Journal of Graces

This past Christmas I received the book, One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp. A friend at work had recommended the book, knowing what flavors I like to read. Oh, the exhilarating thrill of words playing with each other, poetically, romantically, daringly. With each turn of the page excitement snaked up my spine. During Thanksgiving I penned about gratitude, deep breaths of gratitude, the winning type of thanksgiving that outpaces resentment, the Roadrunner racing for joy. Ann Voskamp's story has deepened my inner hunger to live gratefully. Joyfully. I am on the move, taking the dare. I dug into a bottom drawer, fished out an empty journal I had laid aside years earlier, simply because it was too beautiful to use. What better place to start! Clicking my favorite pen, I opened to the first blank page. #1. beautiful journal #2. On-Point pen. I inhaled a fragile appreciative breath. #3. fresh brewed coffee. Oh, the possibilities. The hunt. My eyes dart, searching for gifts and graces, for the not-too-appealing gifts, back to graces. Truly, I am an amateur at this discipline of gratitude. But I have a hope, a burning desire. That by the practice of naming graces, gifts, writing them down in ink, I might have a greater chance at releasing my inner resentments, fears, and yes, my pride. Like Henri Nouwen said: "resentment and gratitude cannot co-exist" It isn't that difficult. The naming. #4. full moon rising. #5. babies tiny teeth. #6 cold medicine. With each stroke of the pen, this thing, this gift, becomes illuminated, magnified, appreciated. Isn't that what this is all about? This life? To learn to receive what got lost in the first place? To disinfect the old wounds and pain with God's joy? #248. seagull winging it over winter waves. Like any amateur, it takes practice. #249. swoosh, swoosh of windshield wipers. But if I linger in the moment,  in each stroke of the letters, the seeds of humility sprout, and the eyes of my heart grow wings of everlasting joy.

A Joyful Sound

Gently, I lifted the ornament from the tree and cradled it in the palm of my hand. I gazed at the intricate painting--a wintry scene, a house, snow and trees-- the dusty pink bulb now faded with time. My mother died when I was in my thirties, and I inherited part of her Christmas ornaments. Each year, I find myself once again  handling the decorations ever so carefully, treasures that they are. Memories dance across my mind, much like a ballerina, graceful, tender, peaceful. Each year the ritual repeats itself, a thoughtful pause, recollections sweet like cotton candy. I wonder if my own daughter will one day experience the same winsome feelings, the pangs, the sense of something far greater than the design on the wrapping paper, or even the presents themselves. This year I am beginning to embrace a fresh understanding, the answer to the question mark. The most beautiful things we can pass on to the next generation, our friends, loved ones, and even strangers, is our time, our wisdom, our gifts. Even the sound of our laughter. Recently, a dear friend of mine passed away. Her death left me with a welling sadness, a deep crevice in my heart. I ached in the soul place that only God knows, only God can fill. The thought of Christmas made my heart hurt even more. I knew she was with Jesus but I also knew the void she would leave here on earth. Christmas just seemed heavy. Burdensome. But this is the secret I discovered in the midst of grief, unearthed like the first crocus in spring. The memories, the wisdom and even the mess-ups and failures remain planted inside of those who are still here. Words once spoken now satiate our minds, massage the pain, leading us down fresh paths, our feet stepping on virgin snow. A layer of sadness gave way to peace. So, I cleaned up from the Christmas season, hung a new calendar on the kitchen wall. And I prayed that whatever God has gifted me, spoken to me, freely given to me, will one day cause another to linger in the memory, listen for the soul sounds, the joyful noise that only you can hear.