And then the page grew cold and I laid the pen down for a long season. I did not want to give thanks for the hard things. The bloody broken things. The death of dreams. Like a pig in slop I wanted to wallow in bitterness, anger, and despair.
But sometime in the last nine months or so I picked up the pen again. I mark each day off in threes. Some days more. Some days my gifts flow like water from a heart that is truly grateful. And some days I stair out this same window forgetting that everything is a gift. But each day I write down something. Anything to remind me.
From the extraordinary to the mundane:
A promotion.And so I try to see each day in numbers. Gifts counted on the page and in the heart.
Gas in the car.
A change in the weather.
Hard eucharisteo: a loss that hits too close to home.
Dirty dishes showing a life well lived.
On Fridays I join a community of writers that encourage one another. You can join us here.