A Perfect Shield

It feels a little cliche and trite writing about thankfulness in November. 
I am about to share some photos with you that probably fit very nicely under the hashtags: #cute #colorful #MarthaStewart.
But that's not what this post is about.

Forget traditional obligation. I'm writing this because I've realized lately that thankfulness is a lot more like a shield in a war zone than a bouquet of daisies. It's a stubborn, relentless faith in the good things. It's deciding to stop rolling our eyes at our neighbor's thanksgiving feast when all we have is a tiny turkey. 

It's about refusing to let life roll by in black and white. 

Thankfulness doesn't have to be an event.
It can be a daily celebration.

"The LORD is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I received help. My heart rejoices, and I give thanks to him with my song." ~Psalm 28:7

This is thankfulness -- active and necessary. Life-giving. Thankfulness in the war zone.  

 

Some days, it's a fight to be thankful. Lately, I've been struggling to accept a recent sickness in my life. A year ago, my doctor told me, "You will never be normal." I will get better on the spectrum of 'people with a gut condition,' but food won't ever be an easy pleasure. Some days, I would really like to be a typical, young person who can order take out, eat icecream, or take a spontaneous, weekend trip to Canada. But instead, I have a disability I didn't ask for and there's no clear end in sight.
 

This is me finding the color in the middle of disappointments. Thankfulness is actually one of the most empowering, daily decisions I've made.

 

And now the pages I painted earlier come into play:

Each leaf will represent a moment I'm thankful for, or something that makes me really happy. It can be anything in the world that makes me smile.

When feeling sick gets me down, I'll look at the bulletin board and remember that life really isn't that bad. In fact, the wonderful things far outweigh the disappointments.

I don't want thankfulness to be something I celebrate at a table with my family once a year. I want it to be a daily celebration, no matter how small. It's my shield and my armor.

Nerding out over tree bark #everydaypoetry #birch

#gardenjewels #everydaypoetry #dewdrops

These Hands

 

These American hands take my coffee on a walk

and twirl my hair when I’m thinking too much.

These hands used to let me disappear
into childhood doodles.
Shy, shy girl with a wild
imagination.

Calloused, monkey bar hands.
Hands that cupped a baby bird while it
gasped for water.

Hands like my father's --
taming those garage monsters--
the hissing, silver wheel,
the hammer,
the ripe flurry of wood chips.

Instead, I carve
more softly--
bending music like
water, chasing color
and words like sunsets.

Because hands like ours
don't want the wine bottle
but the whole vineyard.

You quiet my hands,

you quiet my soul.

~

Memories:
Thumb knuckles --  a kiss.
Wrist -- a burn mark.

Finger -- a callous like an old friend.
Palms- Easter. Thinking about crucifixion.

Sometimes, these hands extend in prayer,

and feel the hot, large tears of a child.

These hands offer a cold rootbeer

to a man saving up for October rent.

~

I remember walking in Paris once,
and thinking about how the bridges hold the Siene.

And how I must hold the people
I love with open hands.
How I must learn to be still
like the bridges, so the river may pass
through and return 

while it spins

and glides its golden trail.