The Gift of Gratitude

“Can you see the holiness in those things you take for granted—a paved road or a washing machine? If you concentrate on finding what is good in every situation, you will discover that your life will suddenly be filled with gratitude, a feeling that nurtures the soul.” Rabbi Harold Kushner

Tangible things I so easily take for granted:

1.       Love of husband

2.       Time with my three precious children

3.       Loving parents who are still married (50 years)

4.       Warm home

5.       “Clean” water

6.       Three cars

7.       Shelves of books to read

8.       Electricity

9.       Three meals a day

10.   Close friendships

Far more importantly are those items that God has blessed me with which have affected my life for eternity. Ephesians lists many of these:

 “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will—to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding. And he made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times will have reached their fulfillment—to bring all things in heaven and on earth together under one head, even Christ.

In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will, in order that we, who were the first to hope in Christ, might be for the praise of his glory. And you also were included in Christ when you heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation. Having believed, you were marked in him with a seal, the promised Holy Spirit, who is a deposit guaranteeing our inheritance until the redemption of those who are God’s possession—to the praise of his glory.” (Ephesians 1:3-14)

Spiritual blessings:

1.       Adoption

2.       Forgiveness

3.       Lavish grace

4.       Holy

5.       Blameless

6.       Wisdom

7.       Understanding

8.       Mystery of His will

9.       Chosen

10.   Hope in Christ

11.   Inheritance

12.   Word of truth (gospel)

13.   Holy Spirit

14.   God’s possession

Ann Voscamp, in her book 1000 Gifts, states “A life contemplating the blessings of Christ becomes a life acting the love of Christ.” When I meditate on all the God has done for me through his son, Jesus, how can I not be grateful? Shouldn’t that attitude of gratitude spill out everywhere I go—in the car, at the grocery store, in my conversation, in my family?

But, what about the hard things? How can we see God’s blessings in the heart-breaking events of our lives? In divorce and betrayal? In cancer? In death? In physical suffering? How do we give God thanks in the midst of trials and troubles?

1 Thessalonians 5:18 says, “Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” No matter what I am facing, I can give thanks right smack dab “in” the middle of it. I thank Him for His faithfulness to walk me through the pain. I thank Him for comforting me in my sorrow. I thank Him for leading me through the darkness. I thank Him for healing my broken heart. I focus and fix my eyes on the One who endured the pain of nails piercing His body for me and suffered shame on my behalf. I realize He too has experienced betrayal, physical suffering and death. In this imperfect life, how can I accept pleasure and not expect pain; love and not betrayal; life and not death? And yet, God promises to be with me, present beside me, walking through the valley of the shadow of death.

Jesus broke the bread and gave thanks right before he was nailed to a cross for my sin. How can I be ungrateful at any point in my life?

“Father, help me to see everything in my life through the lens of gratitude. I want to remember that you have blessed me with every spiritual blessing in Christ so that I can be the love of Christ to those around me. When trials come, allow me to see your faithfulness. You promise to never leave me no matter what I am going through. When life is sweet, recall to my mind the good gifts you have given me that I so easily take for granted.  May a heart of gratitude spill out of me to everyone I meet.”

“The unthankful heart…discovers no mercies; but let the thankful heart sweep through the day and, as the magnet finds the iron, so it will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings!” – Henry Ward Beecher

How Blonde Are You?

I’m beginning to believe that everyone may have a tiny bit of blonde underneath their red, black or brunette strands. Family and friends teased me for years about my blondeness even when my hair color resembled that of dirty dishwater. When I was a teen, boys stood on either side of my head to talk claiming the wind blew right through my ears. The number of jokes I didn’t understand were as numerous as the sand on the beach. And sometimes, I clearly don’t think before I speak. A few days ago, I asked my 17-year old about the 30-hour famine youth event she would be attending.

“So, will you be fasting for 24 hours?” I asked.

Smirking, she said, “Mom, it’s a 30-hour famine!

I’m grateful for the opportunity to give my family and friends stress relief at my expense. Even today, friends laugh when I tilt my head slightly to the left saying, “Huh?!” Yes, I have this disease, but it’s not simply because I shell out big bucks to be blond.

