“What’s for lunch?”
“We’re out of hot dogs.”
Is it really mealtime again?
I’m sure that we just ate breakfast. But, no, the clock tells me that these men who’ve been outside doing man-size work are in to eat.
I feel as if I live at the grocery store. And two days after I go shopping, we’re out of food again.
Will this never end?
And then I remember last night. The visit to Miss D’s. She lost her husband this summer and is settled into her new condo. I thought maybe she would like a visit, so M. suggested I call her. “Would you like a visit?” In the space of a three-minute phone call, she emphasized three times that she would enjoy a visit.
So the two of us spent three hours getting to know her better and vice versa. She gave us a tour of her new home and told us stories of trips, of jobs, of hunting adventures with her husband, of memories of her deceased son. She told us how lonely it is at times.
And that’s when I remember. The memory of her loneliness reminded me. To give thanks for that which I have. For all that I have. For the never-ending grocery lists. For the hours spent cooking. For the disappearing food.
For one day, this will end. And instead of complaining even one iota, I want to spend it all rejoicing.