practicing gratitude

Today is Thanksgiving. My twenty-third thanksgiving, to be exact, and it's been the hardest of the twenty-three. 2016 has skyrocketed and plummeted in ways I really never wanted. It’s taken me away from one home and planted me in another. This year has been full of wild happiness and suffocating sadness, but it’s also been full of contentment, relief, protection, mercy, joy, grief, maturity—all gifts that made me cling to Jesus with all my might. 

I want to practice gratitude. I want to remember that I’m surrounded by gifts, even when my heart tells me to despair. I want to have the perspective of David when he breathlessly marvels, “Who am I, Sovereign Lord, and what is my family that you have brought me this far? …Because of your promise, and according to your own heart, you have brought about all this greatness, to make your servant know it.” 2 Samuel 7:18, 21

So I’m practicing gratitude, because in my heart of hearts, I am so humbled—speechless, really—by these gifts that I did not earn and do not deserve. Praise be to God. 

growth place 

I’m grateful for Clinton, Mississippi. For a neighborhood where Langford walked her dog straight to my screen door and stayed for dinner. For walks on the train tracks and brick streets and nature center. For a job where I got on a plane every month and explored big cities, where I built relationships and got paid to invest in high school students and their families. For an office that worked together and pranked together and went to church together. For a community that woke up early for swim workouts and stayed up late experimenting with butternut squash. For the town of Jackson and its ridiculous potholes. For Deep South Pops and Pig n’ Pint and the Library Lounge and Lemuria. For a town I never wanted to put roots in but totally did. For a chapter that is closed but holds some of the sweetest parts of my past. 

birth place 

I’m grateful for Ruston, Louisiana. For a hometown that is safe. For a place to come and cry and be held when my world falls apart. For people who welcome me home no matter what mistakes I’ve made. For moms who serve hot tea with a saucer and encourage the tears and tell me I’m courageous. For friends who bring coffee and sit and don’t say anything. For wagons full of neighborhood kids out for a walk or a swim. For peach ice cream that reminds me it’s summertime. For a church that doesn’t mind me weeping during worship. For my people, my place, my safe haven where I am known and loved and accepted no matter what has happened. For people who need no explanation or reason to extend lavish grace and love to their girl who is figuring out life. 

healing place

I’m grateful for Tyler, Texas. For a job and a family that Jesus mercifully provided. For living on the lake and in the woods. For driving through November trees at golden hour. For learning to cook chili and soup and stuffed bell peppers. For exploring the hard, beautiful work of writing and scheduling and mothering and serving. For the time and space to grieve. For the wisdom of older women. For sweet old friendships that get to come back to life. For studying the Bible with older women and learning how to be a prayer warrior. For ten and twelve year old boys bringing the simplicity of childhood everywhere they go. For intimacy over harmony. For communication. For no internet. For a lifestyle of service and a slow pace to heal and process and relearn laughter. For hours and hours spent with Jesus. For podcasts and sermons and music and silence and prayers on prayers on prayers. 

painful place

I’m grateful for pain. For the way it makes me cling to Jesus out of desperation. For the way it leads me to true repentance. For the way it reminds me that I am no good by myself, the way it makes me grasp hold of Truth and never let go. For the way it deepens and authenticates my relationship with Jesus in ways I’ve always desired but never known. For how it’s shown me that Scripture is true and trustworthy. 

I’m glad things heal too. I’m excited to see okayness on the horizon. But I'm also apprehensive. Because I want to still want Jesus when I'm healed. I want my healed self to be just as sanctified as my wounded self. Even when I’m not feeling pain, I want to remember grace. 

Because being wounded has been a treasure.

I’ve been carried and tended to by the gentleness of the Father, and I want that kind of intimacy always. But I know the Father has plans for healing, for hope, for wholeness.