Many claim this dumb blonde myth circled the globe since ancient times, but it culminated with Marilyn Monroe who paid to dye her brunette locks to blonde when she played in the movie, “Gentleman Prefer Blondes.” Hair color commercials seized the opportunity to promote the idea that blondes have more fun.  Brunettes were seen as serious and intelligent, while blondes were depicted as fun-loving and superficial. The movie industry continues to sell this dumb blonde myth in movies such as “Legally Blonde 1 and 2.” A story about a dumb brunette would bomb at the box office.

While I have endured abuses all my life because of my mental incapacity to “get things” (it must be the bleach seeping into my scalp), I have managed to overcome these trials by taking advantage of the opportunities to laugh at others’ blonde mishaps. Even though my hubby is a natural brunette with about three gray hairs sprinkled in, I howled when he unwittingly taped the movie “Braveheart” in Spanish. A few months before that, he taped a “must see” movie for all of us to watch because of its apparent good ratings. In his confusion over the title, he recorded the wrong movie. As we viewed this movie with our two daughters, our jaws dropped when a man’s pants dropped. We stopped the show and ribbed Tony for scarring us for life! “The Piano” and “The Pianist,” are apparently two very different movies.  

It’s nice to know that no matter the hair color, everyone has their blonde moments.

Lessons From the Wilderness

Please check out my latest post on Sanctified Together. Read how God can use the wilderness experiences in our lives to be more like Him!

A London Encounter

Crowded with people scurrying to catch a train, tube or trek into the city, London’s Victoria Station is a hub bub of activity. Suits speeding to their offices, confused travelers with eyes glued to maps (that’s us), shoppers browsing the stores, they are like ants on a mission. When we arrived via London Heathrow Airport, disoriented Americans dragging heavy pieces of luggage through the mob, we couldn’t conceive the God encounter that would transform us the final night of our journey.

Irish sheep-Ring of Kerry



To celebrate my parent’s 50^th wedding anniversary, the four of us spent a week in Ireland with its 40 shades of green, rolling hills dotted with sheep and cows and lovely people with harmonious accents I could listen to for the rest of my days. We traded the calm and serene for crowds and chaos when we transported to London, circling four days in a whirlwind across the city. Hitting the must see sights, we toured St. Paul’s Cathedral, Tower of London, Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace. A bit consumed with British history and obsessed with kings, queens and castles, I’m slightly disappointed I wasn’t born a royal. Still, the defining moment of this trip brought home to me what is truly valuable. It’s not palaces and princesses, crown jewels or coronations, royalty or robes.



Wall to wall people in London



The night before we were scheduled to fly back home again to Indiana, my dad and mom, Tony and I dined at a restaurant on the third floor of Victoria Station. In honor of our last night in London, Mom ordered the traditional English fish and chips with mashed peas. Mashed peas paired with fish and chips makes as much sense to me as tennis shoes with a black cocktail dress. For me, peas of any sort belong with the tea thrown overboard in Boston Harbor. The rest of us chose to eat more appetizing fare—pizza!  As we were finishing our meal, a British man interrupted our conversation through the booth’s window cutout open to the mall. His clothes were worn and all he carried was a small bag containing a few items. “Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but could you spare any change?” he said.

Mom, an extrovert on steroids, responded, “What do you need money for?”

“Ma’am, I’d like to get something sweet.”

Mom asked, “Are you hungry?”

Stunned by a question the stranger has likely never been asked, he paused and then answered. “Why, yes, I am.”

Blasting the bewildered man with questions about what he’d like to order, mom took charge of the situation while the rest of us remained silent watching this interchange.  He settled on the pizza and a coke. Smart to skip the mashed peas, like us. Mom then asked the man if he’d rather eat his food in the restaurant or take it to go.

 “I’ll take it with me, ma’am.”

“Well, why don’t you come in and sit in one of the booths, and we’ll talk to the waitress about your food.”

The homeless man plodded into the restaurant and plopped down into one of the booths. He wore weariness. No sigh escaped his lips, but I could sense it. Tired, hungry and all he asked for was a few pence for something sweet, as if that would satisfy the hunger pains. His head hung low as if some invisible weight were holding it down. Awkward silence reigned at our table. It seemed sacrilegious to continue casual conversation. A man hungered while we feasted—while I spurned mashed peas.  My eyes blurred as I blinked back tears threatening as I watched this worn out creature. And yet, here we sat, part of a divine interaction, our resources covering this man’s need.

