By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Friday nights are date nights for Jeff and Kieran Rich.  We take turns planning dates and try really hard to come up with something original once in a while – something that doesn’t include the standard “dinner and a movie.”

As a result, we’ve had some interesting dates.  One such date included a play, a downpour, and an improvised umbrella.  The play, “Smoke on the Mountain”, was fantastic and in a surprise ad lib in the dialog at the end, I got baptised.  Earlier that night during a summer downpour in Atlanta, I stepped in a puddle that went past my ankle.  It has become another “look back on it and it’s funny” kinda memory.  And the improvised umbrella?  Well let’s just say that sunshades were designed to keep the interior of cars from baking in the sun and they were never meant to keep anyone dry.  Just ask Jeff!

Another favorite date included a well-crafted plan, a blindfold, and a big surprise.

Kidnapping Jeff after work, I took him to the hotel where we had previously spent our wedding night.  To get him there, I had blindfolded him and drove him around Atlanta during rush-hour in an effort to confuse him so he wouldn’t know where we were going.  Driving during rush-hour in Atlanta even if you’re not blindfolded is confusing and nobody knows where they are going, so I had Jeff pretty turned around in short order.

I planned for weeks for this wonderfully romantic evening.  In my best laid plans however, I did not account for the model citizens that rented the room across the hall from us.  In a totally non-smoking hotel they decided to smoke something that was neither moral nor legal and, just as I was leading the blindfolded Jeff to our room, they managed to set off the fire alarm.

As the alarm screamed in my ear I stood in dumbfounded shock and chest-pounding fear.  It took me a minute but I finally did tell Jeff that he could take off the blindfold.  He was definitely surprised but certainly not for the reasons that I had intended!

The evening ended well.  We were upgraded to a suite, got free breakfast the next morning, and built a memory that neither one of us will ever forget.  We still laugh about that night and it has become the source of many private jokes between us.

Another one of my favorite dates was a few months ago when Jeff and I had a slumber party.  Again it was my week to plan so I had him change into his pjs as soon as he got home.  We had pizza for dinner, did a craft project, and played “Spin the Bottle.”  I skipped the slumber party staples of sleeping on the floor — we’re too old — and painting each other’s fingernails — Jeff is too male; but we did watch “Schoolhouse Rock” videos as a tribute to my childhood and my beloved Saturday morning cartoons.

Our weekly dates give us a set time to reconnect and renergize our relationship.  I can’t remember starting the “date night” tradition.  It’s just always been a part of us and I’m so thankful that it has.  So many of our favorite memories as a couple revolve around our Friday nights together. 

This past week was no exception and it was a date that I will remember for a long, long time.  It was one of those special dates where we simply knocked each other’s socks off.  We planned it collectively and unfortunately, it’s entirely too expensive to do weekly or even monthly — although I would be perfectly willing!   This Friday we spent our date night in Virginia.

We went out for dinner at a place called “Max & Erma’s”.  It is a favorite from our Atlanta days and we were pleasantly surprised to find that there was a franchise in Virginia Beach.  After we got back to the hotel, we put our our sneakers, and most everything else that was in our suitcases (It was cold!), and went for a walk.  Though it was already dark and getting colder by the minute, our hotel was steps from the Atlantic ocean and we just couldn’t let the opportunity for a “beach date” pass us by.

So we held hands and cuddled together and shivered.  We walked and we talked and as the mesmerizing sound of the surf washed over me again and again, I found myself wishing time would stop.  We were in the midst of one of those perfect moments when I felt that if I just knew where to reach, I could touch God. 

As we made our way back to the hotel, I happened to glance over my shoulder at our footprints.   In the bright moonlight I could see two sets of identical prints.  Not only do Jeff and I have the same sized feet, we also wear the make and model of athletic shoes.  But that was where the similarities ended.   As I looked back, I could see portions of our walk that we were absolutely together, our feet landing stride for stride right next to each other.  But there were also portions where one of us swayed out to the side, making the space between the sets of prints far apart for a while before eventually joining back together. 

“That’s an awful lot like marriage,” I thought to myself in a bit of an “Ah-ha” moment.  Sometimes we’re right together, mirroring each other step for step.  Other times we’re out of sync and our gaits become uneven and unmatched and drift apart for a while before eventually coming back together. 

