By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
I saw my first truly lovely, colorful sunset yesterday—my first in ages. As I admired the pastel hues, I found myself wondering why it had been so long since I’d seen one. I’ve always been someone who eagerly seeks out a good sunset, yet, aside from yesterday, I can’t even remember the last one. I suppose much of that is due to life being busy—and yes, I know how trite that sounds. I crinkled my nose as I typed it.
Still, the coming dusk was as moving and powerful as ever, and memories of sunsets past flooded my mind. There is one every single day. And I realize now that there are a million other things I am constantly overlooking or ignoring—each of them a miracle in and of itself, no matter how small or ordinary.
As I was simply watering my flowers, my attention was drawn to the way the water beaded like gemstones on the bright orange petals of a canna lily. As the sun shone through the droplets, tiny points of light were projected onto the color. Then, as the drops tumbled down to the vivid green leaves, they became little spheres that slid and swirled before disappearing into hidden cups where frogs like to hide. It was just a standard chore, but all I really had to do was look—right in front of me—to see these obvious works of art in the small world at my feet. How many times have I missed this?
Speaking of what I’ve missed—how often do I take for granted the fact that I have a daughter who loves spending time with her father and me? The very night I saw the sunset, we took her to one of her favorite places on what we’ve affectionately termed a “family date night.” She wasn’t expecting it. She thought we were just going to pick up dinner for my husband and me, since she had already eaten. We had to pass her special place on our way to get food, and as we did, the heavy, thoughtful silence from the back seat didn’t go unnoticed.
Once we parked and I got ready to go in, we dropped the surprise. She squealed. Apparently, when I went inside, she launched into her father with an “assault hug” (she’s famous for those). She bounced and danced as we hurriedly ate our food, and that energy didn’t stop when we entered the arcade. It was an absolute joy to watch her dart from game to game. And the joy was compounded by how rarely she wanted to play one alone—almost always preferring to have me or her daddy join her.
I know these simple thrills are fleeting. We all know the day is coming when we’ll be the very last people she wants to be around. But for now, we’re among her favorites—and I need to treasure such a temporary, beautiful pleasure.
Truly, even the things that feel stressful or require effort to plan—the fact that I can make these plans at all should inspire gratitude. My husband and I were reviewing our summer schedule, including hosting friends and going boating on the lake. We were also considering the details of our fall when our adopted brother comes over from England and trying to wedge in as much as we could to make his visit special. Additionally we were figuring out which days to take off for our annual mountain trip.
I was fretting and strategizing, trying to make everything fit. And yet—how many people would envy me for the luxury of having such enjoyable tasks ahead of me? I was so wrapped up in planning and arranging that I nearly missed the joy of the thing itself. I have so ridiculously much to look forward to, and I’m far too often—if not always—distracted by the execution to realize how obscenely blessed I am.
I should be thrilled that I have enough forested land on our property that I can hear one of my favorite sounds: birdsong echoing through thick trees. I should appreciate that our yard is large enough to take my husband two hot, dusty days to mow.
Every single day, ordinary moments brim with beauty and blessing. Sometimes it takes the magnificent splendor of a sunset or the intricacy of water on a blossom to remind me just how many tiny gifts I’ve been given. And sometimes, while the wonders of creation are incredible, it’s an enormous, snaggle-toothed grin and a hug flung at you with so much force it nearly knocks the wind from your chest that really sends the message home: I am wealthy—rich in all things great and small.
Prose and Possibilities 