After the waitress brought his to-go food, the man slowly rose and plodded back to the window cutout. “I don’t mean to bother you again, but thank you.”

Mom said, “God bless you.” The man replied the same and disappeared into the mall to fill his stomach. 

I confess that had my parents been absent, my response would’ve been different. This homeless man would’ve been an inconvenience on my vacation. Perhaps I might’ve thrown a few pence his way in hopes of hurrying him along.  I doubt I would’ve have offered him food or drink.  And yet, Jesus said, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in…” (Matthew 25:35)  

Too often, I am quick to judge, criticize, and wonder whether my gift to someone in need will be misused. I ignore the prompting to offer what I have because I am too busy sizing up the situation. Is this person worth it? How many opportunities to be God’s hands and feet have I missed because of the huge log in my eye?  I’m like the Pharisees, focusing on the outside of the cup instead of the inside of my heart.  When I am compelled to give, I should act quickly without censure, condemnation or calculation of a person’s need or value. Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40) What happens to my gift offered with love and grace is not my concern. Ignoring the call to give, however, is not only disobedience but also a missed opportunity to be part of someone’s transformation.

I don’t know the far-reaching effects of this London encounter. Perhaps the meal offered this homeless London man gave him renewed hope that someone cared. Maybe this event witnessed by the waitress sparked an attitude of love and giving. If each told their friends, how might they be changed because of one meal given in Jesus’ name? I only know that I don’t want to remain complacent, stay blinded or become calloused to those in need around me. I ask not only for God to open my eyes but also to instill in me a willingness to give without strings. A meal, a $20 bill, a shirt, a cup of coffee has the power to change a life. After all, a meal in London changed mine!

A Horrible Habit

Recently, my husband and I were enjoying lunch at Chili’s with our daughter Maddie. I was wearing my “Gripes Be Gone” bracelet which I created in my “Married to Me” study. These highly sophisticated pieces of elastic string containing three beads symbolize my husband and me with God in the center. Each time I complained, whined or griped, I snapped the bracelet against my wrist, a stinging reminder of my lack of self-control. Our waitress’ chatter was a little over the top. After making a cutting remark to Tony about it, I looked down at my bracelet and snapped it.

Tony asked, “What’s that?” Reluctantly, I explained my lovely new jewelry piece. He laughed knowing the impossibility of this device to take captive my complaints. He asked to borrow my bracelet. Wrapping it around 3 fingers, he stated, “This booth has a really bad odor,” and snapped it. I laughed. Whether Tony was attempting to identify with my dilemma or poke fun, the reality is that a bracelet isn’t capable of delivering me from caustic complaining.

Many of us have developed bad habits that have been deemed acceptable among Christian women. We gripe about our husbands, our children, our jobs and our busyness. We complain about slow service, critique sermons and criticize a person’s clothes or imperfect parenting. Philippians 2:14-15 states, “Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure…” 

That little word, “everything,” is tripping me up, how about you?! God wants me to use my words to bless, to encourage, to lift up others. James 3:10-11 says, “Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My (sisters), this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring?” If we are to be a blessing to others in our homes and our community, we must use our words wisely. We have a choice: we can shut our mouths when we don’t have anything good to say or snap bracelets leaving marks on our wrists and in other’s hearts. Let’s be different than the culture in which we live!

Remembering Summer

During elementary school, teachers frequently assigned a writing topic similar to the title of this post as a first-day-welcome-back-to-school initiation to the class. Apparently, they missed hearing the groaning of their students for no one enjoys writing the first day back in class. My summers as a child weren’t terribly exciting that I recall. Aside from the occasional road trip to California to see relatives, playing outside with my brother and sister and reading 10,000 library books to earn the movie prize at the end-of-the-summer, our lives were fairly uneventful. Still, I wish those ancient papers still existed somewhere in the depths of mom’s storage boxes. My kids might actually get a glimpse of a summer without texting, video games or computer! Perhaps teachers rarely give students this assignment today because they don’t wish to read 30 papers filled with video game escapades, Barbie computer games and the TV tales of Phineas and Ferb.

