Living in gratitude doesn’t happen by default. It is a series of choices in moments that span the range from brokenness to wholeness, events that shatter and seconds of clarity.

Yesterday, I showed up at the low-income apartment complex where my church does a weekly outreach. The women walk in, many with their kids, and experience food, fellowship, crafts, and study. I pulled into the complex looking for the apartment where all this takes place. For ten minutes I drove around the buildings, looking for unit 74. Naturally, I couldn’t find it, even though I ended up passing it three time before the number clicked in my brain. Until then, I grew more and more frustrated. I realized I had forgotten to put on deodorant, so I began to sweat profusely. I carried on the worst of internal dialogues: What is wrong with you?! Why do you always go this? I hurled thoughts upward in the general direction of God: I’m trying to HELP people, dammit! Why can’t I just find this apartment so I can HELP PEOPLE??!!

A few minutes later, I was assigned my post as one of the keepers of the children, and they filed in with their mothers, who told them goodbye and left them in our hands. The first boy, about four years old, approached me and announced, “I can hold up one finger.” Then he flicked me off with both hands. A second later, another little boy–this one about age two–stumbled over in a shirt that proclaimed, “I HAVEN’T BEEN HERE LONG, BUT I CAN ALREADY TELL MY FAMILY IS FUCKED UP.”

Good God, I thought. Where am I? And,  where can I get that shirt? I need something to wear this Thanksgiving.

A few hours later, The Husband and I watched The Kid appear onscreen in one of his ultrasound performances, and this one was quite a show: he grabbed his leg under the knee, threw an arm in the air, kicked me repeatedly, and gave us a thumbs-up. He weighed in at two pounds and a few days older than originally projected. In other words, he’s already kicking ass. I watched him in there and considered what he’s being born into: imperfection, to be sure (especially on the part of his mom), but also–a freshly painted nursery replete with Dad-installed ceiling fan and Dad-assembled dresser and changing table, prints on the wall, fancy bed. No one around here is going to teach him obscene hand gestures or throw a profane t-shirt on him (not for awhile, at least).

And to think, some days I don’t even spend a moment thinking about how good I have it.

Part of TH’s weekend efforts included replacing my shattered car mirror. (Remember that?) I got into my car this week and glanced over, prepared to squint through broken lines and multiple images, and instead saw a perfect reflection. There are times when sadness penetrates my easy self-centeredness and shocks me into thanks. Then there are the moments when love and kindness do the same. It’s enough to make you think that all things of meaning have one Source.