Lessons from a weekend

We’ve had a bug slowly meandering through our family, afflicting members one by one, bringing this one some sniffles and nothing more, leaving that one in bed with a fever for a day and a half. It’s the “no fun” part of the start to cooler weather, but all in all, it’s just a niggling little First World side note. Even Jude, whose version has resisted my elderberry/oil/tea protocol for two weeks now, is nowhere near the line that divides sick from sick. And if he were, well… doctors.  See? First World problems.

I, personally, love the phrase First World problems. It reminds me, in the middle of my frustration, my anxiety, my entitlement, my impatience, or my irritation to stop and give thanks. Not in the grand, “we’re all here so let’s carve a turkey!” way that many of us will celebrate in a few days; in the small, deep manner of conviction that is rarely revealed to anyone but the God who already knows my thoughts.

I found myself needing that reminder this weekend, craving a bit of the truth that the Lord has spoken all around me. Maybe it was too much time spent playing chauffeur this week. Maybe it was one too many needs stacking up against an empty bank account in the middle of the month. Or maybe it was the mother with the perfect figure, the impeccable style, and the ideal children flocked adoringly at her side, making me feel old, unkempt, and so, so tired without meaning to.  At any rate, I know that the remedy for the deep sighs and the “it’s always something” is looking up, not in. So I purposed to count my blessings and yes, they were many.

My husband, who is happier and more settled in his heart than he has been since our return from Nepal. (Two years ago today, incidentally.)

My older children, who are God-pleasers, not man-pleasers, and whose unique relationships with one another are an absolute song to my soul.

My younger children– the ones we should not, by rights even have, but who make my life louder and more joyful than I ever imagined.

My home, which somehow predicted upon its construction in 1973, exactly the things my family would need and delight in 43 years later.

The growth of our small menagerie of livestock, which now includes two New Zealand Red rabbits for breeding. While expanding our farming ties us ever more firmly to the work of maintaining the land and animals, we are looking forward to clean meat, fresh eggs, and our own harvest of vegetables to help nudge our family towards both self-sufficiency and some additional income.

And then there is God’s attention to the small things, like finding an extra block of cheese in the fridge when I thought I was out, or a box of  hand me downs in perfect condition from a friend, or a can of paint in the exact shade and sheen I needed on the returned and (extremely) discounted rack at Lowe’s.

There was crud this weekend. Don’t get me wrong. But there was good. So much good. Because I was looking for it, I saw it. Because I opened my eyes and my hands, the miracles that were already waiting were pulled from the background to the center stage. Because I shook off my tendency to only see and hear and feel the hard stuff, I was blessed and refreshed. I pray the same for you.