A Grateful Thanksgiving

In The Return Of The Prodigal Son, Henry Nouwen pens some of my favorite passages. He writes, "The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, to be celebrated with joy. Gratitude as a discipline involves a conscious choice." Yesterday at the gym, I paused to chat with a fellow gymmie friend. She asked about my welfare, and stated how glad she was to see me. I glanced around the weight room, my thoughts forming words of resentment and fear. Instantly, I knew I could either voice complaints over my health, my limitations, the economy, or I could simply say, thank you, it's nice to see you too.  Henri Nouwen also states, "Resentment and gratitude cannot co-exist, since resentment blocks the perception of life as a gift." I like that, life as a gift. Thanksgiving is an opportune time to reflect on the discipline of gratitude. I have much to be thankful for. Even though my husband groans every fall as he retrieves our rake, I love, love,  the leaves carpeting the ground, the deck, the brilliant reds and golds, the shapes and mounds of splendid color. My grandchildren make my heart do cartwheels. I have eyes to see, hands to feel, I am mobile, I do not have a scooter yet. I have a job, a good marriage, wonderful children, a home and a refrigerator filled with food. To quote Henri Nouwen once again, "Acts of gratitude make one grateful because, step by step, they reveal that all is grace." I thanked my gymmie friend yesterday, and asked after her own welfare. It was a step, and once more I caught a glimpse of how much my choices matter. And maybe one day my pace will outdistance all resentments, until every breath is an expression of gratitude. Happy Thanksgiving.

If You Build It They Will Come

This summer I bought my very first hummingbird feeder. A sea-green glass antique-looking feeder that appeared way more attractive than its cheaper plastic competitors and I felt certain every hummingbird in the vicinity would flock to its sweet nectar daily. Every day I lingered at the kitchen sink, my gaze pinned to the hanging ornamental feeder outside the window. Washing an unusual amount of dishes by hand, I tarried,   hoping to witness one of my favorite feathered friends take a drink, whir its tiny wings. While on vacation in July, after lamenting my still chock-full glass container, a few family members offered their advise. Hummingbirds like the color red they said. When we arrived home my husband tied a crimson-red ribbon around the base of the glass. Surely, they can't miss their food now. As the end of summer approached, and the nectar appeared untouched, we moved the feeder to the front porch, and replaced it with a hanging flower basket. Truth be told, I was disappointed and tired of waiting. Besides, I had other things to do than wait for a bird I told myself. The other day, laying on the sofa nursing my back, I chatted with my sister on the telephone. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I finally saw one. Whirring its diminutive wings and dipping its long skinny beak, the pale green bird hovered right next to the red ribbon and took its fill. "Oh! That made my day!" I exclaimed. The hummingbird visited for just a short while, but my longing had been satisfied. My wait had come to an end. Charles Haddon Spurgeon said, "Waiting on God exercises your gift of grace and tests your faith. Therefore, continue to wait in hope, for though the promise may linger, it will never come to late." Thank-you, I whispered, into the faithful arms of hope. What might to the human eye appear as lacking, may actually be the beginning of the answer.