While my summer papers are long lost in la-la land, I could relate their contents with some accuracy. Road trips with my family consisted of playing the “ABC” game in which we silently collected letters on road signs until we found the letter “z”. The object was to be the first person to yell the final letter. When we grew tired of playing (or were traveling the long stretch of flat freeway between Stockton and Bakersfield with no signs anywhere), mom started “Categories.” I think she created this game when she was fed up with the three of us asking, “Are we there yet” every five minutes. Someone would pick a category, such as “pies,” “outside games,” or “boys’ names that begin with ‘Q’,” and we’d take turns coming up with a word that fit. One was disqualified when a word was repeated or someone was stumped. When bored with a category, we would “accidentally” repeat a word to get thrown out of the game.

Next on the list of things to occupy us was auto bingo or tracking license plates from different states. With no dvd players, dsi’s or cell phones to keep our eyes glued, we stared for hours at farmland with acres of vegetables or fruit trees, pastures with grazing cows and horses and giant snow-capped mountains. Sometimes we asked our parents questions about the scenery because we had nothing else to do, nowhere to escape. GPS and MapQuest were nonexistent, so we used the old-fashioned paper map to follow the towns until we arrived at our destination. I loved to trace my finger along the map as we passed each city and then call out the next town and number of miles. Aside from an atlas we own, I’m not sure my children have ever seen a real live map. I chant, “Whatever happened to the days of map-reading, auto bingo and being bored for hours on end?” I sound just like my grandma, lamenting the good old days of horse and buggy.

When we weren’t road tripping concocting our own entertainment, we’d play “Red Rover, Red Rover,” “Red Light, Green Light” or “Mother, May I” with the neighborhood kids. Wii was you and me playing together making our own fun. We rode our bikes and played on the swing set. And if we tired of that, the library reading program was an option in which we loved to participate. Reading 20 books over the summer entitled us to watch the latest movie at the Venetian Theater. Who didn’t want to watch a free movie with the price of movies at the exorbitant cost of $2.50 per ticket?! With my Flicks candy in hand, I was a happy camper.

While my children are growing up in an entertain me world, fortunately some things are still the same. We plow our way through books in the library reading program and win a free book after we accumulate enough reading points. Bike riding, pool and play dates continue. Still, I lament that video games, texting and online games threaten a family takeover if I don’t regulate its usage. Taking road trips is vastly different as we’ve traded looking-out-the-window scenes for viewing the movie screen although we still enjoy a couple of rounds of the “ABC” game. Wearing ipod earbuds, our children don’t even hear us when we ask them to notice mountains, cows or road kill.

Hope is on the horizon, however. A day will come when these same children will be driving inside yellow and white lines, passing road signs, and noticing cantering horses in wide grassy fields, dvd watching a distant memory. They will combat with the latest technical gadget, begging their little ones to look up and see the beauty around them.  Some new fangled gizmo will menace their family togetherness. I can hear the cry for the good old days.  “Ah, whatever happened to ipads, ipods and iphones?”

The Nearly Perfect Man

I can’t recall when he first coined me “Blondie,” but it’s stuck for the past forty something years—only now, I pay for the blonde to hide the gray lurking beneath. This man who oozes love, gentleness and acceptance is nearly perfect in my estimation. The faded shirt on the fence for incalculable years unfortunately hinders his ability to win Perfect Father of the Century--and maybe the doorless kitchen cupboards.

Always humble, honest, hardworking, Dad centered his life on family from day one, a miracle as great as God parting the Red Sea. Losing both of his parents by the age of 10, Dad shuffled to various relatives until his teens when he finally landed with his oldest newly married brother. In spite of so much tragedy and transition, he graduated high school, married his high school sweetheart and successfully raised three children in three states. Perhaps his days of bouncing to aunts and cousins sealed his nomadic tendency to wander. Although we resided fourteen years in one city, we transferred homes five times.  At least his transient itch never extended into marriage for he recently celebrated fifty years to the same woman. Many men, raised in more ideal situations complete with two Godly parents, possessions and a pet, don’t fare as well as my dad. How does an orphaned boy parent three kids with no role model to speak of? What’s the secret to my dad’s success as a father?

Most men learn to parent from their fathers whether positive or negative. However, my dad has little memory of his father, yet he doesn’t appear to have suffered from his lack of parental influence. From my perspective, a poor father can be more detrimental to a son’s future parenting than a father absent through death. Then again, my dad may be one of those extraordinary fathers who rose from adverse circumstances to become a stellar example.

Dad invested in his kids. I’m not just referring to handing us a few bucks now and then although he did that too. He was not only present, he was involved. A participating parent, he cuddled with us, changed our diapers and corrected us. While he never spanked us, he occasionally would admonish us if we disrespected mom.