Friday was one of those nights when we matched each other stride for stride.  As we walked and talked about everything, I felt so close to my husband.  I tried very hard to remember every detail about the night almost as a deposit for those times when our walk together is more of a fight than a stroll…for those times when words fail and communication breaks down. 

Our date nights have given me lots of those “deposit” moments and I’m incredibly thankful for every one of them, for the man I get to share them with, and for the God who brought us together.

It was one of our best nights…

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Note:  This blog has been kicking around in my draft file for several months now as its subject is something I truly struggle with and am not exactly comfortable writing about.  Every time I’ve written on this file, I kept asking myself, “Do I really want to put all of these raw thoughts and feelings on the world-wide web?  The answer was invariably “no” so I would just save the file and allow it to get lost in the depths of my draft folder for a few more months before the process would start all over again.  However, since February’s default theme seems to be living courageously, I decided that maybe it was time to have the courage to finish this blog.  And away we go…

Planning a wedding can be overwhelming and just flat-out stressful at times.  There are so many decisions to make, so many plates to keep spinning, so many opinions and ideas to incorporate — no wonder a large number of brides cry on their wedding day.  For the record, I did not cry on my wedding day.  Jeff graciously handled that little responsibility for our family. 

People use all sorts of tricks to simplify and de-stress the nuptial planning process.  For instance, I have a friend who has already started to plan her daughter’s wedding — even though the identity of the groom is still completely unknown to everyone but God.  Gotta love that pre-planning!

Another trick that is often used is choosing a quote or a saying as a kind of a ready-made wedding theme.  I have to admit that Jeff and I were seriously lacking in the pre-planning department.  The process of putting our wedding together felt an awful lot like a stint on “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”; but, when it came to choosing a quote?  We jumped all over that one.

However, our quote was a little different as it did not come from the Bible.  It did not come from Plato or Gandhi or Socrates or even Shakespeare.  Our quote came from what many may see as an unlikely source.  Dr. Seuss.

As our wedding day approached and I was grasping to find a way to sum up my feelings about our impending marriage, the good doctor once again gave voice to exactly what I was feeling when he said this:

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

As a little girl, I used to lay in bed at night and plan my perfect wedding right down to the final detail.  I would pick the dress, the wedding party, the venue, the flowers, and the music.  Why, I would even piece together the perfect groom!  In case you’re wondering, the groom usually looked a lot like  G.I. Joe.  I didn’t want to make Barbie jealous by marrying Ken!  My groom had the humor of Alan Alda, the charm of Christopher Plummer, and the money of an Egyptian king.  What do you expect?  Pulling off my perfect wedding was going to take some serious cash!  With all the details in place,  I would fall asleep and have beautiful dreams of my wedding in vivid technicolor.

The trouble with dreams though is that you have to wake up to reality and reality was always such a rude shock.  Why do I have to take a spelling test?  Spelling is totally underrated anyway.  What do you mean my brother is trying to clobber me again?  Tell me something I didn’t know.  Baseball practice?  Please!  Who has the time?  I have a wedding to plan here!  There were many, many days that I would find myself counting the minutes until I could once again enter the delightful world of my dreams.

And now, in all those days between then and now, reality has become better than my dreams.  Most of the time I still go to sleep feeling like I’m living a fantasy — like I have stepped into someone else’s life because incredibly good stuff, like a wonderful marriage to an amazing man, just doesn’t happen to me.

No, it hasn’t been all bliss.  There have been days when I didn’t like Jeff much and I know he’s felt the same about me.  We fight about stupid things and manage to hurt each other without ever trying.  But “like” and “love” are two very different things.  And it’s that deep, rich, enduring love that  has me reaching for Jeff in the middle of the night to make sure he’s really there and not just some imaginary friend I’ve conjured up after going to sleep with a full stomach.

My 6 faithful readers, as well as any guests who may have accidentally stumbled across this blog, are probably gagging uncontrollably by now.  But I really mean it.  I’m completely, totally, inexplicably in love with Jeff.   He is the man God created for me to be with.  He is my other half.  He is the one who completes me.  I know all these things without a doubt.  My marriage has been the single biggest blessing of a life that has, at times, been very difficult.

