The Deepest Gratitude

I thought I knew how to practice gratitude, how to count my blessings. I give thanks every day for the little things and the big things, for my family, for our health, our home and our dearest loved ones. I didn’t take for granted that every moment is a gift, every day is a blessing. But on Christmas Eve, as I waited for my parents to arrive at our house, and I thought about presents I needed to wrap, cookies I needed to make, cards I needed to mail, laundry I needed to fold, tulip bulbs I needed to plant… one phone call turned my whole world on its axis and suddenly none of those things needed to be done, nothing else mattered and nothing in my world was the same, as it had been 2 minutes before, because the only thing that I needed now was for my Dad to be okay. 

Christmas Eve came and went with a flurry of phone calls and texts, an urgent care appointment that quickly turned into an overnight hospital stay, and questions about what was wrong and why, went unanswered with any assurity. Instead of attending Christmas Eve church with family, I watched a live stream of the service on my couch. I watched the church lights dim and the candlelight glow during Silent Night on my TV and said silent prayers with one eye on my phone for updates. We had thought, hours earlier, that maybe my parents would be home in time for church, lasagna and a movie. Now I didn’t know if they’d be home for Christmas at all. 

Christmas morning came and went, with the normal Christmas things happening all around me, coffee and presents, and my favorite Christmas songs playing in the background. And the not-normal things: the phone calls and texts, with my brother and sister and mom, and the waiting, the fear, constant prayers and hope that my family would be together again soon, because truly none of the rest of it mattered. 

I drove to the hospital on Christmas afternoon to pick up my brother and drop off our mom, who had come home briefly for a change of clothes and a shower. I waited by the main entrance for my brother, but who did I see walking out instead? My Dad. It felt like a Christmas miracle. I really had started to think he might not be home for Christmas at all. And yet, there he was, his long strides, his resolute and dear Swede face, his red cable knit sweater and jeans, walking right through the sliding glass doors towards me, and I felt a well of gratitude that can not be summoned by any daily practice. Nothing else mattered on Christmas but this, my Dad, sitting right beside me, directing me out of the parking lot, to head out of the hopsital and on to my sister’s house, to spend the rest of this completely not-normal Christmas, together, with hearts full of deepest gratitude for what truly matters the most.

Namaste.