I Can’t Escape Gratitude

It is only the second time we’ve stepped foot in this place. Young families, bulging bellies at every turn, life overflowing in this tiny downtown space made sanctuary. My nerves threaten to get the best of me- church hunting is not among my favorite activities- and I feel like I could run screaming away as the door closes behind me.

Every face is new.

Every name is new.

I long for the old, worn in and comfortable.

He longs for me to be holy and spent for the sake of the Gospel.

Aye, there is the rub.

We worship with these new faces and then the pastor steps forward. Old Words flow out of his mouth. The book of Colossians. again. I just can’t seem to get away from this letter. I’ve spent over a month in my little corner of morning light pouring over Paul’s words and pondering how to be an imitator of Christ. How to walk straight in a crooked world, shining as lights…

The pastor exposits and I listen for it. For the words that I know are there. The word that I need to have on the tip of my tongue at all time.

Thanks.

There it is written in nearly every other line of one of the Great Books tiniest of books. I  just can’t get away from this thread of gratitude. Liberia sang it to my heart through palm branches and war-worn black faces. America sings it to my heart in family eager to love with abundance and blessings so undeserved.

God sings it over me no matter where I go.

I feel my shoulders relax and I breathe again. This new place, these unfamiliar faces, this gripping anxiety that leaves me scrambling for the door. I’m sowing seeds of ingratitude when I choose to reject what is right before me because of fear. I need to hear this sermon everyday. I need my heart preached a sermon of gratitude each and every moment. Paul plucked the string of gratitude throughout his letters to the New Testament churches because he knew that it wasn’t just something to encapsulate in a holiday while we scan the ads for Black Friday sales. No, it is part of being humbled under the weight of grace; the Gospel bearing down on needy hearts.

Grace and the Gospel have beared down hard on my heart this week. I squeak out thanks as I desperately try to process some big stuff. I pray with a hopeful heart to have my eyes opened to the grace of every day.

Just.keep.counting. Count with me, won’t you?

 

 

#1897-#1941

wallpaper removal, new restaurants, cooler weather, fall light, reconnecting with old fends, constantly moving baby girl, dreaming of her face, massages on achy arms and legs, black bean soup, bedtime reading, unhung pictures, being flexible to serve, old songs(that I haven’t heard in ages, but LOVE!), birdfeeders fixed and filled, washing dishes, schedules that allow me to serve, husband who gets out of bed each and every day, first words penned, the pain that God is using to make me the mama He wants me to be, heaps of garlic mashed potatoes, a God who fights for us, the grain of courage need to start writing, last trimester, dreaming of her face, ants, dinner with new friends, sharing stories of Liberia, new shiny laptop, autumn light, God- who’s hands are strong, gray tights, new Target, husband bringing home dinner, firm encouragement, sleep- whether peaceful or not, sunshine yellow, hum of the washing machine, not worrying about getting it all done, a day to write and create, this need to create, peaceful home- a place respite