So what’s the problem?  Why am I writing a blog entry entitled “To live with fear?”   Well it’s because I’m so darn happy, of course! 

Let me try to explain…

I live in fear because I don’t want my life with Jeff to ever end.   I got married late and there is quite an age difference between Jeff and me.  The movie we watched for our date night this week had a scene where a middle-aged woman held her older, frail husband as he struggled through the last days of his life.  Jeff made the light-hearted comment of “That’s us in 20 years.”

But his comment made my brain explode in an internal tirade that mostly consisted of the word, “No!”  I don’t want 2 years or 20 years.  I want 200 years.  I want 2000 lifetimes.  I want forever.

And I am afraid.

Afraid of Jeff being taken from me.  Afraid that the wonder of our marriage will be stripped from my grasp.  Afraid that the happiness we have found together will simply evaporate.  Afraid that I will wake up one morning and he will be gone.  I am afraid.

So what happens when fear controls my life — or even a portion of it?  Joy receeds.  I step back from God.  Satan steps in.

That’s where I am right now.  Fear is keeping me from truly enjoying my marriage and my husband.  Fear is allowing satan to get a foothold in my life.  Fear has grown from a grain of sand to a pebble to a rock to a boulder to a mountain between God and me. 

I do believe in eternity and I know, without a doubt, where I’m going when I die.  I also know that I will see Jeff there but again, fear grips me because in my feeble, human mind, I cannot grasp what heaven will be like.  I cannot wrap my brain around the thought that eventually I will get to spend forever with the man I love in the presence of God who breathed life into us.  I can’t imagine what it will be like to see Jesus — the One who willingly suffered and died so that I might live forever — in spite of all of the evil things I’ve done in my time on earth.  I cannot fathom any of this so I fear it instead.

I am finally beginning to understand, as dense as I can be sometimes, that the opposite of fear is faith.  Faith is knowing that if Jeff dies today or tomorrow or 60 years from now, that God will sustain me.  Faith is understanding that God wants only His very best for me and if I get out of the way and allow Him to work, He’ll give it to me.  Faith is deciding to step out from under the shroud of fear and truly begin to enjoy whatever time we have.

So today, I will reach back toward God and allow Him to remove the mountain of fear that has come between us.  I will live courageously and rely on God for my every need and I will continue to love Him above all else.

Even if my earthly life with Jeff ends tomorrow, today it feels great to be alive and to be here with him, enjoying the gift of the precious present.  Whatever tomorrow or the next day or the day after that brings, my world will not end.  So today, right now on this beautiful, amazing, almost spring-like day, I’m going to go enjoy the company and laughter and touch of my husband and I’m going to love every minute of it without fear that it will end.  Today, I will live with courage and faith and comfort in knowing that this is the way God intended life to be lived.

But because of His love and providence and the amazing gift of this life that God has given me to live,  reality is finally better than my dreams.   And I am so incredibly thankful.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It was one of those mornings at our house.  You know, the mornings when life just seems…well, a lot like life.  I had my typical Sunday morning.  I got up, stumbled around, ran into large pieces of furniture and then it happened. I went to take my medicine and the lid wasn’t on the bottle so I spilled my 3 1/2 remaining pills all over everywhere.  Jeff woke up to the sounds of me trying to find the pills, Mr. Magoo style.

When it became obvious that I was not going to find the pills with my current modus operandi, Jeff jumped out of bed, flipped on the light, and announced, “I’ll find them!”  He is a very chivalrous guy.  However, his willingness to jump out of bed and find my medicine at 6:00 AM was rooted more in self-preservation and a deep desire for more uninterrupted sleep than chivalry.

So together we hunted little green pills and found exactly two of them.  The rest fell into the black hole that literally seems to surround me at times.  Rather than wasting our morning searching for pills that had obviously already fallen to China, we gave up and listed them as MIA — hoping all the while that our mail-order pharmacy has actually mailed my little green pill prescription that they’ve been sitting on for two and a half weeks.

Jeff got dressed and headed upstairs to check football scores from yesterday; and I started to get ready for church.  We were visiting yet another congregation this morning in our quest to find a new church home.  If I had any sense, I would have just jumped into the black hole with the missing 1.5 little green pills and gone MIA myself.

