We often overestimate the power of big moments and underestimate the power of ordinary ones. That idea challenges much of what modern culture teaches us about love, connection, and relationships. Whether we realize it or not, many of us have absorbed a “theology of relationships” from Disney movies, romantic comedies, social media, and dating shows. We are taught to celebrate dramatic stories, instant chemistry, extraordinary experiences, and emotional highs. The message is subtle but powerful. If a relationship feels exciting enough, it must be meaningful. The problem is that real life rarely works that way. More often than not, the relationships that shape us most deeply are formed through ordinary faithfulness over time. Recently, I read a statistic that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. My son is seven years old, and I read that by the time a child turns eighteen, parents have spent roughly 90% of all the time they will ever spend with them. At first, that sounded impossible. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Children grow up. They go to university, begin careers, get married, move away, and start families of their own. The years we assume will last forever move much faster than we expect. As I reflected on that reality, I began asking myself what actually shapes a relationship between a parent and a child. Is it the family holidays? The birthday parties? The milestone moments? Those things definitely matter. Don't get me wrong. Yet, when I think about my relationship with my son, I sense that the deepest bonds are being formed somewhere else. They're being formed during breakfast before school. During bedtime stories. During walks together on our way to Church, at a café, conversations on the couch, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons that seem completely unremarkable at the time. The things that shape us most are often the things we barely notice. Our culture struggles with this idea because we are constantly drawn toward the spectacular. We celebrate the highlight reel and assume that extraordinary moments create extraordinary relationships. Yet healthy relationships are usually built through something far less dramatic: reliability, presence, repetition, and faithfulness. I believe Jesus understood this better than anyone. When we think about the life of Jesus, our minds naturally go to the miracles. We remember the feeding of the five thousand, the healing of the blind, the calming of the storm, and ultimately His resurrection. These moments matter because they reveal His identity and authority. Yet if you read the Gospels carefully, you discover that most of Jesus' ministry looked surprisingly ordinary. Over the course of roughly three years, Jesus changed the world. Yet much of that time was spent walking dusty roads, sharing meals, sitting around tables, listening to people, asking questions, and teaching small groups of followers. Not every day involved a miracle. Most days involved relationships. Jesus changed the world through thousands of ordinary interactions that, taken together, transformed lives. This is one reason His words in Luke 16:10 are so important: "Whoever is faithful in very little is also faithful in much." Most of us want the "much." We want deep relationships, meaningful community, healthy marriages, and lasting friendships. Yet Scripture repeatedly shows that God often begins with the "little." We desire extraordinary connection, but God frequently works through ordinary consistency. We long for instant depth, while God invites us into the slower work of daily faithfulness where trust is formed and character is revealed. Anybody can show up once. Character shows up repeatedly. Consistency may not be glamorous, but it is one of the highest forms of love because it communicates something powerful: "I'm here. You matter. I'm not going anywhere." Deep relationships are rarely built in a single moment. They are built through many moments that, over time, create trust, safety, and connection. When you are navigating dating relationships, friendships, family relationships, or community, this truth is worth remembering. Instead of only looking for chemistry, learn to value character. Instead of chasing emotional intensity, pay attention to faithfulness. So, how do we do it? You send the message you've been putting off. Make the phone call. Keep the commitment. Sit across the table from someone and give them your full attention. Choose to show up again. Because meaningful relationships are usually not built through extraordinary moments. They are built through ordinary faithfulness repeated over time. In a world obsessed with intensity, choose consistency. In a culture constantly chasing the next extraordinary experience, don't overlook the gift of the ordinary. Some of God's greatest work in our lives happens through simple acts of faithfulness that are repeated day after day, often unnoticed, until one day we look back and realize they changed everything.

