I’m sitting in my favorite, overstuffed, blue denim chair drinking a mug of hot chamomile. My Norah Jones radio station successfully reminds me that everything is okay in the world, and an unexpected conversation a few minutes ago rests my negative thinking. Puppy finally laid down on her new bed – she hates it when I sit at my laptop and makes it known by licking the keyboard and obstructing my screen – so I sit with my legs resting high on the chair so she can’t get through, and repeat to myself that I’m not a bad puppy mom and she really doesn’t need attention all of the time.
Norah Jones sings and I eat my peanut butter and honey toast, since I was too lazy to make dinner earlier, and then all of a sudden I looked up in my quiet, peaceful house and I take it all in: I have a home.
I have a home, with a couch and a comfy chair, and an upstairs with a guest room that my sister currently occupies. I have a sweet-as-can-be (most of the time) dog, a kitchen with the necessary utensils, hand-made rustic furniture, music and hot tea. I couldn’t be more
October marks one year since I lost full-time employment. Somehow during the last year, through the stress and dozens of part-time jobs, and even more major life changes, I still live in a home. A home that I call my own, even though I’m renting. With flower beds, a picnic table, and a tree swing. A home often filled with people, including a roommate who offers to mow the lawn and clean the bathroom, a lively group of supper club friends, and a boyfriend who finds ways to teach me grace every single day. And because of my church and wise saving, I’ve spent an entire year without full-time employment, and haven’t even touched my emergency fund.
Thankful isn’t a strong enough word, sometimes.