A Heart That Is Grateful

I’m browsing the internet during my lunch break. I’m trying to decide whether to take advantage of a Cyber Monday sale. The hammock I’ve been eying for a year is thirty percent off.

I’m not a possession-oriented person. My life doesn’t revolve around what I own.  But there are some things I’d like to have. I’d like to trade in my 2005 Neon for a new Jeep. I wish I had a nice set of headphones. And right now, I want to buy that hammock. But before I put it into my online cart, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I pick up.

“Logan, this is Keith. I manage your apartment building.”

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Well, there’s a leak in your apartment. Water is coming out of your wall and into the hallway.”

My stomach balks.

I rush to my office, slip on my coat, and take off down the hallway. My mind is running even faster than I am. What if there’s water damage? A box of books from my childhood is on my closet floor. I left my laptop propped against my nightstand.  Water can create all sorts of mold problems. What if I have to leave my apartment until everything is cleaned up?

I make it to my building and enter the elevator. I jam the button to my floor. There’s an eternity between the staccato beeps that mark my journey upward.

“Lord,” I pray. Please protect my home. Please preserve my belongings.”

When the elevator opens, I see a trickle of water snaking from my apartment’s wall into the hallway. I open the door to my apartment. Part of me expects to unleash a tidal wave.

But for the most part, everything looks normal. The most unusual thing is that a man is inspecting the kitchen sink.

“I’ve got things under control,” he says. “I don’t see any damage a mop can’t fix.”

I exhale, long and deep. I feel relieved.

I also feel thankful. Grateful that I have a warm, dry place to live. Thankful for the things that fill my apartment. I look around, and I see what I usually take for granted. A bed. A recliner. A television. Things that I feel entitled to.

But I’m not entitled to any of them. And there are people without them.

"Father," I pray. "You've given me so much, but I'm asking for two more things. Give me eyes that see all you have given me. And give me a heart that is grateful."

Eyes for Others

It’s Friday night. I’m at my parents’ house. I have a three-day weekend, and I’m glad to spend it here. The evening with my family has been restorative. But I’m also tired from my full week and long drive.

“I think I’m ready to go to bed,” I say.

That’s actually a problem, because I don’t have a bed here. My parents’ new house is smaller than the rambling Victorian home I grew up in. There’s no guest room in this house, so I’ll probably have to crash on the couch. It most likely won’t be a restful night.

“Are there spare blankets for me to throw on the sofa?” I ask my mom.

Before she answers, my brother Isaiah interjects. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.

“That’s all right, Isaiah,” I say. “I don’t mind it.” I begin grabbing pillows off the sofa.

“No, take my bed,” Isaiah says. “I already washed my sheets for you.”

I set an armload of pillows onto the floor and look at him. His eyes are lit up, and he’s smiling.

Isaiah is happy to give up his bed. He’s joyful to put himself last and to put me first. Before I had even come home, Isaiah had anticipated what I would need, and he took care of me. He has eyes for others.

What a stunning example of love.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Isaiah,” I say. “You’re a good guy.”

I help create a makeshift bed for Isaiah on the sofa. Then I head for his bedroom. I pull back crisp sheets and lay down. As I stare at the ceiling, I pray.

“Lord, give me a heart like Isaiah’s. Help me to see others’ needs even before they do. And help me to find joy in putting their needs before my own.”

*    *    *

Sunlight sprays through the gap in the curtains. I stretch, my feet extending past the end of the twin bed. I slept the whole night through, and I feel rested.

Thanks to someone who knows how to care for others.

Into the Light

My car slices through the night. The darkness is heavy, and I struggle to see as I drive through town.

My friend Matt is on speaker phone.

 “It’s so dark out,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s only six o’clock.”

“Yeah, I’m not a fan of daylight savings time,” Matt says.

It’s good to catch up with him. We haven’t talked in a while.

“How are you doing?” Matt asks.

“It’s been a long week,” I say. “I’m behind on stuff at work. I’m still getting over this cold. I’m just feeling out of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt says.

I peer out my windshield. I’m not sure if I need to take the upcoming turn.

“I wish it weren’t so dark out,” I say. “I can’t read this street sign.”

“It can’t be that dark,” Matt says. “Unless you’re doing that thing with your headlights again.”

