weather, gratitude, and the little piece of me that dreams.

Remember that one day in the Pacific Northwest when it was SPRING?! Sweet, glorious, beautiful spring. That day was soooo misleading. One day, SPRING!

And then, not at all.

Instead, this:


I realize many people in the northwest are more mature than me and can totally handle the ongoing 40-something degree rainy weather, but I have yet to reach that level of maturity and so instead, when I walked into church this morning with an extra iced americano in my hands, I gave my husband a good pointed glare. As if all the clouds’ happiness in the world (ahem – my daughter says it rains because the clouds are happy) are my husband’s responsibility.

Knowing exactly what I was doing and why, he just chuckled.

I married a good man.

I also happened to be teaching this morning. On… gratitude. I stood in front of teenagers explaining the importance of a grateful heart and living a life of gratitude when all of my ungratefulness for the stupid weather smacked me in the face and I remembered, here is the rub. Here is where the tension of gratitude and daily annoyances meet and we may freely choose one or the other.

I am not grateful for the weather (although I am grateful for the beauty that comes with rain). What I am grateful for is the opportunity to find myself in an environment unlike any I’ve ever lived in and attempt to pull out the pieces of me that thrive, the pieces I’ve buried because of pain or fear or honest frustration with layering one million articles of clothing on mine and my kids’ bodies every time we go outside.

I get to write this week. My friend Bonnie (also mama to one of JD’s bffs), who is a gracious and generous soul, offered to take my kids for a couple hours on Wednesday mornings here and there just so I can write. !!!!!!! My friends, you don’t need the sun to write. I don’t know what’s going to come out of it, quite honestly. But I know I’m created to write, even if only ever on this blog. It is one of the pieces of me that never gets buried. Occasionally I pull it out, stare at it and turn it over and over in my hands, trying to make some sort of shape or form with it. Usually nothing sticks and I continue with normal life, writing just about the weather and gratitude and baby bellies and even then I stick to first drafts. But this little piece of me… it dreams.

It has to.

What other good thing could come from griping about the weather?



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