Thank You

Thank you, Lord.

I sat outside after dinner, reading some books, pausing between chapters to look up at the tree branches against the blue sky. And I kept saying over and over in my head, Thank you, Lord.

You’d have to know me pretty well to understand why this was remarkable. When I look around my backyard, I see a lawn full of weeds and dry patches. The paint on the back door is flaking off. The fence along the back edge of the lot is buckling in and out in various spots. The table I’m sitting at is dirty – I don’t even remember the last time I cleaned it. I’ve got a little bench out here that is leaning sadly to the left and the wood is all faded and scuffed.

Compared to the houses I used to live in (again, credit to the ex for housing us well), this is kind of a dump. There was a time when I would have sat out here and only seen the dumpiness. The flaws and imperfections.

There was also a time when sitting alone in relative silence would have prompted me to ponder all the dumpy situations in my life. And there were always many, it seemed. Sometimes monumental crises that could change the course of my future. Sometimes just a flood of minor annoyances I felt like I was drowning in – the kid who can’t get potty-trained, the van that’s in the shop, the crick in my neck from how I slept three nights ago.

And of course, once I was thinking on those lines, I’d be turning to the faults in myself that often led to those dumpy situations. I didn’t get this important task done. I’ve been neglecting that friend. I lost my temper with the girls. I don’t even remember the last time I seriously read the Bible.

There are always problems and flaws – in me and around me. Always. It’s always somethin’, Roseanne Roseannadanna told us. I’ve been trained well in my perfectionism by a few significant people in my life. People who never seemed to think anything was good enough. Who always saw the problems and the flaws in the yard and the house and the furniture. Who always saw the problems and the flaws in me.

Early in my marriage, I took a class at my church called “Making Peace with your Past.” I was young and new to the realization that maybe my growing up years were not as perfect as I’d assumed and that this might have affected me poorly. I remember the beginning of a chapter in our workbook asked us to make a list of things that are not worth doing at an optimal level. I couldn’t believe how long I sat and thought about that. I finally wrote, “My fingernails.” I’ve never been one to care much about a good manicure. And yet, even then, there was a part of me that thought I really ought to care a little more about them . . . people probably notice and talk . . . my husband might like me to pay more attention to that detail in my appearance . . . it’s kind of lazy of me to let them go . . .

So, yes, I find it remarkable that I can now sit outside in my very imperfect yard and in my very imperfect self and not be stressed by the imperfections. Not feeling guilty about this thing I didn’t do well last week. Not staring morosely at the new veins and wrinkles that have surfaced on the backs of my hands. Not chastising myself for relaxing instead of getting out the scrub brush and bucket to clean the table.

I’m sitting in my backyard, looking at the sun hitting the tops of the trees, the green leaves against the bright blue sky, and saying, Thank you, God. Over and over. Thank you for this place. Thank you for my life. Thank you for the freedom from old, long-standing, heavy burdens.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.