Gratitude

I am going to walk around this house and write down everything for which I am grateful that sparks in my heart. One long running list of items, both absolutely necessary and whimsically appreciated. There will be clean water listed in line with a ceramic mug with a picture of a cow on the front. Because both feel important and a part of my particular existence. And because I do not ever want to take one item in my life for granted. But I do everyday, when I feel sad, and when I long for God’s abundance, and when my gratitude ends after I wake up and say, Thank you for this day.

Let the thank you’s continue. Because I am aware that I have more than I need, more than most people, and because this is about awareness. Gratitude is an action.

I can never say enough times how grateful I am for the sunlight that illuminates all of living and warms and makes things grow. With it I can see the songbirds. Oh, thank you for the birds, their blue and red and charcoal, their particular tones and rhythms, and the length of their wingspans; how robins signal one season and geese another. Thank you for all four seasons and the days in between; for warm coats in my front closet, and boots and hats, for static spray, and ice scrapers, and door mats; for sandals, and nail polish, and pumice stones, and anklets; for puffy vests, and pumpkins, and apples, and the way dead leaves explode when I step on them; for tulips, and sugar snap peas, and the invention of windshield wipers to clean off pollen.

Thank you for a window to look out and watch, for a soft couch to sit on, for pens and pencils and paper, and access to electricity; for houseplants, and throw pillows, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; for books in general; for a washer and dryer, and laundry baskets, and organic detergent; for towels, and underwear, and more than one set of pajamas, and my own clean bed, and chapstick, and an HVAC system; for lotion, and handbags, and alarm clocks, and tissues, and deodorant, and a body-length mirror.

For size 6 rings; for mascara, pink lipstick and bronzer, toothpaste, glasses and contact lenses, and soap of all kinds; a bathroom in general and bleach; for music, and podcasts, and the radio, and access to both art and the news.

For golden kitchen light; for vegetables and their colors, cheese, bread, coffee, and rotisserie chickens; for tastes that instill memories, like quesadillas, and succotash, and s’mores, and shrimp scampi; for forks, knives, and spoons, a pantry with multiple kinds of crackers and several cans of soup; for the ability to decide what I want for dinner and the tools to execute it.

For slippers, and poetry, and apple cider vinegar; for a phone, and salt, and sunglasses, and hairspray; my car and access to gasoline and maps.

For my health, and heart, and conscience; for all ten fingers and the palms of my hands, knees that bend, a back that twists, working lungs, all the ligaments and joints and systematic health; for my sight, and hearing, and the God in whom I live, and move, and have my being.

For Christ. For sheep, and clover, and crows; for sacrifice and choosing; for people: family, friends, and strangers; for all of language, even those I don’t speak or understand; for scripture, and faith, and peace; for holidays, and gathering, and solitude; for memories and remembering; for dreaming and wondering; for wandering.

I am prone to wander, Lord. To leave your great pastures of abundance by forgetting all of these things I am actually so thankful for. How, when I feel I am lacking and when I am longing, I should remember warm socks, and access to medicine, and the entire book of James. What can I offer in thanksgiving? There is nothing. Here’s my heart, take and seal it. Here’s my thank you, for cookies, and hymns, and forgiveness, and the moon, and the way it feels to laugh, unexpectedly and without trying, in the midst of all this pain.