Everyday blessings and my challenge not to take them for granted
I’m on vacation this week . . . spending some time in a beautiful setting along the Atlantic Ocean with people I love. It has given me opportunity to look again at some pieces I posted earlier at this site—but not enough time to write a new one. So I’m reposting these thoughts that originally appeared here this January. A couple of references in the middle are a little out-of-date. But I’m struck by how current the vaccine commentary is, sadly, even these many months later. My vacation trip is a special blessing in the midst of a string of those more common. Palm trees and an expansive beach remind me that a full stomach and friends who care for us and the chance to breathe deeply God’s love will not go away when we must return home.
Many years ago I was friends with a minister who lost all his hair. And by all, I mean every hair on his body. No hair on his arms or ankles. No peach fuzz on his face. The doctors were never able to get the growth restarted, and decades later he wears a toupee and smiles while a new acquaintance silently wonders why he has no eyebrows.
He has no tiny hairs filtering allergens and dust inside his nose, either, and this is a big problem on windy, dusty days.
I think of this preacher whenever my mind comes around to the idea of gratitude. Have you ever thanked God for your nose hairs placed there by our Creator to help you breathe better? Me neither, although I am convicted to add them to my blessings as I follow the old gospel song’s admonition to “count them one by one.” No matter what else may be going on in my life, the hair and mucus inside my nose is keeping foreign matter outside my body where it belongs. Thank you, God.
Likely my friend never thought about nose hair, either, until he didn’t have any. That’s the way with so many of our blessings. We don’t pause to appreciate them until they’re gone.
Noted when missing
It’s like good housekeeping. Seldom do you visit a friend and tell your spouse later, “Wow, there was no dust on any picture frame! And did you see in the corners and crannies there was not one cobweb! And that kitchen countertop! I couldn’t find a clue about what they had for dinner last night!” But if the crumbs and crud had not been wiped away, you definitely would have noticed.
Same with good editing. It’s perceived only in its absence. When the book’s structure makes sense, when the editorial’s point is clear, when the words are well chosen and spelled and hyphenated correctly, readers take it all for granted. But poor editing leaves roadblocks that confuse or stop the reader altogether.
Returning to Earth
Doug Wheelock, an astronaut who served as the commander of the International Space Station for six months, helps make this point. You may want to click this link and listen to his fascinating conversation about how the astronauts craved the infrequent deliveries from Earth of supplies that included a bag of fresh produce. Each astronaut got only a few pieces, which they would trade with each other to feed their preferences. (“Hey, I’d be glad to give you my onion for your orange!”)
But the quote I most remember is Wheelock’s answer to a question late in the interview.
“What’s different for you, once you get back to Earth?”
“It’s completely changed my whole perspective, especially rain,” Wheelock said. “I am just, like fascinated by rain now. . . . . The smell of it, the sound of it, and just the feel against your skin I took for granted before, you know?”
I must admit that “fascinated” was not my feeling after three days of rain last May overwhelmed my house’s two sump pumps and allowed water to seep through the seams in my basement’s concrete floor. The carpet covering half of the basement was ruined; final repairs weren’t finished for months.
But I’m reminded by this astronaut that the regular cycle of rain is such a blessing, not only for the sustenance it supplies but also for the sensual pleasure it provides. Only after going without it for half a year did the space commander realize what he was missing.
Seldom as grateful
I volunteer a couple hours a week in a local church-sponsored food bank, and last week I heard a story from my supervisor there about one of the ministry’s guests. She left that day as every patron leaves, pushing a small grocery cart laden with surplus fruit and vegetables and canned goods and bread and a little meat. Simple food, really, but she couldn’t keep her composure as she made her way to her car. The tears streamed down her face with gratitude for the lifeline these groceries provided.
I think of the frustration I feel when my grocery store doesn’t have the cut of beef or brand of bacon I want, the surprise that registers when I see what that day’s shopping costs, the strategy required to use all the food crowding our refrigerator and pantry before it spoils. In my abundance I’m seldom as grateful as that woman was in her need.
These are tough times for all of us, even the most fortunate. We wait for our turn in the vaccine lines. (But some in underdeveloped countries won’t even see those lines for years.) We stay home alone. (And we dare to say we’re bored with the library of entertainment available at our fingertips and the technology that lets us see and talk to those we love whenever we want—for free!) We miss concerts and games and plays. (But we still have the opportunity to revel in the astronaut’s discovery, the smell and sound and feel of the rain in our own backyards.)
It’s not a new thought, the challenge to consider everyday privilege. (“Count Your Blessings” was written in 1897.) But as I sit in my warm home in a safe neighborhood waiting for the next chance to get out of the house, it’s the thought I need. The Giver of “every good and perfect gift” has showered so many of them on me—including those tiny hairs inside my nose protecting my lungs so I can breathe in God’s goodness wherever I go.
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Wheelock photo courtesy of NASA.