Seven months ago, I started a list.
Twenty-six pages of my composition book later, I am loathe to end it. I have listed, in the last 200-some days, nine hundred and ninety-nine gifts: noticings, lifted up from the ordinary into glowing shafts of gratitude, till their origins are obvious: they are good and perfect gifts, showered down on me from the Father of lights, gift after gift after gift.
Seeing each gift required a stopping. A stillness. A savoring so difficult to come to
in life's swirling current. Each gift was an island of quiet.
in life's swirling current. Each gift was an island of quiet.
They didn't come gift-wrapped. No bows to alert my attention.
Some days I wrote nothing down; I never stopped to see.
Some days I wrote nothing down; I never stopped to see.
Other days, craving more proofs of His love, I'd stop a long while
and write out a dozen or more. I averaged four or five a day.
and write out a dozen or more. I averaged four or five a day.
How many did I miss, intent on other things?
: : :
My gratitude goes on, whether the list does, or not.
Maybe I'll just stop at #999, to leave room, always, for one more.
Maybe I'll just stop at #999, to leave room, always, for one more.
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