It has glass glued on the front cover, much to the dismay of my inquisitive son who attempts to explain everything.
I’ve had it since the Hottie came back from India.
(By the way, I think I’m going to change his name, from Hottie to something you all could actually call him while sitting around the family dinner table – not that you talk about us during your meals.
At least, I hope not.
Because I highly doubt your husband or boyfriend would be happy if you said, “Hottie is biking across the country on his blog. You should join him.” That wouldn’t go over well – you calling another man, “Hottie.”
At least I won’t have to let the Social Security Administration know that. . . I’m changing Hottie’s name.
I’m thinking – the Cyclist or something bike related. His guy friends could probably come up with a better name . . . but none of them read my blog.)
Anyhoodle . . . the journal.
I’ve saved it. Saved it for something special. Meaningful. Something that will impact my children, impart wisdom to them should I go to slumber in my Father’s arms before the trumpet blast . . .
But is has come time to use it. I’ve found just the thing to fill it’s pages with.
I’ll let you in on a family secret. I can be a grouch. A baboon is what we call it in our house.
In fact, recently it was flippantly remarked that I can be well . . . negative.
So, instead of wishing to be something different. I’ll do something different. I’ll practice gratitude, along with Ann Voskcamp who wrote, 1000 Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are, the book the Cyclist and I are reading for our nightly devotions together.
Because we aren’t going anywhere.
God has called us to the land of “horizontal beauty,” as my pastor would say. And it’s time to be content with that.
If being thankful changed one woman’s life . . . why not mine? Motherhood doesn’t have to be dreary. Whole foods cooking doesn't have to be overwhelming. Laborious. I don’t have to be surrounded by laughter but never able to penetrate the barrier to join in.
This morning these words were printed into my handcrafted journal . . . may they provide a legacy of gratitude, to be passed down from one generation to the next.
- getting to sleep through the night, solid, uninterrupted . . .
- hearing Naomi swallow as she nurses and tightly grips my hand as if to squeeze more milk out
- a flowing, turquoise pen that reminds me of the ones at my grandma’s house, except hers were ALWAYS red or black
- Dutch-pressed unsweetened cocoa instead of generic cocoa in my espresso
- the crinkle of a down comforter
- Veggietales Worship music blaring down the hall as I remain swaddled by the pages of my Bible in mysterious lamplight
- a sassy haircut
- the Cyclist taking out the trash, despite the need to hop on his chosen mode of transportation this morning: the bicycle
- glorious sunshine that is like a natural opiate to my brain
- effective nursing pads (‘nough said)
- airplanes flirting through the sky on their way to a surprise location . . . reminds me of summer days
- a used house . . . used – not clean – used
- the return of my camera, Willow
- a friend who loaned me her amazing camera and with whom I get to hang out with tonight . . . and tomorrow night
- surprise gifts from Sarah and Maureen
- my mom’s endless supply of international teas that come with a story