Ordinary Treasure

Every morning, I grudgingly wake up and promptly start taking everything in my life for granted. I put the kettle on and grind the coffee. I expect the water to boil and the blade of the grinder to turn. I make Jack breakfast, usually oatmeal or scrambled eggs. I am not grateful to the microwave for cooking the oatmeal, or to the stove for heating the eggs. I open the dishwasher and reach for a clean coffee cup, assuming that the dishwasher has done its job. I open the fridge and get out the half and half for my coffee, confident that it is fresh and cold. I do not thank the refrigerator for keeping my dairy products from spoiling. I sit at the table with Jack while he eats and I pour hot coffee from the French press, and we talk while I wait for the caffeine to kick in and my brain to wake up. We talk about what we will do that day. Maybe we will go to the library and check out some new books, then head to the grocery store and pick up some things for dinner. I will swipe my debit card and the checker will hand me a receipt and a cart full of food, and it will not occur to me to call my husband at work and thank him for keeping us fed. On the way home, I will realize I don't have my cell phone with me and I will be bent out of shape over my inability to call anyone I know at a moment's notice while simultaneously doing three other things. I will have to wait a whole ten minutes to drive home, then use my cordless home phone to call my sister and complain that I can't find my cell phone, which I will do while making lunch and checking my e-mail. Then something will happen. A friend's baby will be hospitalized for a lung infection, a grandparent will pass away, someplace far away from my life will be struck by some natural disaster and for five minutes I will be grateful. Not for what I have, but that the unfortunate thing didn't happen to me. Except sometimes, it does. Two months before I got pregnant with Matteas, Aaron and I lost a baby to miscarriage. That same year, we both lost our maternal grandpas, and my oldest brother committed suicide. And each time something like that happened, I would resolve not to be so careless with my gratitude. I would promise myself to be more present to the wealth of good things in my life, to not feel entitled to a life of ease and convenience. And each time, I get a little better at it. My life, on a day-to-day basis, doesn't change a whole lot. But what has changed is that I try to notice. I notice that my coffee is hot. I notice that when I flip a switch, I have light. I notice that my boys have strong healthy bodies which enable them to get into all sorts of filthy mischief. I notice that I have clean running water to clean said strong healthy bodies after the aforementioned filthy mischief has been gotten into. I notice that my husband comes home hungry and tired after a long day, and that how he is received into his home can make him feel like a hero or a loser. I notice how much these two little boys love their Daddy, and how much they look forward to hearing his van pull into the driveway each evening. That sound inevitably sends Jack into a panic, and the first words out of his mouth are always "Where can I hide?!" Each night, the boys hide from Aaron and after Daddy walks up the stairs, sets down his briefcase and washes his hands, he hunts for them. They're never very hard to find, usually because they hide in the same places over and over, and part of them is usually sticking out.

Once the boys have been found, there is a man-storm of hugging and kissing and wrestling until it has to be interrupted by dinner. We sit at the table and scoot Matteas, in his high chair, close to us. He reaches out his baby hands to us, which he wants us to hold while Aaron says grace. We pray as a family, then eat and share our day. It's perfectly ordinary, and yet, not ordinary at all. I just have to notice.