We ambled along a dusty path through the woods, toting our fishing poles to the pond. My husband and children threw themselves into the delight of fishing, but I grumbled about the weather, which was muggy; the fish, which weren’t biting; the children, who were sliding down a mud bank; and the worms, which were…well, worms. As my misery grew, I escaped to the pine trees beside the path and quietly sulked out of sight. Soon my attention was drawn to the footprints etched in the dust along the trail: my husband’s tennis shoes, my sandals and the children’s bare feet.
I found myself thinking how good it was simply to be able to walk. How wondrous to move through the woods! I studied how big the children’s feet were compared to the tiny feet blotted in their baby books. I noticed how our footprints mingled together in the dirt, feeling anew how precious my family was to me, how glad I was for their steps intersecting through my life.
Gratitude poured over me—for woods, health, growing feet and the sharing of lives together. But, most of all, I felt freshly aware of the Giver. God, Who had been so remote all day, spilled out of those moments of praise. I learned something: Buried under our busyness and grumbling are gifts we no longer see— small, everyday blessings we take for granted.
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