15 Jan, 2015
Washed Away
Since childhood, the compulsion to wash my hands constantly throughout the day, whether they were dirty or not, plagued me. I can trace the habit's genesis back to the time of my parents' separation when I was ten. In the midst of an emotional maelstrom, hearing two sides of a sad story, and feeling torn right down the middle, I experienced a loss of security and sense of control. I'm no psychologist, but I believe my subconscious was searching for a way to regain some of that control. I couldn't clean up the mess in my life, but I could clean my hands. And I did. I scrubbed them until they cracked and bled...
I started 2014 doing one of the things I love most: traveling. As I boarded a plane on the first day of last year, I felt a sense of adventure marking the new year. I had spent my morning dreaming with God about a new year of my life, and I couldn’t stop thinking all day long about the idea of being on an ongoing journey with him. But when the time came for me to return from my trip, a snowstorm had hit the entire southeastern region of the United States, and flights were backed up for days. I got my name on a standby list, put all my hope in the next plane, and for two days and probably ten flights, I was denied a seat.
If giving thanks is just listing all the happy things and feelings I credit God for giving me, I’m sorely missing the point. I’m missing the foundation of thanksgiving, which is the very nature and character of God...
“And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, ‘Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost.’”