“What?” I ask.

“You know. You used to always forget to use your headlights in college. I had to remind you.”

He’s right. I have a bad habit of not using my headlights in town. The streetlights make me forget my lights are off.

I flip on my lights. My low beams push back the darkness, and I can read the signs ahead.

“Ok, you got me,” I say.

“Thought so,” he says. “Well, I’ve got to go. But I’ll be praying for the rest of your week.”

Prayer. My chest sinks. I haven’t been consistent about praying this week. Instead of relying on God, I’ve been going it alone.

God is light, and His light pierces through the darkness. No wonder I’ve felt gloomy. I’ve been driving without spiritual headlights.

Without God, I’ve been struggling to focus on the positive. I’ve lost my sense of direction.

I say goodbye to Matt, and I spend the rest of my drive talking to my Father. And as I do, I begin to feel better. 

Because I'm moving forward, into the light.

A Lesson on Blessings

I’m sick today. I woke up with a raspy cough and the kind of sinus headache where even my teeth hurt.  I made it to work this morning, but I probably should have taken the day off.

I’m glad there are only five minutes until the end of the work day. All I want to do is collapse into my recliner back home. I’m hungry, but the thought of making something to eat sounds like more work than I can handle. I hope there’s a can of Campbell’s in the back of my cupboard.

My phone buzzes.  I check the screen and find a text from a family friend, Stephanie.

“Hi, Logan. Your mom told me you aren’t feeling well. Can I bring you some dinner this evening?”

The timing is perfect. Dinner would be such a blessing.

But I’m uneasy about responding. I know Stephanie lives half an hour away, and I feel guilty having her drive that far. I also know that she has family in town this weekend. I don’t want her to waste her time making food for me.

These kind of feelings aren’t unusual ones for me. It’s hard for me to accept help. It makes me feel undeserving. Burdensome. Like a taker instead of a giver.

As a shut down my computer for the day, I struggle with how to respond to the text. Uncertainty gnaws at me as I walk to my car.

But halfway across the parking lot, I stop.

Somebody wants to bless me. To help me feel better.  And I’ve turned it into something stressful.

That’s the opposite of what Stephanie would want.

I need to learn how to let other people take care of me. I need to learn how to accept blessings. God has put somebody in my life to help me on a day when I need it. All I need to do is say thank you.

I pull out my phone and text Stephanie.

“I would appreciate that so much. Thank you for taking care of me.”

A little while later, I sit at my kitchen table eating a bowl of homemade soup. My stomach is warm and full. And the gnawing feeling is gone. 

I am so glad that today, I decided to accept a blessing.

Among the Leaves

My younger brothers are huddled near the window. There’s something new on the windowsill: a terrarium. It’s mostly made of fragile glass, but each pane is framed with strong copper. The rectangular base and triangular lid make it look like a small, transparent house.

               But it’s not the terrarium my brothers are looking at. It’s the Venus flytrap inside. Long spindles of green spill out of a pot of sphagnum moss.  At the end of each spindle is an open mouth lined with jagged teeth.

               “Can I touch it?” Gabriel asks.

               “No, it’ll hurt,” Isaiah says. He looks at me for confirmation.

               “You can’t touch it because that would drain the plant’s energy,” I say. “But it can’t hurt people. Just flies.”

               “Why would a fly ever land on that?” Gabriel asks. “Look at all of those teeth.”

               “The flies don’t land on the teeth,” I say. “Look at the mouth.” I point at the smooth center of one of the traps. It looks soft, almost padded, and it’s just the slightest shade of pink. “Each of those little mouths smells very sweet to flies. They think there’s food nearby, so they land on the trap. When the fly touches the mouth, the jaws close. By the time the fly figures out the smell was a trick, it’s too late.  Those teeth are locked tight, and the fly is trapped.”

               “That’s sneaky,” Isaiah says. “I kind of feel bad for the fly.”

               “I do too,” I say. And I really mean that. On some level, I can identify with the fly.

               Because the flytrap reminds me of sin.

               Sin is dangerous. But it’s also attractive. It draws us in by looking appealing and enjoyable. But the sweet aroma it gives off is only an imitation of goodness. And once we’ve opened ourselves to sin, it grabs hold. The jaws close. And getting free is no easy task.

