In Every Little Thing Give Thanks

It's a small thing, really. The way the smile curves into a happy grin, the uplifted spirit, gratitude for a husband who gives extra sugar to these delightful creatures. The hummingbird, it springs fresh life into the tired bones, a gentle caress into the constant pain, a whisper into the faintest of heart, thrum thrum thrum the diminutive wings, they signal the presence of heaven, right at your doorstep.

Recently, our grandson reached for a book on our Bible stand, asking in his seven-year-old curious voice, "What's this book about?" He peruses the inside, flipping pages at random, seems a bit confused with the words that don't quite add up to sentences, all the hashtags and numbers and his eyebrows scrunch together like twins doing homework. I smile and lift the book from his small hands. I lift the cover, inhaling the scent of surprising, joyful remembrance. I scan the writing and the breath, it reaches right down into the sacred place of snapshot memories. The kind that says, oh yeah, I forgot all about that.The snippets of our lives during that year that I inked into paper, hunting for everything and anything that meant I am alive and I am grateful for it all. Regardless. 

Henry Nouwen wrote, "Because every gift I acknowledge reveals another and another until finally, even the most normal, obvious and seemingly mundane event or encounter proves to be filled with grace." Truth right there in the obvious, and I find grace overflowing in the affirmations penned, the unexceptional moments and amazingly beautiful scrapbooking a story only He and I would understand. 

The hummingbird returns, takes a swift dive into the feeder, its razor-thin wings whirring and I can feel it all over again, this ordinary moment morphing into the extraordinary, and for the thousandth time I whisper, thank you, thank you, thank you.