At my small groups last week, I met a woman named Tracy, and she is a recovering heroin addict of 28 years, and she has been clean for 3 months.
She came in beaming and radiating with such joy and passion for life and sobriety. She shared her story that varied with so many twists and turns, highs and lows of her life that unknowingly tears began to well up in my eyes.
I came into that same community group with a very different perspective about my life than Tracy had. I came in with the weight of a 10-hour workday, long-drives home, the rush of making dinner, piling dishes, and a dirty house that needed my attention.
What I didn’t realize is this “weight” was not a “weight” at all but echos of forgotten miracles.
Tracy went on to share that she was so ecstatic that she got to spend a few hours with her son that upcoming weekend before she had to go to court the following week. This court date sentencing the rest of her future either in rehab or in jail did not phase her.
She was radiantly thankful.
She said she did not care if she was sentenced to continue her rehab or be in jail for the rest of her life; she was just happy to be free and alive once again.
Her words made me see my “weights” in a different light.
My 10-hour workday was evidence of God’s providence and provision of giving me strength and the favor of having a sustainable job.
The weight of a long drive home was only evidence of God’s blessing that I even had a car to drive.
The weight of making dinner after I got home for my family was evidence of God’s hand that I even had food in my fridge and pantry to make a meal.
The weight of the piling dishes was evidence of divine sustenance that our family ate that week.
The weight of our untidy living room was evidence of life itself that my husband and I actually enjoy each other’s company with late movie nights with plates that held remnants of chocolate chip cookies, wine-stained glasses, and leftover shoes taken off after a long day.
All of this weight that I deemed as obstacles or another hoop to jump through was not hoops at all rather than evidence of God’s presence, Himself, in every facet of my life from my amazing job, my functional car, my cozy home, my healthy marriage.
If she could be grateful, I could be. Tracy, in her gratitude, gave of herself: her humility, her legacy, and her story.
Gratitude is in the give, giving of ourselves.
After meeting her, life is more vibrant, colorful, and hopeful. It redeemed those weights, and now, I see it as the miracles that they truly are.
My job was something I only dreamed and hoped for years ago when I was in school getting my BA in English.
My 2006 Toyota Camry was not even a miracle I saw when I was driving my 1996 Honda Accord that would barely get me to destination A to my destination B.
Making dinner in my own home was an unspoken desire in my heart to be able to provide and love my family this way.
Having a home to truly live in and dirty, to make clean, and repeat was a deep desire, but what was deeper was to have someone to share this sacred space with, which is my husband, the man of my dreams.
The chocolate chip cookies, wine, and time we share are divine beyond measure and magical just like the butterflies that flutter in my soul when he is around.
Gratitude is in the way we choose to give.