               I’ve been there before. I’ve also been saved and set free by Christ. I’ve seen the power he has over sin.

               But I don’t want to wait until I’m trapped to recognize sin. I want to see it for what it is from the start.

               “Can we water the plant?” Isaiah’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

               “Sure. Let’s go get the watering can,” I say.

               As we leave the room, I look back at the terrarium. The plant inside is draped in an almost lazy fashion.

But I know that there is danger hidden among the leaves.

Toward the Goal

I’m on my Saturday morning run. The air is October cool, and the sun glints through the yellow canopy above me. I started my run in the city, but the buildings are behind me. Now I’m running alongside a lake.

Being out here helps me cope with the emptiness inside of my chest.

I’ve gone through a lot of goodbyes lately.  My parents are selling the home I grew up in. I moved across the state to a city I’m unfamiliar with. My friends from law school are now spread around the country.

That’s why I’m running. Because when I run, for just a moment, I feel like I’m okay.

My phone buzzes. It’s a notification from the running app on my phone. My friend David commented on the warm up I logged a few minutes ago.

David: Why are you running this early?  And on a Saturday? Some wild animal must be chasing you. What are you running from?

He’s joking. But there is truth hidden in that final question.

I am running from something. I’m trying to outrun the emptiness. I’m trying to distance myself from the loneliness that follows me like a shadow.

I’m running because, when my muscles hurt, my heart doesn’t.

I start to slow down. Even here, sadness has found me. And as it overtakes me, so does fatigue. I’ve only made it to the tip of the lake, which means I’m only halfway home.

I round the tip, my head hanging low.

But after I turn the bend, I look up. Off in the distance, I can see my apartment building. Its stacked floors rise far above the tree line. 

I feel a surge of energy. Seeing my goal makes it feel attainable. It gives me hope.

I run toward that goal.

There’s power in running toward something. Running away has reprieves but no end. Whatever is giving chase can always catch up.

But running toward something is different. There is no fear. No looking over shoulders. Only moving in the direction of something good and real and tangible.   

I don’t want to run away from my loneliness anymore. I want to run toward something.

I want to run toward Christ.

I want to trust Him to restore me. To take away the loneliness. I want Him to fill the empty places of my life in the way that only He can.

That goal gives me hope. And that hope gives me the strength to press on.

Thoughts from a Rest Stop

I’m driving home to see my family for the weekend. I left about an hour ago—right after I got off work. It’s been a long week, and I’m feeling it. Each time I blink, it takes me a little longer to open my eyes.

I pass a blue sign. “Rest Area. One Mile.”

I’m torn as to whether I should stop to get a soda from a vending machine. I probably need to get some caffeine pumping through my veins. But I’ve been moving along at a steady clip, and I’d hate to slow myself down with a stop. I can probably make it without stopping if I crank up the radio and . . .

A loud reverberating noise pulls me from my thoughts. Rumble strips. I must have been drifting. The rest stop is just ahead, so I exit the interstate.

I get out of my car and head toward to the welcome center. The automatic doors are almost too slow for my approach. They just barely slide open before I pass through. Once inside, I see a vending machine. I feed it two dollars and punch a faded button. Then I fish out the bottle that drops to the bottom.

This has been a fast stop. I can’t have lost more than five minutes.

When I get back to the parking lot, I set my soda on my car’s roof. I lean down, unlock my door, then stand up to grab the soda.

When I do, I am stunned by what I see beyond the bottle. Past the parking lot, there’s a green and gold field. It gently slopes down and back up again. A tree line frames the field. Some of the trees are verdant green. Others are just barely touched with autumn red. But they are all drenched in the soft light of evening.

Behind me, I can hear the drone of the interstate. But in front of me, the world is quiet and still. And as I gaze out over this scene, the pressure to rush back to the road subsides. This image pulls everything inside of me toward the artist who made it. This sight gives me peace.

I almost drove past this majesty. Traded pastures for the passing lanes. Missed out on the rest that my Father provided for me.

I’m grateful for this moment. I close my car door and twist open my soda. I lean against the car and take a sip.

In a few minutes, I’ll resume my journey. But for a moment, I want to take advantage of this opportunity to rest.

For a moment, I want to be completely surrounded by the peace that only the Lord can provide.