“If you do that again, you will find out what will happen,” he’d warn.

We never wanted to find out exactly what he meant, so we stopped.

He coached our teams, cheered our games and came to our band and choir concerts. He knew our friends and our dates. We attended church together on Sundays and every other time the doors were open. He volunteered as a youth worker to keep track of us. During tough times, he encouraged us and was our biggest fan (alongside mom).  For a few years, my dad traveled quite a bit with his job. One Mother’s Day dad had just returned from travel, and we dined at a Chinese Restaurant. When the waiter seated us, the three of us yelled in unison, “I want to sit by dad!” To this day, we occasionally joke about who gets to sit by dad, much to mom’s chagrin.

The experts say the best thing a dad can do is love his kids’ mom. It’s true. Not only did we see dad’s love through his actions, he voiced his love out loud—in front of us, causing us to grimace. Some dads are stoic and barely show affection to their wives in the presence of their children. For their kids’ sake, they need to demonstrate love for their wives in behavior and words. Kids feel more secure. We did. Even though my parents bickered, because of their outward show of affection, we knew their love was strong. My dad defended my mom and was devoted to her. Many times, we attempted to pit one parent against the other until they figured out our game. We’d ask dad first because he most always said yes to whatever we asked. Somewhere along the way, they conversed and clamped down. From then on, dad backed whatever mom said. Bummer.

Unconditional love, especially for his family, characterizes my dad. Many of us tend to treat others with more kindness than our own families. My dad is an exception to this. He always had less tolerance for others outside the family.  While the three of us are as imperfect as hot chocolate without marshmallows, I’m certain he believes we are nearly perfect. He overlooks our faults as the Good Book advocates. “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8)

Many men are duty-driven, churchgoers; not my dad. His most important success as a father, by a mile, is his Godly example. When I was about two, Jesus transformed his life. He’s never been much of a Bible-thumping, preachy person; he just lived it. Kids can spot a fake a mile away. When dads act all spiritual on Sunday, but the rest of the week cut people off on the road, use the tall finger and treat people they work with rudely, their kids desire to follow Christ as much as toddlers like to nap.  Fathers don’t have to follow Christ perfectly; they just need to follow Him truthfully.

My dad stumbled, slipped, staggered. But, he also scaled, surmounted and soared. Just like all of us. He’s transparent and truthful. He doesn’t excuse; he owns up. He’s someone people can talk to and be real with. Never Pecksniffian, he exemplifies the attitude of the woman that pours her expensive perfume on Jesus’ feet at the pious Pharisee’s home.  When Simon rebukes her actions, Jesus tells him a story about two men who owe different amounts of money to a lender, one more and one less. The moneylender forgives the amounts they owe and Jesus asks who loves the lender more. Simon replies that the one whose debt is greater loves him more. After some explanation, Jesus finally says, “Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—for she loved much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little.” (Luke 7:36-50) My dad loves much because he realizes how much grace he’s been given. During any given Sunday sermon, tears slip quietly down his face as his fingers gently brush them away. He’s not afraid to show his emotion as he recalls all that God has done in his life.

Recently, I was conversing with my sister-in-law who shared with me a poem that her daughter, Taylor, wrote about her daddy. I listened to her read a beautiful metaphorical tribute to this man, my brother, as my eyes dripped like a leaky faucet thinking about my father. My brother, fathering his own three children, resembles his father in all the ways that count. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My orphan father raised a son just like him.  

My Daddy

 by Taylor Weston

He is like a tree,

standing tall and strong.

He has been there,

as long as I’ve known,

and I know he always will be.

With his roots in the ground,

and his branches held high,

he shows me what is right.

Always patient, always calm,

he teaches me respect.

With the wind, the rain, the sun,

he continues to stand firm.

I learn from him what it is to be free,

to stay true to my beliefs,

yet still respectful and kind.

His arms spread wide,

like branches are,

for warm embraces

whenever there is the need.

And I know he loves me.

While I can’t claim authorship of this appropriately penned poem, I can adopt its words as a tribute to my own father, who at almost 70, has been an immovable tree in my own life. Over the years, I have watched my dad grow as a leader, a teacher and a mentor. His life is an exemplary act to follow. Recently, I heard a man approximately my father’s age say about him, “When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Me too!