My friend, Jewell, who helps us troubleshoot the mysterious leaks and problems in our house. He has fixed our roof, replaced windows and doors, and myriad other helps.
Suzi and Phil, who sold us another Camry, which reliably takes the thousands of miles we put on cars.
That travel for my job happens around my dad's birthday each year, meaning I get to be with him.
That my son does come back and sweetly apologize for mistakes and failures. There is a beautiful age between eight and around twelve when our kids are fun to talk with, can play games, are discovering the world and responsive to others. Oh, don't get me wrong, they can throw tantrums, conjure up some tall tales and pull some bone-headed stunts, but they have a penitent streak.
For good books, that open up wonder in the world. I'm thoroughly enjoying Bernardo and the Virgin by Silvio Sirias. What makes any story good is how it lets me see that difficulty and tough stuff grows our muscles.
For the gift of a good meal, and letting go to enjoy it. House blessing with Wilson's last night was yummy. They minister in ways they do not realize.
For the gift of pain, which sets limits on our stubborn wills. When I learned today there is a good reason for the profound pain I feel when I speed the walk into a run, I was relieved that I learned to trust and life in the pain, without masking it.
Thanksgiving is not ibuprofen though. It does not mask today's pinches and sprains, the oil leak, the screaming son, the leaky roof, the broken tooth, sickness, another friend's parent being much much sicker, the students whose trauma we teachers adopt in secondary fashions each day. It does not mask the lack of time to clean my house, the sorrow over my sins of selfishness or self-pity. It is nutrition from the soul, like Scripture, prayer, worship.
Glory to God in all things.
|From the Holy Fathers Post|