cookies and milk

        I like good endings to movies and books and visits, and I like good endings to my days, too. I always have, but it took me a long time to stop making bad ones instead. Every night, I used to either miss the chance to revisit the day, or, worse, I'd walk back through it feeling like a kid going to the principal's office. If I'd done ninety-nine things out of a hundred that day, I'd ignore the ninety-nine and stare at the one looming thing I'd messed up. Then I'd cross my arms and glare at myself and call myself names and tell myself how much better so-and-so would've done. It was like having a few sips of poison as a nightcap. But I don't do that anymore. I have cookies and milk instead. I start at the very beginning of the day, and I remember all its pieces. It gives me a chance to say thank-you for the dog and the fire and the guy at work who always has my back, and it gives me a chance to feel sad about things that got buried under all the busyness. It gives me time for I'm-sorry, too, but not the poisonous kind. Instead of I'm sorry I'm such a hopeless rat of a failure, I say I'm sorry I made You sad, because I know You love me higher than the stars. Sometimes I make it all the way through the day, and sometimes I fall asleep halfway. Either way, it's a good ending. 

birthdays and other small parties

        You have to be careful about small parties. If you're not, you'll outgrow them. You'll get too busy and sophisticated and weighed-down for celebrating, and you'll miss all the invitations. And the invitations are everywhere. Sometimes they're birthdays or half-birthdays (remember those?) or anniversaries. Sometimes other people come, and sometimes they're private parties, like the one I'm having all by myself today because it's Barbara's birthday and I get to celebrate how beautiful she is. On darker days, when it's hard to see the invitations, you can look in the rearview mirror and celebrate something that happened last week or last year. Or you can borrow things -- you can celebrate somebody else getting a promotion or writing a book or having a baby or exercising every day. Before you know it, you'll be so busy having small parties that all the worries and complaints will end up sulking in the corner where they belong.

"[Celebration] is the unceasing affirmation that underneath all the ups and downs of life there flows a solid current of joy." Henri Nouwen, Lifesigns

"Let's have a feast and celebrate. . . .  [And there was] music and dancing." Luke 15:23, 25.

coloring monday

        This Monday morning started with the sinking feeling that recess is over and now I have to slog through all the undone chores. After a while, I half-heartedly (because that's all I had left) started reading a psalm, and that's when I saw these magic words: "I will give thanks to the Lord with all my heart." In the margin, there were scribbled dates from other days when this verse had rescued me, so I decided to add "1/10/11" to the group. I told all my anxious how-will-I-ever-make-it thoughts to wait in the corner, and I gave my imagination a few minutes to wander around. I ended up in places I haven't been for a very long time -- Mrs. Ewell's kindergarten class; accident scenes that people I love have walked away from; a stormy canoe trip with one of my favorite (used to be little) boys. I just followed along, saying thank-you for the good grace that filled those times, and a funny thing happened -- I started looking forward to all the grace that will surprise me along the path today. Somehow those few minutes managed to color Monday. I guess recess isn't over after all.

spinach

        Remember the old Popeye cartoons? Every one was exactly the same: Popeye, weak and sometimes at death's door and about to be defeated, would remember, just in the nick of time, to eat his spinach. Then he'd be a powerhouse -- his eyes would shine and his muscles would bulge and he'd beat every enemy in sight. Well, so it goes with gratitude. You're slouching along, eyes downcast, feeling burdened or discontent or bored or defeated, and then you remember that you have a choice. You can slog through the day from chore to chore, or you can choose to give thanks.  You can stay in the small and stifling world of me, myself and I, or you can trade it for the clear vistas and fresh air of thank-you. It won't change your circumstances, but it'll change you so much that you'll hardly recognize them. Give it a try. Take five minutes right now to think of things to give thanks for on this new, clean-slate day -- a safe trip home or a roof over your head or a face that can smile. And then ask for eyes to see all the small crossroads -- the complain-or-give-thanks choices that usually slip by unnoticed. Before you fall asleep tonight, do a fly-over of the day and see what a difference all that spinach has made.

Father, thank you for giving me a fresh start today. Show me this day's hidden treasures. Apart from you, I'll miss them or take them for granted, so hold my hand and point out every one. May my small thanksgivings be music to your ears.  Amen. 

small celebrations

        “Small” and “celebration” don’t go together too well, do they?  We’re used to celebrating the big things -- birthdays and anniversaries and Christmas.  But what about celebrating the small, everyday things like taking a good photo or having a good laugh or not being rude when somebody asks you the same question four times?  At first that probably sounds naive or even silly, but it isn’t.  It’s the opposite.  It’s good and clean and wise, because it’s imitating God.  He celebrates small things.  He has a whole universe to run, but just one person saying one “yes” to Him is enough to make all of heaven rejoice.  I learned that over a decade ago from Henri Nouwen’s book Return of the Prodigal Son, and I’m still reeling from it.  

surprise

        It’s hard to stay jaded and bored these days, isn’t it?  While you’re busy looking for new ways to say thank-you, excitement sneaks right in the back door.  Before you know it, business-as-usual has a new spring in its step, and there’s hardly any same-old-same-old left.  Things like having a dog or a hot shower or eyes that still work start feeling like presents.  And all that from a little gratitude.  Who knew.

"You say grace before meals.  All right.  But I say grace before the concert and the opera, and grace before the play and pantomime, and grace before I open a book, and grace before sketching, painting, and swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing, and grace before I dip the pen in ink."  G. K. Chesteron