But I didn’t.  For the next hour, I dropped things.  It’s not really a hobby, mind you — just a study in how clumsy I can be first thing in the morning.  I dropped, in no particular order: one contact, one hairbrush (Three times.),  the toothpaste (On my foot, lid closed, thank you very much.) one lid to hairspray (MIA until after church.),  deodorant, the curling iron and, my lip gloss. (Lid off.  Very messy.) 

I also ran into the corner of the dresser, got my toe caught in the pocket of my pants (Don’t ask me how!) and dropped one of my clunky shoes on my foot.  As I was literally waiting for the other shoe to drop, I prayed.  “Please let me get to church in one piece.”  This was truly a passionate plea for help.

We finally did get out the door — after I stopped looking in the mirror, that is.  No, I’m not especially vain but I am the proud owner of one of the more stubborn cowlicks in the state of Tennessee.  And of course, it picked this morning to stand up and be recognized!  After poking, prodding, threatening, and a copious amount of hairspray, I was worse off than when I started.  I finally just turned off the bathroom light and walked away — secure in the knowledge that a big chunk of hair right in the middle of my forehead was reaching for the sky and praising God!

We went to breakfast and then to the new church, a charter member of the “Fire & Brimstone Association” where people come forward to accept Christ for no other reason than because they are scared to death of either the preacher or the bus that’s going to run them over when they leave the church — it’s really a toss-up.

The Pastor did have some good points in his sermon but this style of worship was just not for us.  Unfortunately, we knew that about 10 minutes into the service when they had a mass baptism and everyone repeated the same, obviously coached, sentence about why they wanted to be baptized.  It made me really sad to think that one of the most important moments in their lives had been mass-produced.  Shouldn’t baptism be a very personal time of reflection?  When did it become ok to have that moment scripted by anyone other than God?

Today’s church experience left me a little sad and a lot discouraged.   I want to be part of a church family again.  I miss the fellowship, the sense of belonging, and the deep relationships that are cultivated.  But then, tonight, after a nap, a shower, and the nightly dropping of inanimate objects (In real life, I’m really coordinated.  Honest!) I came to a startling conclusion — or rather, God knocked me over the head with it.

We can choose not to go back to that church today.  We can make a choice to try one of the dozens of other churches within a 15 mile radius.  We have that freedom.  Nobody is going to hunt us down (Or run us over with a bus.) for our beliefs.  We can worship our Creator openly and without fear.  Doesn’t that make us…make me…about the most blessed person in the whole world?

Kinda makes black holes, inanimate objects bent on revenge, bad hair days, and complaining about churches that have missed the mark seem rather unimportant and downright silly.  I am incredibly thankful for my life and my freedom and my God — even if the way I live that life sometimes suggests anything but a thankful heart.

Please forgive me, Lord, and thank you for another day with You.

Amen.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net 

Do you ever have one of those reflective kinda days?  The ones when you wonder how you got to this particular place in your life?  I’ve had one today.  Every spring when graduation cards begin appearing at Walgreen’s — although I think they arrived shortly after Valentine’s Day this year — I become quietly reflective about my school years and about the teachers who helped me to become the adult version of me.

The first one that comes to mind, I met in 2nd grade.  She wasn’t my teacher that year.  She taught 3rd grade.  From the day I met her in the hall, I began praying with much passion that I not get Miss Finch for 3rd grade.  There was a big reason for these fervent prayers.  Miss Finch scared the living day-lights out of me. 

The woman was flat-out frightening.  She made kids walk down different sides of the hall — depending on which way they were going.  If they did it wrong, she would make them repeat the walk until they got it right.  Her class was always the best behaved at any all-school assembly because they knew if they misbehaved, they would get the LOOK.  You did not want the look from Miss Finch.  Better to shrivel up and die right on the spot than to be locked in the angry-eyed stare of the meanest teacher in school.

And the clincher?  The thing that made me utterly quake in my new school shoes?  Miss Finch yelled at 6th graders!  With absolutely no fear!  6th graders!!!  Was she insane??  To a timid second grader who would hide in the bathroom rather than pass a 6th grader in the hall, this was quite the happening.  And I prayed like never before that God wouldn’t hate me enough to put me in that woman’s class the next year.

Guess what?  God hated me.  Or so I thought.  As a new 3rd grader, I was assigned to Miss Finch’s class and I began to wonder what illness I could possibly conjure up that would convince my parents to keep me out of school for 9 months.

