I started writing this post days, now weeks ago, but then set it aside due to a nagging self-consciousness that the thoughts and thread are worn thin or even simply redundant. Then a tall grumpy man on a plane to Indianapolis last Wednesday revived my longing to write about what we know but forget: that uttering Thank You is essential to not only our children’s growing vocabulary but more so to our own “grown-up” souls.
An astonishingly generous new friend came and fetched Jack, Ari, and me to take us to the airport for a visit to my parents’ comfortable, soon-to-be-full home. We squeezed Jack in between the ever-robust Ari and my friend’s luckily sleepy infant and made the trek. The airport went as smooth as could be hoped with a two littles darting business-clad travelers rolling carry-ons at frightening speeds (I forgot a stroller) and my pregnant self corralling them. Our flight was full, so Ari had to sit in what’s left of my lap, while Jack expressed absolute disgust at being made to sit in the middle seat. At this point in our journey, I wasn’t exactly seeping gratitude. Then enters tall, grumpy man.
He sits by Jack, or rather dumps himself in the seat by Jack and immediately lets loose a string of complaints about traveling, work, airplanes, and people while Jack forgets his wretched seat assignment and attempts to tell him that his stuffed animal quite enjoys flying, that he is four years old, and that he went to school this morning. And then I see the man’s overpowering bitterness and gray. He is clothed in it, imprisoned by it. And I feel the rekindled need to urge one another forward in thanksgiving. That man couldn’t even see Jack or the rest of us. He missed out on experiencing the raw treasure of a little boy’s eager anticipation of airplanes and grandparents and ginger ale. I almost did, as well. I often do.
So I hold tightly to the rare treasures of unhindered gratitude and pray that their rarity gives way to practices, habits, and even a way of living. I want to stay in a place, live in a place that closely resembles where I was at 9:30 p.m. several days, now weeks ago on our sons’ bedroom floor.
There are surely many reasons why I went back into their room long after snoring began. One was admittedly guilt, after several blips throughout the day, voices raised too high, words that shouldn’t have been spoken, patience that began too thin, gave way to headache and pain, and broke. Another was a longing to just be by them without doing or saying anything. No refereeing or feeding or answering. I also just wanted to disappear for a bit, and the floor of an otherwise dreaming room seemed prime for such an act.
So I lowered myself to their blissfully warm, carpeted room. I sat with legs crossed and hands resting on Elias, still stirring in my womb, as unaware as any infant that dark is a time for sleep. And I fought the urge to begin unraveling the day, reliving the messes and mistakes, wondering why I cannot muster more maturity and wisdom and grace.
Then, in the quiet after the storm of a day, came a moment like Elijah must have experienced on that mountaintop so long ago. I whispered “Thank you,” and my whole being gave way to the freedom and rich joy of gratitude.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Those were the only words and prayers I had, the only words and I prayers I needed, as I watched two boys sleep, felt the third boy stir. In a season of too-much conflict, of figuring out the sharp temper of a growing boy and his mama, these words were living water. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Tears.
Thank you.
And I could see those boys, at last, not as projects or challenges or reflections, but as gifts. All because, somehow, it become more important on the bedroom floor or boarding plane to say thanks instead of all of the other things.
To see Jack curled up with noticeably loved stuffed animals, head on checkered pillow, lips dry from the Colorado air. Ari face down, bottom in the air, hearty and full. Elias subtly pushing against me with his little might. A safe room for all them to rest.
Changed and renewed, I left the room, hesitating a moment to prop open the door with a small board book so the light from the hallway could cut through the dark.
Thank you.
inthegrayblue 