The other day I was working from a café in Barcelona, enjoying my daily café con leche. You know those moments where you're meant to be focused… but instead you find yourself quietly observing the room around you? There was an elderly man sitting by himself. A young college student focused on her laptop. A group of friends laughing together like they had nowhere else to be. And then, out of nowhere, I had this thought: How is it possible that every person here is just as complex as me? I know my own story. I know what I carry. The disappointments, the hopes, the prayers I'm still waiting on. The fears I don't always say out loud. T he conversations I replay in my head. The things I wish I'd handled differently. I know my reasons. My context. My complexity. And somehow, every person in that café carried a life just as deep. The elderly man sitting quietly. The student on her laptop. The group laughing in the corner. Each one carrying memories, private grief, dreams they haven't shared, questions they're still wrestling with — things no one else can fully see. It made me stop. Because we pass by people every day. But how often do we actually notice them? Not just look at them. Not quickly form opinions. Not reduce them to a first impression. But truly notice them. We live in a culture that sees faces but rarely sees people. And distraction is part of the problem. We scroll. We hurry. We multitask. We half-listen. We think about what we're going to say next before someone has even finished speaking. We can be physically present while mentally somewhere else. And over time, we slowly lose the ability to truly see one another. There's a moment in Luke 5 that I keep coming back to. Jesus walks past a tax collector named Levi. Most people had already made up their minds: Tax collector. Traitor. Sinner. Someone to avoid. But the text says something simple: Jesus saw Levi. Not the label. Not the reputation. Not the exterior. A person. And then he moved toward him "Follow me." I love that. Because while everyone else reduced Levi to a category, Jesus noticed a human being. Later, Levi throws a dinner party. People gather. Community happens. But the religious leaders complain: Why are you spending time with people like that? Jesus had already seen something deeper. In Matthew 22:39, Jesus says: "Love your neighbor as yourself." Maybe part of loving our neighbor means learning to see people with the same depth and compassion we naturally give ourselves. We understand our own fears — our wounds, our intentions, our complexity. But others? We often reduce. So maybe the invitation is simple: slow down. Put your phone away. Sit across a table from someone. Ask a real question. Listen a little longer. Get curious about someone's story. Because most people are starving to be truly seen. And maybe love begins with something far simpler than we think. Maybe love begins by noticing.

We are not very good at discomfort. Maybe that’s obvious. We live in a world of exits. Close the app. Leave the chat. Stop replying. Find someone new. Keep moving. Relationships have started to feel strangely disposable. Infinite options have done something to us. We are constantly aware there might be someone funnier, wiser, more attractive, less complicated waiting somewhere just over the hill. And because of that, conflict can feel unbearable. The moment tension enters, something in us whispers: Maybe this isn’t right. Maybe I should move on. Maybe there’s someone easier. But what if conflict is not the interruption of connection? What if it is the doorway into it? A friend said something to me recently that I haven’t been able to shake, “Conflict is a dangerous opportunity.” Dangerous because honesty costs us something. To tell a difficult truth. To stay when things feel uncomfortable. To admit when we’re wrong. To sit in the awkward space between misunderstanding and understanding. Most of us would rather disappear. Ghosting feels easier than vulnerability. Avoidance feels safer than honesty. But avoiding conflict may also mean avoiding growth. A few months ago, I was in a meeting on my birthday when someone unexpectedly brought out cake. I hadn’t mentioned it. I wasn’t expecting attention. And strangely enough, my first instinct was to say no. Not because I didn’t want cake. I definitely wanted cake. I said no because receiving it made me uncomfortable. Later, I caught myself wondering how often I do this with people. Rejecting gifts because they arrive wrapped in discomfort. I wonder if we do this in relationships too. Sometimes we reject the very things God wants to use to deepen us because they ask something of us first. Hard conversations. Honest feedback. Moments of misunderstanding. The uncomfortable work of repair. Jesus, of course, assumes conflict will happen: “If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over.” — Matthew 18:15 (NIV) Notice He doesn’t say avoid them. He says “go.” Because you were made for relationship. And relationships grow through the ordinary, difficult work of patience, forgiveness, and staying. “Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” — Colossians 3:13 (NIV) Maybe maturity is not finding perfect people. Maybe it’s learning how to love imperfect ones. Don’t ghost conflict. You might be ghosting your growth.