So Saturday I’m sitting in my bed looking through the pictures on my phone. It’s a newish phone—I got it in February—and yet I already have a hundred pictures. Maybe two hundred. Who’s counting?
Anyway, I’m looking at the pictures. There’s one of Eve’s birthday party—a gigantic success, a real-life fantasy of fun. Another of our family picnic in the back of the new blue truck. Another with friends in Alabama. One in San Antonio at our favorite Brooklyn pizza place franchised and relocated. One with friends in West Texas, packed into yet another truck bed, this time like sardines.
I have a beautiful picture of London in a hand-crafted tiara. Another of London beside her chalk-drawn twin. So many of that creative girl and her creations. I have three of Eve dancing. Ten of Eve laughing.
I have pictures of my kids with our friends. I have pictures of me with our friends’ kids.
I have pictures of wildflowers and pictures of clouds and a picture of my favorite shoes.
I’m scrolling through these pictures, and I start crying. I’m crying because I have so much to be thankful for. In just three months, a snapshot in time, I’ve accumulated hundreds of picture-worthy moments—blessings, gifts, delights.
I’m crying because if you’d asked me, I would have said these last three months have been hard, trying. I would have remembered the challenges and disappointments, shadows looming large and mysterious. Surely I would have remembered the blessings, too, but without the pictures—this album of grace—I would have missed the disorienting and reorienting volume of those blessings, a sky-scraping pile of blessing.