A Spring of Joy

This morning begins as most mornings do.

My alarm wakes me in the darkness and I gently shake each child awake to dress while I make breakfast. Then we sit together, my children and I, and we read our Bible, and we praise God for who He is, and we list the blessings for which we are thankful.

“Warmth,” he chooses for his blessing, his eyes lighting on the heater in our dining room bringing the chilly air to a tolerable temperature.

Warmth.

It is such a blessing, but something I so often take for granted.

It is such a blessing, but something I complain about–it’s too hot or too cold. (Are we ever content?)

Warmth.

A gentle reminder from my son that all things are blessings. That God gives us light and dark, warmth and cold. That it is all from His hand and I have no place to complain.

Warmth.

Warmth surrounds me.

I groan at the thought of leaving the arms of my Brian and the warmth of my heavy comforter when the alarm rings, but I inhale the sweet aroma of crockpot applesauce having cooked all night and filling my kitchen with it’s comforting smell. I slip on my fuzzy slippers and pull on my robe over fleece jammies. The steam from my coffee heats my face as I take my first sip, and I close my eyes and soak it in. Turning on the stovetop burner, I fill a pot with oatmeal and raisins and spices and watch as it boils and steams.

Warmth.

The children arrive in their school uniforms with sweaters and tights, and we take our places at the table with the heater pouring it’s warmth into the room and we share and sing and pray and learn and we fill ourselves with Him.

Warmth.

Brian heats up the car as they pile on fleeces and head off to school, and I tiptoe onto the front porch wrapped in a blanket with my breath steaming the air. “I love you!” they yell and sign and I watch their little hands waving out the car window until I can’t see them anymore.

Warmth.

I head upstairs to pull warm clothes from the dryer and fold them. After a hot shower, I reheat my remaining coffee and sit with words that are true.

Warmth.

My mom arrives and I feel the warmth of her love as we hug and then fold more clothes together and the warmth of our breath fills the air as we share our hearts. We stir and mix and measure and taste as we bake granola and fresh bread and salsa together, and the kitchen warms from the oven and the sun peeking through the windows. Then the pitter of little feet and the creak of the front door tells me my Bella girl has arrived home, and she runs to fill our arms with hugs and our home with the glow of her sunshine.

Warmth.

It is noon, and I am warmed… and there is so much day ahead. There is shopping together and greeting friends in the store with warm hugs, the warm breeze through our sunroof, the chatter of children filling the van as I drive carpool and arrive home to steam from a dishwasher finishing its last cycle and the aroma of baked bread. Curling under a blanket, I nap for a bit and then bake meatballs and homemade sauce and boil pasta on the stove and we fill our bellies with food, and I pick up another book, and we warm to the excitement of adventure and read about hot tempers and going to God for grace and strength.

Warmth.

There is the warm water rinsing dishes and warm arms wrapped around my waist and whispered, “Hello, beautiful“. There is curling up on the couch to spend an evening together as a family, the five of us, then warm baths and hugs good night.

Then there is the singing and the praying and ending our day as we began it.

Warmth.

And I am reminded as I hear the chorus of “good night and I love you” that thanking God isn’t about what I feel like, it’s about choosing to see.

And when I really see, my heart is warmed.