With sweaty palms, an upset stomach and a huge lump in my throat, I took my place in the 3rd grade classroom and tried to wish myself into being invisible.  It didn’t work.  Miss Finch greeted me brightly as I walked into class that first day.  I slid quietly into my seat and pretended to be invisible.  It worked.  For about a month.

Lots of stuff happens in third grade.  Big stuff like learning times tables and cursive writing — both of which I struggled with at times.  The smart kids breezed through their math papers without having to think or count on their fingers.  I did not.  The smart kids made perfect, sweeping strokes as they connected their o’s and f’s during penmanship.  My connections looked like a road map gone bad.

I remember one day, we were partnered up with a friend and we were supposed to be practicing the connection between o’s and v’s together.  My friend Leslie executed hers flawlessly.  I’m sure, wherever Leslie is now, her employer is complimenting her on her penmanship — just like the teachers did every week in elementary school.  Leslie tried to help me with my connections but I was pretty hopeless.  I just didn’t get it.

“I’m going to tell Miss Finch,” Leslie said, out of genuine concern.

“NO!!! Don’t do that!”  I yelled; but, it was too late.  Leslie the Perfect had called attention to Kiera the Failure. 

I cringed as I waited for Miss Finch to blast me.  I remember her coming from her desk carrying a small ball.  In my mind, scary, horror-movie type music accentuated each step as she came closer.  Was she going to throw the ball at me?  Was she going to scream at me like she did the 6th graders who walked down the wrong side of the hall?  Was she going to send me back to 2nd grade?  She got to my desk and flattened the ball — which turned out to be clay — on my desk and traced the dreaded “o” to “v” connection in the clay. 

“Now close your eyes,” Miss Finch said sweetly.  “And feel what I just wrote in the clay.”

With great trepidation, I did as I was told.  After a minute or so, I got it.  I couldn’t see the connection but I could feel it.  And if I could feel it, I could write it.  The mystery was gone and so was a little bit of my fear of my third grade teacher.  She hadn’t been harsh or impatient.  Instead, she treated me with kindness and compassion.  I became a little braver — at least where penmanship was concerned.  I was no longer afraid to try or to ask for help.

Around mid-October Miss Finch announced that our class would be putting on a Thanksgiving program for our parents and for the younger classes at school.  No problem there.  I could be the third tall girl from the left.  Either that or I could reprise my role of Mopsy Cottontale from the year before.  That would be ok.  I still remembered my 3 lines: “Oh my!” “I don’t know.” and “Peter did it!”  And although my dog chewed on my bunny ears, they could be fixed.

Then the other shoe dropped.  Miss Finch said she would be drawing names out of a hat to cast the various roles in our program — including the two narrator parts which were rumored to be huge!  “It’s the only fair way to do it,” she explained.

What’s fair got to do with anything?  I want to be Mospy Cottontail, not a pilgrim narrator with a huge part!

Anyone want to guess which part I got?  I was Rose Standish — wife of Myles Standish.  I was a pilgrim narrator with a huge part and I was absolutely terrified.  The lines were long.  The rehersals would be many.  As we had the biggest parts, Myles and I were expected to stay in from recess several times a week so we could work with Miss Finch individually.  Now, this wasn’t necessarily all bad.  Myles was to be played by the cutest and most popular boy in third grade.  So that was a bonus.

Unfortunately, he was also one of the most outgoing kids in school.  If you can imagine Tom Cruise as Myles Standish, you would get a pretty good idea of who was playing opposite of me – Wallflower Standish – I mean, Rose Standish. 

On the downside, I had to spend recesses with Miss Finch — who I was still pretty scared of outside of the penmanship arena.

One afternoon, in the middle of our recess-time rehearsal, we heard a strange thump followed by a spray of shattering glass.  A worn baseball rolled to a stop in the middle of the classroom.  Miss Finch told Myles and I to stay where we were as she went flying out of the classroom to kill the owner of the ball.  After several minutes, Miss Finch returned to the classroom.  She was flushed and her nostrils were still flaring.  She reported that the culprits had been found and sent to the principal and the janitor would soon arrive to clean up the mess.

She didn’t know it yet; but, we had bigger problems.

