Day 28, January 28

More than thirty years ago, Hollywood made a movie entitled "Ordinary People." Though I never saw the movie, the title intrigued me. How could a movie with such a prosaic sounding subject be interesting, I wondered.

Since then I have grown more aware of the ordinary people who enrich my life and that of others simply through the way they live their lives.

Ours is a modest neighborhood, made up of hard-working people. They go to work every day to support their families. They mow their yards in the summer, rake the leaves in the fall, shovel snow from the sidewalks in the winter, and plant flowers in the spring. They attend their children's football games, dance programs, and piano recitals. They vote in every election. They serve on school boards, volunteer in the community, and attend political caucuses. They sit through PTA meetings because they care about their children's schools. They bring meals to families who have suffered a loss. They serve in their churches wherever they are needed.

There are no movie stars, no professional athletes, no politicians, no one who would be invited as a guest on the Oprah show among these people. There are no demands for the spotlight. In fact, most of them would shun the spotlight if it were to be turned on them.

These are the people who are there with offers of babysitting when a family of five has another baby. These are the people who shovel the walks of a widow. These are the people who take in a neighbor's mail when the neighbor is on vacation. These are the people who give an elderly friend a ride to the doctor or the grocery store.

These are the people who make the world a better place.

So, for today, I am grateful for ordinary people.

Day 27, January 27

In an earlier post, I talked about the quilts I had inherited from my mother, quilts stitched during the Great Depression, fashioned from scraps and flour sacks. These quilts would never win a prize at a county fair. The stitching is uneven in places, the corners of the squares not aligned with exacting precision.

Early in her career, Barbara Streisand was advised to have her nose fixed. Her less-than-perfect snoz was deemed a drawback to her career. She refused and went on to become a superstar.

Pearls did not start out as luminescent gems. Instead, they began as a blemish, an irritant to the oyster, who covered it over with layers of shell to form the beautifiul gem that is so sought after.

What do quilts, Barbara's nose, and pearls have in common? Imperfection. They are all imperfect, yet all possess a unique kind of beauty.

Would I trade my mother's quilts for perfectly stitched ones mass produced by a manufacturer? No. Would Barbara trade her snoz for a perfectly sculpted one? No. (I'm not sure about the oyster so I'll leave that to your imagination.)

Our appearance-obsessed society tells us that unless something is perfect, it should be thrown away. Perfect clothes, perfect bodies, perfect houses--we are bombarded by the images until we grow dissatisfied with what we have, what we are. Artificial standards of beauty assault us with every commercial, every magazine, every internet site.

Where will this quest for perfection lead? Some cultures discard babies who are born with defects. I was born with one leg several inches shorter than the other. Should my parents have tossed me away?

God judges us by a different standard, asking if we have cared enough, if we have loved enough. Never has He asked us if we have been perfect enough.

So, for today, I am grateful for imperfection, both in quilts and in people.

Day 26, January 26

As I've mentioned before, I am a writer. You will have never heard of me unless you know me personally. That is not modesty, only simple truth. You may recall the television show "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous." A show featuring me could rightly be called "Lifestyles of the Poor and Obscure."

Rejection is a way of life for many writers. A writer quickly develops a thick skin or gets out of the business. On one day, not too long ago, I received eleven rejections. The following day, I received seven. I tried to see that as progress.

Rejections used to come through the mail. Writers send in SASEs (self-addressed stamped envelopes) with each submission so that the editor can more easily reject them. My young daughter once asked me, "Mom, why do you send yourself letters?" I explained that writers are weird. She accepted that with a wise nod.

Now, rejections arrive via email. Again, I try to see that as progress.

Most of us have experienced rejection at some point in our lives. A scholarship not won. A job you thought you were perfect for that didn't come through. A raise in salary not given. We weather these because we have no choice and move on.

There is another One who also experienced rejection. He was rejected by His own people. Eventually, they crucified Him. However, Christ's love for His people never wavered.

With more than a tad of self-righteousness, I thought to myself, "I have never rejected the Lord." Then, in a moment of brutal self-honesty, I realize that I have rejected Him.

Every time I am less than kind to someone else, I reject Him. Every time I fail to obey a commandment, I reject Him. I resolve to do better, then find myself slipping into old behavior. I try again, knowing He will accept my humble and inadequate efforts.

So, for today, I am grateful for the Lord, Who, despite my weaknnesses, has never rejected me.

