Counting my blessings

It is one thing to see families lined up against a wall, waiting for food, in Depression-era photos in your history book.

It's another thing to see them on a weekday morning on your way to work.

It's tough to see a mom, in not the warmest of jackets and jeans, huddling to keep her little girl warm as they wait. Especially when she's not much bigger than your baby.

It's tough to give people dignity that they have every right to be there, while respecting your privacy.

And it's tough to not walk away crying.

Yes, yesterday morning rocked my day. I'd found a place that collected clothing for families in need, and wanted to make the most of any outgrown kids clothing and coats we had collected. And as I dropped the bags off that morning, I couldn't help but pray for them. And count my blessings.

For every frustration I have about stretching my funds to pay my bills, my heat is on this chilly morning.

For every frustration I have about my kids not wearing their hoods, they have hoods to wear on their coats.

For every frustration I have over lost mittens, my kids have mittens to lose - and I can, in a moment of desperation, buy another cheap pair at the Dollar Spot.

For every frustration I have over my kids refusing to eat, at least they have something to refuse.

For every frustration I have about my job (and Lord knows, I have my share), I've got one.

For every frustration I have about my messy house, at least I have a roof on my head.

For every frustration I have with friends or family, I know they're behind me.

And for that, I'm grateful.

What can you live without?

Reposted from last week's Green Phone Booth...

Ever have one of those days when you're feeling down on yourself? And then God slaps you back to reality?

I've had more than one of those moments lately. But one in particular I want to share. It's about an employee at our company I've never met.

This person had the misfortune of losing every possession in her home last week. Every item, as her family watched their home burn to the ground.

The cool part was watching how employees came together to help this family, people that they've never met. They brought diapers, and clothing, and shoes. An empty office stored items that were being catalogued by a coworker to make sure the family's needs were being met. It was an amazing thing to see, and I felt humbled and apologetic for my two bags of baby gear, plucked from the stash for my sister.

But the whole experience got me wondering. If I was in her shoes, what did I really need?

My library of books crammed on the shelves? Fun, but truthfully collecting dust. My stamp collection from when I was 11 that I've kept for years? Stealing space in my storeroom. Those extra clothes in my closet, waiting for a size change? Held captive from a person who could use them.

In the end, it's about keeping my family safe from harm. The other things are just ancillaries.

Note to self

Never plan to successfully take your toddler anywhere in the morning he receives a flu shot. Duly noted for next year.

I had great mommy intentions this morning. I was going to finally get the seasonal flu shots from the VNS at our church (our pediatrician won't do her flu shot clinic until November). If we didn't have massive meltdowns like last year, we were going to pop over to the ice cream shop for a treat. As we've gotten ice cream out maybe twice in my daughter's life, she was sold.

And then life happened.

By the grace of God, there were no screaming kids at the church when we arrived, and the shot experience went fairly smoothly. But even with a pre-dose of Tylenol for the little guy, I was still doomed for failure.

First, the ice cream shop was finally closed. Whoops. Now we have trechery on top of the whole shot experience.

So we stopped at the farmers market, where the little guy progressed until full melt-down mode for the next 20 to 30 minutes. And of course, with fewer vendors and visitors this time of year, everyone knew who the culprit was (sigh). He'd scream over having to go a different direction, lay down on the pavement, scream it out and dust himself back off. Repeat about a dozen times.

And then he saw the "cookie." We walked past a small church baked goods stand, and his eyes were glued to the "cookie." I didn't have the heart to tell him it was a quiche. Instead I offered them both a sample of a "cookie" (OK, pumpkin/cream cheese muffin). They had seconds. And then the little guy, after petting a ferret who was at the market, tried to dive in the bag with his slobbery, ferret-petting fingers for thirds. I cut them off. More meltdowns ensued.

After another stop and pathetic attempt of making an uninterupted purchase, tired of the whining over cookies, I walked back to the church stand. And sadly, I negotiated the purchase of - or more realistically, begged the women what would she'd take for - the entire bag of muffin samples. Seeing that she was sold out of the muffins, I didn't feel too bad at the time. In retrospect, I'm shaking my head in disbelief!

The gallon bag was half-eaten by the time they got home, and it wasn't me. Maybe I should have asked for the recipe instead...