“Miss Finch?  Kiera’s bleeding!”  My pilgrim partner shouted.  Thanks a lot, Myles!  What did I ever do to you?

It was true though.  A small shard of glass had grazed my leg, causing a trickle of blood — which I was attempting to mop up with my knee sock.  Miss Finch came unglued.  Her eyes bugged out and her head spun around.  Ok…not really.  But she was definitely angry.  I was scared to death that she would yell at me.  Why?  I’m not sure.  Logically, I was not at fault in the least; but then again, logic isn’t really a big thing on the 3rd grade hit parade.

Miss Finch was not angry at me and she did not yell.  She was worried about me and terrified that I was seriously hurt.  She was also furious at the 6th grade boys who had thrown their ball through our classroom window.

I found myself excused from school to go to the doctor.  After examining me and trying not to laugh at my “injury”, he gave me a band-aid.  And the next day when I returned to school, I got an apology from two of the biggest 6th graders I’d ever seen in my life. 

I learned several things during my 3rd grade year.  I learned that the “mean” teacher is not always the worst teacher.  I learned that I did have courage and that I could be an actress.  I learned that I was smart enough and capable enough to  keep up with Myles Cruise…I mean Standish.  I learned to ask for help when I needed it.  I also learned a lot about judgment and about deciding you don’t like someone before you ever really get to know them.

I am so thankful for my time in Miss Finch’s classroom.  That was the year that I really started to find myself as a person.  That was the year I had the courage to be someone — instead of spending all of my time trying to make myself invisible — which by the way, doesn’t work very well.  That was the year I discovered that I had value to other people and that God always answers prayers — even if sometimes His answer is, “No.”  

Whenever I get into these retrospective moods, I thank God for not answering my prayer the way I wanted Him to.  I thank Him for doing the unthinkable and putting me into the classroom of the meanest teacher in school.  That mean teacher turned out to be one of the best teachers I have ever had the pleasure of learning from.  And I thank God especially for placing people in my life that have made a lasting and positive change. 

Sometimes, I still feel like that shy little pilgrim.  But then I remember that I once had a teacher who believed in me.  A teacher who cared enough to demand excellence from everyone around her.  A teacher who loved me.  Somehow, that always seems to make it a little easier to believe in myself.

If you have some time later, spend a few minutes thinking about the people who got you to where you are today and helped you to become the person God created you to be.  If possible, send them an email or a letter or pick up the phone and call them.  My guess is that they have no idea how much of an impact they made on your life.  Can you imagine the look on their face when they find out?

Thanks, Miss Finch.  You’re still one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.  I’m proud of the person I’ve become and you’re a lot of the reason why.

Sincerely,

Kiera Rich – Reluctant Pilgrim

by Kiera Rich KRich13@bellsouth.net

My husband and I didn’t do much of anything for Thanksgiving as most of my November has been spent with me on the couch trying to wait out a stubborn case of Mono.  Although our celebration was small and private, it was still very special.  We snuggled on the couch as we ate warm coffee cake and drank OJ; and we watched the Macy’s parade.   The parade is another long-standing tradition that began in my childhood.  However, it may be on its way out.  I know it’s terribly old-school of me but I actually like to see some marching bands in my parades. 

As our Thanksgiving Day progressed, we watched football, ate turkey, and simply enjoyed the gift of each other’s company.  I am big on reflection and tradition so as the day wore on, I mentally began to form my annual “What am I thankful for this year” list. 

The first things that came to mind were the big ones.  I’m thankful for our awesome God who sent His son to Calvary to die for my sins.    I’m thankful to have the Holy Scriptures as a guide for the way I live my life.  I’m thankful for my husband and for having a place I like to come home to.  I am also thankful for my extended family — those I’m actually related to by blood and those who are the family of my heart.

I’m thankful to be living in the United States  where I can worship, live, travel, and eat any time I want without any restrictions or fear. 

And then my mental list got stuck.  I could think of things — lots of things.  But as quickly as I added them to the list, I erased them.  Why?  Because I didn’t think they were big enough things to be thankful for.  Now there’s a silly concept if I ever heard one!   I think sometimes I get so caught up praying about the “big” things that I forget to talk to God about the little things.  I forget to thank Him for the thousands of tiny ways that He blesses my life.  The little things that hardly seem to matter when taken one at a time but without these things, there would be all the difference in the world.

