She was ordinary. She was extraordinary. She was plain. She was vibrant. She was subdued. She was passionate. She was both. At the same time.


She was a housewife. Mother of two, wife and lover of one. Both parents still together, living across the small town where she lived. She baked cookies and pies. She wore shades of blue and beige. Never too much makeup and her hair was flat.

She grew up 10 miles away from the house where she lives now. Met her husband in college. He was her only boyfriend ever. Her close knit circle of friends was small and honest. She graduated in the middle of her class. She read. Her singing voice didn't haunt you, or inspire. She wasn't an athlete.

She was a calm woman. Her actions and reactions were predictable. She kept an open mind and opinions to herself. She didn't leave a lingering impression; she took awhile to figure out. She was quiet, but well-spoken.

Ordinary. Plain. Subdued.

But how she could love. She cared for her family not because she had to, or felt obligated. She packed lunches, wiped sticky fingers, kissed scrapes on knees, folded shirts, made dinner every night, memorized schedules, rubbed backs, held sick hands, tucked in scared children, closed the closet door at night, found missing toys, and so much more because she wanted to. She had a desire to love and serve and express her devotion to her family. She wasn't bitter about her role. She embraced it. She knew where she was put, she had been placed. Placed with such thought and care.

She loved her neighbors. Dinners when someone was sick. Dog sitting. She asked what she could do for them, and she followed through. She loved the tired and rude waitress through her patience. She understood. She loved the man who cut in line on Christmas Eve. She accepted his rushed and agitated feelings. She loved the liar, the thief, and the fool.

Extraordinary. Vibrant. Passionate.