Day 25, January 25

Today I have a number of chores to accomplish. Some are more palatable than others. On days when I feel industrious, I tackle the more difficult tasks first, then reward myself with the pleasurable ones. On my lazy days, which are far more numerous, I start with the easy ones and work my way up. I suppose I'm not much different from many other people.

I frequently find myself grumbling over chores and responsibilities. In fact I have raised grumbling to an art form. Still, at the end of completing a task, I feel a certain satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment that boosts my self-esteem.

I wonder about those individuals who have nothing which needs to be done, no one who needs them, no one who depends upon them. What must their lives be like? Do they flit from one meaningless activity to another?

The proliferation of reality shows on television baffles me, particularly those which spotlight people whose only claim to fame is that they are famous. What do the Kardashians do beside put on too much makeup and wear obscenely expensive clothes? What does Paris Hilton do other than to behave selfishly and thoughtlessly? What must they think about themselves when they realize that they have created nothing, produced nothing, contributed nothing?

Would anyone's life be less if these people stopped doing what they are doing? What a sad commentary.

Despite my grumbling, I realize that work is a blessing. Knowing that I have something to get up for in the morning is a blessing. Knowing that others depend upon me is a blessing. Knowing that I have a strong body which is able to work is a blessing.

So, for today, I am grateful for work and things that have to be done.

Day 24, January 24

I love pansies. I especially love winter pansies which defy the cold and snow to brighten even the dreariest days. I love their saucy faces of purple and gold.

(A personal note: In a children's song book, there is a song entitlted "Little Purple Pansies." When our oldest daughter, Alanna, was three years old, she sang "Little Purple Panties." It is one of those sweet memories that I take out and hold close to my heart.)

Pansies are a humble flower. Unlike the more showy roses, pansies require that you bend close to appreciate their beauty. They put me in mind of some special people.

A lady in our church serves faithfully in the nursery, lovingly tending the under-three-year-old children so that their parents can go to class. She willingly gives up going to the adult classes in favor of reading stories and singing songs to these smallest of God's children.

Another woman, whose own children are now grown, reads to preschool children every week. She does this without recompense, her only "salary" that of the joy she finds in sharing her love of reading.

A man gives of his time and means to work with the eleven-year-old scouts in our church. He is never happier than when he is teaching them, inspiring them, preparing them to go on and become Eagle Scouts.

Each of these individuals perform these small acts of love without fanfare, without seeking the spotlight. Each has defied personal challenges to serve others.

So, for today, I am grateful for winter pansies which bloom where they are planted ... and for people who do the same.

Day 23, January 23

I grew up in a family where prayer was a part of life. We prayed in the mornings, at every meal, in the evenings. Prayer was not only taught, but practiced.

I am ashamed to admit, though, that I took the gift of prayer for granted. Too frequently my prayers were offered in a perfunctory manner as I thanked the Father for blessings and then asked Him for yet more. I prayed, but I didn't truly believe in the power of prayer.

It wasn't until I was much older that I began to see prayer for what it really is: a two-way communication with the Father, where I could not only pour out my heart to Him but that He could and would answer me as well.

My prayers took on new meaning as I spent more time listening and less time talking. After offering a prayer, I spent time on my knees as the Spirit whispered to me. When circumstances rendered it impossible to get to my knees and utter a prayer aloud, I prayed silently and discovered that the Father's voice can be heard above the clatter and clutter of the world--if I but listen.

So, for today, I am grateful for prayer ... and for a Father who loves me.

Day 22, January 22

Last week I wrote of my father. I then realized that I should have waited until today, his birthday, to pay tribute to him. Please bear with me as I indulge myself and write about him again.

My father would be the first to call himself an ordinary man. He remained modest, even humble, about his accomplishments.

At the outbreak of World War II, he enlisted in the Navy and was sent to Washington, DC. Though he had skills that would have allowed him to stay behind a desk, he volunteered to go overseas and was deployed to the Pacific Theater. During that time, two of his brothers died. The Red Cross offered to send him home, but he refused, believing he was needed where he was.

He was an ordinary man.

After returning from the war, he went to school, graduated with honors, and attended law school. He obtained a job with the Department of Justice where he rose to the rank of GS-16, the highest rating in the government at that time.

He was an ordinary man.

He and my mother cared for the widows and elderly in their church, taking them to doctors' appointments, to the grocery store, for a meal at a restaurant. Anyone who was alone at Thanksgiving or Christmas or other holidays knew they would find a place at the McBride table.

He was an ordinary man.

Yes, my father was an ordinary man, one who did extraordinary things.

So, for today, and for every day, I am grateful for my father.