects.

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“Much of what is sacred is hidden in the ordinary, everyday moments of our lives. To see something of the sacred in those moments takes slowing down so we can live our lives more reflectively.” 

Ken Gire, author of The Reflective Life

The older I get, the more I realize there is indeed something sacred in the ordinary, everyday moments of life. But I’m stunned at how often I miss them. Why? I’m moving too fast.

Life is a lot like living in a speeding car. We might enjoy the thrill of the ride, but we’re missing the view. Everything is a blur. We’re not seeing what’s in front of us, alongside us, only what’s in the rearview mirror. But then it’s too late. It’s in our past.

I remember a time I missed “seeing the sacred” in a moment with my aging father because I was moving too fast. I had stopped by our family home to visit him a few years before Alzheimer’s crept up on him—and erased his memory.

It was after work; I was tired. I hadn’t seen my wife or kids yet. I was in a hurry to get home, but I wanted to check in on him. He lived alone in his mid-eighties, but was still independent. I sat on his worn, brown couch that he still called a davenport. Sitting across the room from me, he relaxed in his leather Lazy-Boy recliner, hands folded, fingers laced in his lap. His mouth was set in a straight line. We exchanged pleasantries. Talked weather. His Health. My job. And the news.

Then he changed the subject.

“You know, Jim, I’ve spent most of my life alone.”

I was silent. I knew what he meant. My mom had died forty years ago. He raised six of us alone. I understood that despite being surrounded by kids—and the chaos—for all those years, he could still feel alone. When he was a young teenager in Missouri, he had to leave home during the Great Depression after his family lost the family farm and go to work on a turkey farm in Iowa to support himself when his father could no longer support the entire family.

He lived through the Dust Bowl and World War II as a Marine, and once sent most of his military savings home to pay for the funeral of his nine-year-old brother, who died of a brain tumor while he was at war. I knew the stories of the periods of isolation in this life. But he didn’t mention any of them on that day.

Somewhere in our conversation, I changed the subject, and he followed it. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized I had missed something sacred in our conversation. I missed what my father was NOT saying—but feeling.

His message came—without words. I believe he was saying, “I’m not just alone, Jim. I’m lonely.” Something a member of the “Greatest Generation” would never say aloud. The implication was clear. “Will you stop by to see me more, Jim? I miss you. I know you’re busy with your job and the kids, but...” It was a “quiet cry for help.” 

And I missed it.

How did it slip past me? Because of something I’ve only recently defined. I call it “temporary blindness.” It’s when we move so fast we’re blind to what’s right in front of us. Like a speeding car, life is a blur. Fuzzy. Unclear. We miss the road signs. And the sacred remains hidden in the ordinary, everyday moments of life.

“Something sacred is at stake in every event.”

Abraham Heschel

I was temporarily blind because I was too busy. And for years, I have regretted that moment. Wanted to replay it. I needed a do-over. In time, I course-corrected. My wife and I had my father over for dinner regularly, I visited him more, and once we threw a party for him with all my siblings and relatives. There I read him a 12-page article I wrote celebrating the major events of his life and his powerful influence on my life—to honor him. It was called “Lessons My Father Never Knew He Taught Me.” This set the stage for all of my siblings to express their love for him too.

Later that evening, I asked my wife to remind me of this night if, in the future, I ever feel like I had not told my father I loved him. Over the years, she has reminded me of this event because of days like today—when I question whether you can ever tell your parents you love them enough—before they’re gone.

The question is, how do you overcome “temporary blindness” to see the sacred in ordinary moments? Slow down. LOOK for the sacred in every moment. And even in casual conversations with a loved one, ask yourself: “I think I heard what they said—but do I know what they meant? Was it a quiet cry for help?” 

Slowing down and listening, really listening, is the only cure for temporary blindness. I’ve learned you can only see the sacred in ordinary moments with your eyes—and ears—wide open.

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SOMETHING TO CHEW ON: Are you moving too fast because of your stage in life? List some PRACTICAL ways you can slow down so you're not temporarily blind to the sacredness hidden in the ordinary, everyday moments of YOUR life.