Four years ago I wrote my first blog post here. I had a one-year-old when I hit publish that first time. Now, I have a five and just about three-year-old. Even though things have changed, I'm still, like I wrote back then, "Just writing, trying to make sense of things and turn up the volume on the still small voice of God in my life."
This week my gratitude list has felt short as my family walks together through a tough time. Mining for gratitude or trying to write anything here feels like a prayer, and at least something to do when I don't quite know what to do.
So today my list feels short. I am thankful for my family, and thankful for our dog Daisy whose tail wags no matter the day or it's circumstance. So, to mark this blog birthday, I want to share a Daisy story just because it makes me laugh. Cheers to four years here and to anyone who could use a little gratitude.
I am reading a book on my bed when I hear the door squeak. Our dog, Daisy, comes in after having run away. I'm glad she's home, but she smells. I take her to the bathroom, and give her a quick scrub, thinking it's gotta be gasoline, but I keep wondering, "What is that smell?"
It dawns on me like a traffic light turning from green to red.
The pure head-on skunk smell was so strong I didn't recognize it.
My first instinct, of course, is to get on Facebook, pretend this isn't happening, but I realize I can't hide forever, so I dial my husband while he's at bowling. He answers, and I can hear pins and voices in the background. The bowling team's verdict is unanimous: tomato bath.
I trudge downstairs to the basement and eye the jars lining the shelves like an opponent in a Rocky Balboa fight. The red filling seems almost funny as I realize what I have to do. Chuck tomatoes and salsa, order up. My canning from the last summer had been prolific, if not delicious. But I guess, at least it was for something.
As a pop lid after lid and dump contents into our white bathtub, I can't help thinking of the movie Psycho, and of my hours spent canning. Wreh--wreh--wreh.
It looks like a bloodbath.
After dousing Daisy in it and then spraying her off, I set to work with my kitchen strainer scooping the tomatoes, onions and peppers from the tub into the toilet, leaving a delightful splatter along the way.
Well this is hard-core disgusting.
Scoop after scoop I find myself reminded, as I often am, of the things I learned as a camp counselor. This is a cross between a number of cleanups done in the middle of the night with sick or bedwetting campers.
This is easier, I guess, because I don't have to worry what the dog's parents will think or wonder what this means for her relationship with Jesus.
Soon enough the bathroom is white-ish again, while still smelling like skunky nachos. As I turn the washing machine dial to start the load of towels, my thoughts finally catch up.
"Pretty interesting day, God," I think and smile. "No really, you're getting creative. Well played." And in these moments, I like to think God smiles too, with us in all of it.