and the list of thanks is longer than the list of disappointments

It was a cold, rainy weekend.

Just pretty much gross.

One of my favorite pottery plates fell from the dishwasher as my young assistants were unloading the silverware tray.  It shattered.

This weekend at the exact moment when the cashier at Trader Joe’s said, “That will be $179” I became painfully and immediately aware of the fact that my wallet was in my blue bag and I was carrying my green one.

Kevin and I had physicals recently for life insurance policies and when I saw my weight I let myself think it mattered so much more than it does.  For days (no, honestly – for weeks) I’ve been dragging around a voice in my head whispering and shouting about numbers and comparisons and ideals and skirt sizes and so much garbage.

Our HVAC system was repaired last year and this year marks the first winter we’ve faced with zero broken windows in our old farmhouse.  (And we are grateful.)  But it’s still kind of cold.  The warmest spot in our house happens to be the horizontal destination located directly under our heaviest winter quilt.  Is it my fault that I just want to be warm and that requires giving in to the temptation to lie down in our bed at 3 o’clock in the afternoon?

I’ve misplaced my second favorite and warmest leggings and my first favorite pair have a hole in them.

And these things are all pretty minor and almost kind of ridiculous when I hold them up in comparison to the list that is my thankful list.

To the myriad of construction paper leaves in autumn colors adorning the sticks on our kitchen table.

It is overflowing.

And I am too.

I cannot stay up late enough or type long enough to include all of the ways in which my path has been sheltered and my heart has been healed and my hope has been restored.

I am grateful for the big and the little – and it’s always such a hodge podge mix that shines best when it’s lumped together –

… front porches, dishwashers, old farmhouses, bright colors, scarves, sunshine, healthy children, laughter, a considerate husband, vanilla cinnamon tea, friends, Mrs. Meyers soap scents, homemade bread, Thai food, six humans that call me Mom, two-day shipping, blue ink, blankets, washing machine, grace, good neighbors, forgiveness, internet, my dad, miniature shoes for miniature feet, the sun setting, hope, wooden earrings with carved trees, smiles, fairy tales, words, potato soup, cameras, texting, hot showers, chocolate chips, kittens, winter boots …

You guys.  

The list is just so long.

What a gift – to have a long list that I cannot contain.

On the table the kids have gone wild jotting down their thankful thoughts.  There has been zero prompting from Kevin or I and at every meal and throughout the day, a Sharpie is in hand and a child is scratching out their praise.

Last week our pipes froze and burst and within minutes London was at the table, the temporary loss of a privilege reminding her what a glory it actually is.  She wrote down – water, toilets.

One of our leaves says “MJ”.  I’m not nearly as thankful for Michael Jackson as my daughter is, but I’m glad she recognizes music as a gift to celebrate.

My name is up there on the tree – and I can tell you – that is a humbling and deeply satisfying thought to realize that a person is thankful that you exist.

It’s a good tree.  It’s a good exercise – and I’m in no hurry to pull that tree down.