Life is a gift.
I think deep down this truth is written on the cavernous walls of our hearts. We know that life is a gift, but do we live like it is?
Truthful, I don't always live like this.
This morning I was walking into the pale sunrise of morning, out to the white barn, to milk the goats. The air cold, but not freezing. All around me the world, dressed in white, gleamed in the yellow light. The light touches the folds of the mountains with soft hands. Snow and ice crunch beneath my feet. Above me, the blue sky is dappled in silver clouds like the spots on a faun's back. They shimmer in the sunlight. In the west, dark blue storm clouds roll and churn as they climb over the mountain's peak, spilling into the sky above our valley. Though the clouds still hover far away, I can feel their energy.
I walked into this beauty with a mind full of our mortality.
We know a man, our neighbor. His body is wracked with the incurable Lou Gerick's disease. The disease seeps into every part of him. He can't walk. Now he can barely speak. We each have a number for our days, but his number grows smaller. We pray for him every day. God is reaching his heart. I don't think this man has every let God reach into his heart.
With my eyes full of light, I was hit with the truth in a new way.
Life is a gift.
It is a gift to be alive. To draw breath. laugh. cry. talk. write. love.
I've always known life is a gift, but I don't simply want to know.
I want to wake to each sunrise and breathe deep this gift.
I want thankfulness for life to spill out of me every day.
I want to live keenly aware of the number of my days.
I want to live keenly aware of the gift each one contains.