One Thousand Gifts #s 47-76

"The thrash for joy can be gory, loud." - Ann Voskamp

I cannot tell you how much these words, and this entire chapter that I was reading this week resonated with me. My struggle to find grace and count my one thousand is a daily fight to keep the darkness out, to keep the blessings pouring to my eyes rather than trickling. It's something I noticed almost viscerally this week - this counting joys, it does not come naturally to me. It feels like wearing clothes that are not my own. Speaking about it to others this past week, I felt a bit "out of body" like it certainly could not have been me talking about finding the good in all situations, giving thanks to God even during the trials and hardships. I've never been a "positive" person. And I've never really been one to talk about God to other people. I've been so very, very fearful of judgment and losing people's good opinion of me that in so many aspects of my life I've been a sheep, letting them herd me their direction, to their point of view, hiding mine in shame for fear of becoming "unpopular". How despicable is that?

Now, however, I cannot help but talk about this book; to talk about how God is talking to me through this book. And I'll be the first to admit, when God talks to you, it's not always about sunshine and rainbows, and you don't always want to listen. And then there are times when He is trying to get you to see the sunshine, and you still don't want to listen because it's easier to live in the darkness, in the futility, the immobility of complaining, of fearing, of hating, of being angry. That is who I've been for such a long time, that it is still, sadly, my "default setting". Every day now, every moment really, I have to make a conscious effort to change that setting to the one of openness, of "seeing", of being joyful. My struggle is, how do I find the ability to give the hard thanksgiving like Ann did? In this chapter she is able to recall the story of Jacob and Esau and Jacob wrestling with the Lord to help her, but what if I cannot depend on my limited memory of scripture and bible stories? How will I learn the hard eucharisteo when my son who I carried and nurtured and fed from my body slaps me in the face out of nowhere repeatedly on a daily basis? When I am up all night after he's thrown up on me and I stink of putrid, curdled milk? When he refuses to eat more than one single bite of all three meals of the day and I'm sick with worry he won't grow and thrive and be healthy? These are the hard thanksgivings I'm currently trying to find my way around. I know I can't give up. As she says on page 135, "give up the joy-wrestle, and I die." The thrashing is hard, it's tiring, and it is relentless some days; still, I hold my head above water, and I count...

47. The brave count to ten by the little tiny voice. Ten moments of beautiful exhilaration.
48. Same tiny voice singing "oooooh" with the beginning of a haunting gospel-melodied country song
49. The boy asleep on my chest after a restless waking, just like the baby days, nothing sweeter
50. Fits of stomach-aching laughter with old and new friends
51. The fresh-start symbolism of a haircut
52. The boy's fits of wild giggles in the midst of a terrible bout of grumpiness
53. My son stroking my cheek and hair with a sweet, gentle, love-filled hand
54. Snack-time laughter and gibberish conversations, just us two
55. The beautiful stormy ocean grey-green-blue of those eyes
56. Lullabying my baby to sleep - my motherhood dream come true each night
57. Finding the perfect birthday gift in the nick of time
58. Smiling during an entire hour of exercise from sheer joy and elation
59. A game of chase abruptly stopped for a long, sweet hug out of nowhere
60. Seeing love in wild-child eyes
61. The knobby gnarled handle of the old whisk broom my son sweeps with
62. Cold, crisp white of an eggshell
63. Sun-gold yolk, the color-embodiment of happiness, I'd imagine
64. The (poorly hidden) pilgrim hat prop from back Thanksgiving, which he refuses to let me take off. Annoyance begins to build, but is replaced with grace as I see his happiness.
65. His hair-as-napkin quirk that makes me giggle every time. There's butter there now.
66. Hearing his learning of manners, sweet "peas" and "tenk oo's"
67. The gentle, deliberate way he holds his pencil to draw
68. Sails of sailboats carried by wind
69. Sand-and-water polished rocks
70. The gnarled, worn wisdom of driftwood awash
71. Weather-beaten smooth skin of the tree beneath its bark-armor, exposed for me
72. Soft "I am"-lapping waves against the lakeshore
73. Our brilliant, centering star
74. Glints of crystal, sparkling the whole surface
75. The happy splunk of rocks tossed on water by little hands
76. Father-son moments caught on camera

Does anyone else feel those same struggles, even in the midst of all the little joys and big joys, the easy and the difficult? I would love any enlightenment and wisdom! I think I am also just going to have to read "One Thousand Gifts" over and over and over until I finally, completely "get" it. I am also however, cutting myself a bit of slack in knowing that as I've only counted to 76, I'm still relatively new to this way of thinking, this way of living, of feeling, and that maybe by 500, I could have had a handful of epiphanies, too. One day, one gift at a time. I need to remember that.

Love,

Cassie