The long yellow rolling pin swirled in an almost-circle on the hard wood floor. I wondered if the short flecks of brown dog hair on the tile would stick to my 10-month-old’s slobber on the end of it.
I’d given my son the rolling pin as something to play with, a new shape to occupy his ever-curious little mind. As soon as I handed it to him, my two-year-old came running in from the other room, suddenly disinterested in the Daniel Tiger cartoon she just had to watch minutes before.
“But I want the rolling pin, Mama!” she wailed as the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Let’s be honest. A yellow rolling pin is a little cool, but not really. It’s not even a toy, and yet she was wailing for it like a possessed hyena.
How often do I focus on, and therefore magnify, what I don’t have?
I see it in my daughter as she hears a toy commercial in the morning and then mentions at suppertime how she, “would like to have one of those.”
What if instead I magnify the things I’m-glad-I-have, and not always even things, but the small joys that come my way each day if I would only open my eyes and notice.
What if I move my gaze from the mess on the carpet to the built-in bookshelf that I love? This might feel like work, at first, but then I see the sunroom differently later that day. The thanks comes to me, somehow not even my action, and later in the same day my eyes draw up to notice the little spiral light fixture in our high-up hallway ceiling. It is beautiful, quirky and unique. Why hadn’t I seen it before? How is it that even the tiniest things can start to shimmer when we stop and say thanks?
Were they shimmering the whole time?
“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18)