Being Content with Life

 

Maybe it's silly, but this sight outside my sliding glass door, with those three delightfully bright colors, stands out to me as a reminder of being content with life.  Which I am.  Right now.  Today.

I don't know how this being content thing comes about, exactly, yet I find myself experiencing the fresh air it brings to the heart these days.  And the funny thing?  I feel that way not only about today, but about the yesterdays, too.

Which is funny, because that last place we lived was the place of some of our most difficult times.  Ever.  So I hadn't really expected to look back at that yesterday with feelings of content.

Of course I stopped to think why and how that could be.

Maybe that Steps to Christ chapter on Rejoicing in the Lord when I didn't feel like rejoicing made the difference.  Or my decision to walk through the orchard every day, drinking in beauty in spite of what seemed so ugly around me.  Or having friends, family, people who were only slightly more than strangers to me, constantly pray for me and point me to Jesus when it was hard to point myself.  Maybe it's just another one of those gifts only Jesus can give.

I can't look back at any moment of pain without thinking of those treasures, and more.  And when I think of those treasures, those friends, those experiences?  They lead me down the thought paths to other truly joyful experiences in our last home--hiking with strangers become friends, picnics, campouts, home-made roasted strawberry ice cream, cold mornings on the mountain tops, sunrises, walks beside the river (even with friends from another of life's places), piano duets, bunnies in the lawn, to name a few--all the things that make up the happiest of days.

 We're getting settled in a new place, my husband and I.  As I explore my new kitchen cabinets and watch for new seeds to pop up in their soil, I think about how much I like this new place to live and how thankful I am that God led us here.  And simultaneously, I look back at the last house, the last place, and think how much I loved them, too--not longingly or bitterly, but pleasantly.  Simply glad I lived in that house for a while, and glad I can live in this one now.  I like them both, yet they're very different from each other.

There are friends I miss from all the places before, and there are twinges of sadness when I think of them doing things and sharing experiences without me there in person (but totally on that swing with you in heart for my very own seven turns, and in my heart I sit in your living room next to that wonderful harp while maybe you give me lessons? or in so many places where friends are but I am not, at least today).

These friends, though, still reach forward to me so often that it sometimes feels like they're right here.  Thank you, technology of phones and blogs and e-mails and texts, for helping me keep my collection of friends, instead of leaving them behind.  It's an experience of adding more friendships and blessings and wonderful things in life to all the ones I've experienced before.

Thus I find myself looking back, feeling enriched, not robbed, blessed beyond measure.