Normally, it’s short-term memory I struggle with: Did I wear this outfit to work yesterday? Where did I leave my coffee? Why did I come into this room?
But where blessings are concerned, my long-term tends to fail me. As in I’m stressing because I have a book deadline. Seriously? I should be thrilled to have a book deadline because that means I have . . . a book. So how about some gratitude, Mrs. Whiner? Five years ago, I would’ve traded my house for a book deadline.
Speaking of the house, I notice myself complaining about it a lot lately. The kitchen has always needed a redo, ditto the tiny bath. The guest room carpet is so worn and dirty, you could grow cotton on it. A screened-in porch sure would be nice. Wah, wah, wah. Back in 1996, I couldn’t believe I got to live here: My very own house!!! My very own yard!! My very own weeds! I’msohappyIcan’tstandit!!!!!
We change and our things change over the years, but it’s important to remember how much they meant to us in the beginning and how grateful we should be for them now. The things I take for granted today weren’t even mine to claim yesterday.
This week I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I wrote actual notes/letters on actual paper, put a stamp on them, and mailed them. I sent not a text, not an email, but penned (or at least typed because my handwriting is atrocious) correspondence. And it brought back some memories.
I remembered the thrill of a truck horn at our mailbox back home—because that meant a package had arrived. If we got anything too big to fit in the mailbox, our dear friend and mailman, Bub Kidd, would blow his truck horn so somebody from the family would meet him at the mailbox to get our package. My maternal grandmother, “Miss Icie” McCranie, was a harsh judge of character who wasn’t impressed by many, but she thought Bub hung the moon and would walk down to the mailbox to talk with him. Even though he had mail to deliver and cotton to farm, Bub would stay and visit as long as she wanted him to. You don’t get that kind of connection from a text.
I remembered what it was like, when I was a student at Auburn, to open the mailbox at our apartment complex and find a birthday card or a much-anticipated letter (which I would read over and over).
Of course, I realize I sound like Grandma Moses: In MY day . . . And I don’t mean to. I appreciate the convenience of instant contact and the security of my cell phone on long drives as much as anybody. But what I miss is anticipation. I miss the look-forward-to-it-ness of my childhood, when a Coke was a treat and sitting down at a restaurant was a RARE treat. I take both completely for granted now. In fact, the whole thing has flipped around: It’s not “Oh boy, we’re going to a restaurant!” but “We’re too busy to cook—let’s just order out.”
Sometimes I think that, as convenience goes up, gratitude goes down. I was grateful for every card and letter. Am I grateful for every email and text? No. But I’m grateful for some of them—does that count?
I almost skipped church this morning because I have a book deadline, but then I thought: You wouldn’t have a book deadline if God hadn’t opened the door for you, so . . .
Gratitude. Working on it—and not just showing it but truly feeling it.
Do you ever want to take a broom to the whole wide world, or at least your corner of it? Sort of like that evil politician in O Brother, Where Art Thou?—he was going to sweep out corruption from the state of Mississippi (but ended up getting ridden out of town on a rail—hoping that doesn’t happen to me when I sweep).
Sometimes life really does throw a lot at us. It really is overwhelming. But if I step back and look at what’s going on, I often find that I’ve created my own situation, or at least contributed to it, by letting myself get all cluttered up—physically, mentally, spiritually—pick your “-ly” and I’ve probably been there. That’s when I need to do some sweeping and some clearing so the light can break through.
For example, I recently woke up one morning, looked around, and went: “I hate this house! It’s unlivable!” Actually, I love our little rancher, but I had made it unlivable by sheer accumulation of stuff. So . . . I sold the dining room furniture we never use any more because, for now, we’re just too busy to have company the way we’d like to, and it’s time I accepted that. Cluttered dining room became open and airy sunroom. (Total Gym, green lounger nobody ever sits in, take notice—you’re on your way to FB Marketplace, too.)
I can’t stand to set foot in our guest-room-turned-storage-unit because it’s uninhabitable. But if I take a few deep breaths and calm down, I can see that, as soon as I get rid of just about everything in there, rip up the heinous 20-year-old carpet and replace it with hardwood, it’ll be one of my favorite rooms in the house. Done.
So much for the house—now how about me? Hanging onto old hurts, old insecurities, old disappointments and failures—that just clutters us from the inside out. Time to break out that broom, clear the dust, and let some light in.
And what about faith? Well, that can get cluttered up too. But it's really simple. It's about a direct connection to and relationship with God; it's about accepting his grace and forgiveness made available to us through the sacrifice and resurrection of his son, Jesus Christ. I love this quote from Tim Keller (thank you, Shari, for introducing me to it): "The gospel says that you are more sinful and flawed than you ever dared believe, but more accepted and loved than you ever dared hope."
This morning I stumbled onto an old gospel song I had never heard before, performed by some young artists I had never heard before. It's called, "Take Your Shoes Off, Moses." And I can only imagine Moses in the presence of God for the first time, wondering what on earth to do. Well, Moses, it pretty simple . . . for starters . . .
I should probably call this post “I Can See Clearly Now.” Or has that been done?
After much debating as to what we should do with a dining table and chairs we no longer use, Dave and I took the advice of my much younger (and tech savvier) friend Kaitlyn and posted it on Facebook Marketplace. It sold in one weekend, to a lovely couple who will be using it and enjoying it (as opposed to working around it while they wonder if they’ll ever have time to entertain again, which is what we were doing).
With the heavy table gone—replaced by some beautiful white wicker my friend Lil gave us—we now have an open sunroom instead of a cluttered dining room. And I can see, for the first time in many years, one of the reasons I loved this little 50s rancher from the start—the picture-window view from our hilltop lot. I had all but forgotten that view because it was covered with furniture. And now I have my eye on three more big pieces of stuff that I should probably Marketplace, as well.
My Oprah-worthy “aha moment”: I’ve been complaining about our lack of space and how we need more room, but the truth is that I need to face up to life changes that have already happened and get rid of all the accumulated stuff that doesn’t fit how we live now.
Facebook life lesson: Sometimes we can’t see what we have because of things we’ve put in the way. It can be very hard to accept that they need to go. But once we’re rid of them, and they’re no longer obstructing our view—well—we can see clearly. Maybe for the first time in a long time.
Sometimes I'm a cat up a tree, trying to climb down the wrong limb. But something in me just has to see what the world looks like from up there, no matter how many times I land upside down.
Yes, Cheeto has inspired me this morning. That's the Orange One in the picture, up a tree in his youth. He's all grown up now but still had to scramble down yet another tree this morning. For those of you who don't belong to a cat, you should know that they have vivid imaginations. They chase things that aren't there, catch pretend prey, run, jump, and hide when absolutely nothing is chasing them, sometimes all the way up a tree. In other words, if there's no drama to be had, they'll create some. And then they take a nap to recover from exhausting themselves.
I do everything except the napping part. I can dream up trouble where there is none, anticipate disaster when everything's going to turn out fine—maybe not like I had planned but just fine. And every now and then, I manage to get myself up a tree and can't get down without help—without a much-prayed-for limb that materializes when I need it.
Trust is a hard one for us Type-A worriers who want to anticipate every possible bump in the road and build a bridge three sizes too big over it. But trust is the doorway to peace—trusting God to lead us and knowing the peace that comes from that.
Praying this morning for a more trusting and peaceful spirit.
Come On In And Meet Everybody I come from a long line of feisty Southern women—women with wit and wisdom, faith and strength.