Things like laughing so hard that my face hurts or taking long walks and drinking in the smells of the season…fresh cut grass and hamburgers on the grill, burning leaves and fireplaces chasing away the chill…

Taking a hot shower on a cold night or a refreshing cold shower in the steamy heat of summer. 

Real mail that someone actually took the time to send just to me.  Not that stuff that’s addressed to “occupant.”

I’m also thankful for the instantaneousness of e-mail.  It makes the miles between here and there not seem so far.

I’m thankful for homemade Valentines and  a happy drawing of an orange, carrot-loving horse that adorns our refrigerator.

I’m thankful for the beauty God instilled in the changing of the seasons – the brilliant colors of the dying leaves every fall.  The starkness and peacefulness of new fallen snow.  The excitiment and freshness in the springtime air and the long, lazy days of summer that end in technicolor sunsets. 

I’m also thankful for creature comforts.  For hot towels just out of the dryer, an especially good piece of toast first thing in the morning.  I’m thankful for a back-rub or a hug or even just a smile from someone who loves me.  I’m thankful for hot chocolate on cold, winter nights, grilled cheese when I’m sick and for frosty lemonade to chase away the heat of summer.  I’m thankful for new socks and old clothes that bring a feeling of comfort and security.

 I’m thankful for the good teachers who have influenced my life.  Some gave me courage.  Some gave me confidence.  All of them helped me to seek and find and become the person God created me to be. 

I’m thankful for new crayons every fall — yes, I still buy them even though I’m decades removed from the “supply list” generation.  I’m thankful for public libraries that are stuffed full of more information and adventures and knowledge than I could ever digest.

I’m thankful for life’s surprises.  An unexpected long distance phone call.   Running into an old friend at the grocery store and having the time to stand in the produce section and talk for an hour. Flowers when I don’t expect them and impromptu dances in the kitchen.

I’m thankful for laughter and for puns.  I’m thankful for the ability to see humor in everyday situations.  I’m thankful that I can laugh at myself — or for absolutely no reason at all.

I’m thankful for the cooing of babies and for the giggles of little kids.  I’m thankful for the resounding, deep whooping laugh of my grandfather.  Though he’s been dead for years, his laughter still lingers in my mind.

Although at times I feel like I’m at war with it, I’m still thankful for my body.    I am thankful that I can laugh, sing, and dance whenever I want to.  I’m thankful for good workouts and sore, well-used muscles and for the availability and abundance of healthy food.  

I’m thankful for my hands and feet.  For the ability to type and write and draw and create.  I love holding hands with my husband and the feeling of kicking him in the middle of the night when he snores. 

I’m thankful for this world.  For the mountains and the beaches and the prairies.  For the oceans and forests and ice caps.  And the millions of God’s creatures that inhabit every area of the globe.

I’m thankful for swings and Dr. Seuss and board games and holiday traditions.  I’m thankful for the love and devotion of some really wonderful cats.  Well…three wonderful cats… Anyone want the fourth?

I’m thankful for music and how, over the years, my moods have all developed their own little soundtracks.  I’m also thankful for the music, which at times, has moved me to believe.

I’m thankful for sunrises and sunsets…that occur everyday…no matter what kind of upheaval the world is in…the sun still rises and sets…faithfully.

I’m thankful for storms and rainbows, for snowmen and sand castles and kites flying through a cloudless sky.

I’m thankful for getting out of bed each morning and for praying each evening to my God who listens.

I’m thankful for the thousands of people that have touched my life.  Some I’ve known for years.  Some I knew very briefly.  Some I’ve never met.  But all of them have affected me in a significant way.  And some have changed my life profoundly.   

I think it’s important to remember all these little things that give us joy.  All the people that have shaped us and loved us and wanted the best for us.  All of the simple gifts God gives us everyday, if only we remember to look.

His fingerprints are everywhere.  In every aspect of our lives – even in the seemingly insignificant areas.  Sometimes, I do see His fingerprints everywhere.  Sometimes they’re not easy to see.  Sometimes, others have to point them out to me.  Sometimes, I don’t see them at all.  But they’re always there.  Just like God…and for His faithfulness – in every area of my life…I am so incredibly thankful.

Amen.