I love the movie You’ve Got Mail. I dislike romantic dramas, but I have a heart for charming comedies, and I adore Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen Kelly. She’s sweet, uncomplicated, and sees the beauty and gifts unwrapped in the world around her.
In one scene of the movie, Kathleen is pondering life and says, “So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
Life is always busy, always passing in the blink of an eye. But counting gifts brings you into the moment, opens your eyes to how to live a life that some only read about.
It was somewhere around the beginning of June, though, that I missed days – then weeks – of counting gifts. They were there. My Father’s hand poured them out like rain. I just didn’t keep track of them.
Time flies when you’re having fun, but all too soon the fun turned into whining and fussing. Not the two-year-old; me. I began to moan about the 100-degree heat and gripe about the dog hair and grumble about the pull-up that contained something should have been in the potty.
A hard day of sniveling is quite draining, and a hot Jacuzzi bath and chilled glass of Chardonnay sets everything right again. I didn’t have a Jacuzzi tub or a great bottle of La Crema, so a bubble-jet bath mat and a glass of boxed Franzia had to suffice.
I sunk deep into the swirling rush of water and realized that our claw-foot bathtub in this house is better suited to a true spa-like experience than the tub in our old house. I spent the remainder of my time in the tub relaxing and repenting for my bad attitude and ungrateful heart.
When I got out of my soothing bubble bath, I grabbed my thanksgiving journal to write the gifts of a perfectly sized bathtub, sweet conviction, and new mercies.
I knew it had been a few days since I had jotted anything down in my beloved spiral-bound book, but I was shocked to see how long it had really been – but not so shocked to recognize the correlation between my lack of thankfulness and absence of numbering graces.
I’ve since tried to go back and remember and number the gifts I was loved with that I missed. It’s been a sweet reminder of the joys and frustrations, smiles and frowns, beautiful and ugly-beautiful of the past weeks.
Like a gentle rain, the memories have washed my heart and soul with the love and grace and faithfulness of the unchanging One from whom all good and perfect gifts come. And I am determined to not miss His showers again.