☀️ All Things

A Sunday Doxology

Praise God for all things.

All things, God?

Barren trees with branches blown

down haphazard on dirty snow?

Skies of grey upon grey upon grey?

Leftovers for lunch and supper

and supper again?

Renovation dust populating

every. single. surface?

Cold hands, dry skin, tired eyes?

Relentless wind

and unanswered prayer?

It’s easy to praise you for every

blessing that feels like a blessing —

retune my heart to praise you

for all the things that don’t.

☕️ On Gratitude Calendars

A Saturday Caesura

Rain and grey defines this day. The few leaves left on the trees appear tired and waterlogged. Fall is fading towards a some sort of finale while winter lurks backstage. The drippy chill has not hampered the chickadees and blue jays cavorting outside my window, however. They appear delighted and energetic, as if rain is a thing of joy. The calendar may remind us to set aside this weekend for giving thanks, but my feathered neighbours remind me that gratitude can be written into every calendar day. Consider the past week:

Monday: reading through some brilliant-funny-wistful pieces my grade 12 students wrote about “the stories we wear” brings to mind a pair of hiking boots that have played a supporting role in many stories and adventures over the past 40 years. Gratitude for the miles and memories I’ve hiked in those boots spills over into gratitude for the man who encouraged me to buy them, then married me so we could continue to tromp through life together.

Tuesday: it is the season for glorious sunrise vistas from my classroom window. I turn off the lights and sit and absorb the rich colour, the majesty, the fading brilliance. I breathe it in and then breathe it out in gratitude throughout the day as students pull my attention away from windows and sun and clouds to books and assignments and forgotten pencils.

Wednesday: my evening walk or run is sometimes not much more than a forced routine I go through because I know my body needs the movement, the catharsis. But today I come home out of breath from both exercise and wonder, amazed at how the same routes and kilometres can contain such nuanced beauty that no two days look, smell, sound exactly the same.

Tiredness seeps in on Thursday. Lack of sleep, too many to-dos, the ongoing challenges of teaching in a pandemic restricted environment evoke a sense of weariness that clings to me all day. But weariness does not excuse me from being grateful: for the student who has a cup of hot tea waiting for me when I return from the photocopier, for the bowl of thick chowder for supper, made with fresh corn gifted from a friend’s garden, for a good rest at night.

Friday: just the thought of teaching a double-block of my most challenging non-academic class on the day before a long weekend puts me into survival mode. So I am not only grateful, but also pleasantly surprised when this rag-tag, rough-and-tumble group of mostly boys (only two girls — quiet, dependable) completely usurps my plan to have them listen to an audio-book version of the novel we are studying in favour of three of them, self-appointed, taking turns reading aloud to the rest of the class. Sixteen-year-old boys who would much rather talk about trucks, fishing gear (yes, one student brought his rod and tackle box – not sure why), quads, dirt-bikes, hunting, farming, skateboards, food, and all manner of shenanigans characteristic of such boys are actually reading a book together — without me. I watch and listen and breathe gratitude for what feels like a miracle.

Our calendars don’t come with the particulars of thankfulness neatly typed into the allotted box for each day, but if we look closely, if we have the right heart-posture, we can see all the ways that minutes and hours and events and landscapes and people point us towards a grateful response to the Ancient of Days, the God who cannot be contained in boxes –calendar or otherwise.

☀️ Togetherness

A Sunday Doxology

How do I express gratitude enough

to You, the Joiner of two-into-one,

for the gift of a life-companion who

loves You,

loves Your word,

loves Your world,

and graciously loves me, too.

Thank you for shared laughter

and tears,

for iron-sharpening-iron

and peace-finding, problem-solving

commitment and forgiveness

and days and years

and months and minutes

of companionship,

of fellowship so precious.

Grace upon grace.

☕️ Hand Dance

A Saturday Caesura

Of all the things I did this week, going to the dentist felt most like a “just-get-‘er-done” activity.  The visit (euphemistically speaking) was comprised of all the usual dentistry things: elephantine needles, awkward rubber dams, whinning drills, and other torturous what-nots.

Have you ever noticed how limited your range of vision is when you are lying in a dentist’s chair? You have an awareness of the dentist on one side and his assistant on the other, but watching their faces without turning your head is physically uncomfortable (as if you were comfortable to begin with). Besides, wouldn’t watching their faces be a little weird anyway? And you especially don’t want to catch even a glimpse of The Needle or The Drill. So you look at the Garfield (or Snoopy or Elmo) poster on the ceiling and think about the smoothie you’ll likely need for supper tonight. Well, maybe you don’t, but I did.

I did notice something other than the ceiling poster though. 

Hands. Dancing.

On centre stage of my vision, I observed a hand dance performed without pomp or ceremony but with a practiced rhythm as the dentist and the assistant passed various instruments between them.  No words were spoken or needed; the choreography was well-rehearsed and perfected into a fluid, almost elegant routine. With a simple twist of the wrist and some elaborate finger-work, the assistant could catch one instrument in her pinkie while simultaneously handing off another one with her thumb and forefinger. The dentist knew exactly where to reach to make the exchanges, never had to look or guess.  His hands just knew.

I was impressed.  And I have a deeper gratitude for people who know their craft and perform it well.  Even dentists. And mechanics and pizza makers and cashiers and musicians and farmers and roofers and janitors and grandmothers… the world is full of hands that know the dance of their work.

Thankfulness

Thankfulness requires a disciplined heart.

When surrounded by abundance and fulfilled desires along with a scarcity of loss, conflict, and discomfort, it takes discipline to choose thankfulness over self-satisfaction and complacency.

When living in the midst of discouragement, exhaustion, uncertainty, and the weighty presence of grief or loneliness, it takes discipline to choose thankfulness over despair and discontent.

Whatever one’s feelings about the historical roots of Thanksgiving Day 🇨🇦, and however the day has devolved into little more than Turkey Day, we need to be grateful. Simple as that.

We need to choose thankfulness as a daily heart posture.

We need gratitude, not as a way of ignoring pain and the ugliness of the world, but as a way through, as a sight-line towards hope and peace and grace.

🌿 All the Joyful Things

When it’s threatening snow in April

almost May

and you need to find all the

joyful things

like daffodil sprouts defying

the cold

and rotten trees that crashed

now burning

and crackling in the wood stove

and supper

of leftover chicken was actually

quite tasty

and there are friends to meet for

not-coffee

and your mind races and leaps with

joyful things

that would make a list too long for

this poem

so you just breathe thank you and go

to bed.

#30daysofpoetry #day29

🌿 Resting in Peace

~for Justin

When peace like a river attendeth my way

Oh what joyful delight flowed the day you were born

When sorrows like sea billows roll

And then. That day flooded with deep, deepest despair.

Whatever my lot, You have taught me to say,

And today. Your birthday. With waves of emotion leaving me worn,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

but oh so grateful for all the days we could share.

#JDC#33

#30daysofpoetry #day11

*”It Is Well With My Soul” lyrics by Horatio Spafford.