Sacred Ordinary Moments

You might think that dying looks like some cinematic scene—dramatic speeches, sudden clarity. But the truth is, it’s often very ordinary. And that’s where its sacredness lies.

A client of mine, whom I’ll call Ellen, asked one day if I could help her put on lipstick. “I want to look like myself,” she said, as if she knew she was fading from view. That small act—swiping berry-red gloss on trembling lips—wasn’t vanity. It was identity. It was defiance. She wanted her grandchildren to see her when they came to visit.

She used to be a dance teacher. Her eyes lit up when she talked about ballroom competitions and teaching teenagers how to carry themselves with confidence. She showed me photos of her in sequined dresses, mid-twirl. Her laugh was like a song—unfiltered, contagious. I helped her pick out earrings shaped like little stars. “These are my lucky pair,” she said. “Wore them the night I met my husband.”

Later that afternoon, we painted her nails, sipped chamomile tea, and listened to a playlist she had curated herself. It was full of swing music and Nina Simone. For a few hours, we weren’t preparing for death—we were remembering life.

Another time, I sat with a man who wanted one more taste of chocolate pudding. It sounds trivial, but to him, it was a reminder of childhood summers and his mother’s kitchen. We found the exact brand he remembered. When he took that first bite, his eyes closed, and he smiled like a little boy. “Haven’t tasted this in fifty years,” he said, tears in his eyes.

These are the moments I treasure: the cups of tea made just so, the pillows adjusted perfectly, the laughter over old stories. They’re ordinary. And they are everything. Because they are what make us us.

The sacred isn’t always wrapped in rituals. Sometimes, it’s in lip gloss and pudding. In music and stories. In the way someone’s hand fits into yours, one last time.

And these moments stay with me. They echo. When I’m back home, washing dishes or folding laundry, I remember Ellen’s laugh or the way that man held his spoon like it was a sacred relic. These flashes of the sacred ordinary remind me what it means to be fully human. We are memory, we are ritual, we are the sum of our smallest joys.