Have you trained your soul to search for glimmers of gratitude, even on the murkiest of days?
At the beginning of our marriage, my husband and I started a nightly tradition that has become one of our family’s liturgies: we ask each other to name our favorite part of the day. Sometimes the answer is glaringly obvious: a celebration, a promotion, a gift. But more often, we tend to be reflective of the beauty in the mundane: a cup of coffee, the absence of conflict, or the fact we are finally in bed, inches away from the rest we have been craving since we were yanked out of sleep that morning.
I’m not proud to admit it, but there have been some soul-crushing days over the past eighteen years where my only response has been, “I can’t think of anything.”
My wise husband always gently responds, “There had to have been something.” And even on the days when his soul has been maimed right alongside mine, he offers me a list of suggestions to grasp on to, when my own eyes are too weary to see it.
We’ve brought our tradition of singular gratitudes into the lives of our children as well. Each night, they are asked to tell us their favorite part of the day.
Around six months ago, my rambunctious eight year old son decided to answer our question with a question of his own:
“How many?”
We stressed that he was required to pick a SINGULAR favorite part of the day. In other words, what was the best of the best? We thought after a week of this back and forth, he would stop asking. He didn’t.
On Christmas, when we knew he would have a difficult time whittling his nightly gratitude down to one answer, we humored him and let him pick three. Over time, three eventually became four. Then four turned into five. Now we are up to his “seven favorite parts of the day.” I have no doubt that if we continue to raise the number, he will continue to offer bright spots up on a silver platter.
What convicted me this past week is when he had a particularly rough day. I thought for sure he’d either refuse to answer, or at least default back to one response. I inwardly flinched when I asked him about his favorite part. Through muscle memory, he responded with, “How many?”
His soul, even on the tough days, had an ingrained rhythm to look for faint shimmers of gratitude in the midst of a day filled with shadows.
Oh, my soul! It reminded me of Matthew 18, when Jesus says blessed are those who become like children. They see things differently than adults who, through the tarnishing weight of this world, can dim their eyes to the beauty all around. So tonight, my prayer for you, as well as for myself, is that when you rest your head waiting to be released from the weariness of the day, may you hear God whisper in your ear, “What was your favorite part of the day?” And may you, like a little child, muster the strength to say, “How many?”