Last week, my husband and I drove to Utah. We rode in air-conditioned, leather-upholstered comfort. Even with several stops, we made the trip in less than eight hours. More than a hundred and fifty years ago, my pioneer ancestors made a much longer journey, traveling in covered wagons and handcarts.
Food was scarce, their only shelter the tarps of their wagons if they were lucky. The children collected buffalo chips to use for fires. They buried loved ones along the way, giving them shallow, often unmarked graves. Babies were born and, frequently, lost.
I found myself grumbling about the length of the trip, the discomfort of sitting for so long. When I compared my journey with that of the pioneers, I could find only admiration for them and shame for myself.
I started this blog with the express purpose of reminding myself to be more grateful. My complaints and groanings pointed out how far I have to go, not just in relation to the trip to Utah but to every aspect of my life. When am I going to focus on my blessings rather than my trials? When am I going to find the wisdom ... and the humility ... to recognize the Father's hand in my life?
I don't know.
So, for today, I am grateful for reminders that I am, indeed, blessed, even when I don't acknowledge it.