Thank You, Lord

"Thank You, Lord" slips through my lips as dawn breaks and I relax in my tastefully appointed living room,  waiting for Kai.  No, the room's elegance isn't mine to claim; dear "girl" friends did it all. I acknowledge them as "girl" friends, although not in the chronological sense.  It's their energy, enthusiasm, and elan toward life that account for the term.  Seriously, none of us has responded to that classification for a decade or two or three (I'll stop at three).  Friends they are, in the truest, purest sense; that describes them! 

I simply admire their skills that took my bungling attempts at "interior design" and transformed a cluttered room into an elegant salon.  And, "Girlfriends" didn't stop there; no, they marched mission-focused through each remaining room and created the essence and beauty of grace. Bathrooms and all.  Surely, I never properly thanked them for demonstrating the consummate generosity of miracle-producing-missionaries.  I do now: "Thank you, precious friends, for choosing me as your "help the helpless production."  You blessed me!

"Thank You, Lord."  "Thank you, Girlfriends," reverberate as loudly as a giant cymbal in a well-tuned orchestra.  Regrettably, what I thought I didn't have had blinded me to the wealth, the largesse that they gave without concern for time or budget.  Mother used to admonish me to look at the loaf of bread I carried under each arm as I'd whine about something, anything I thought I didn't have.  And whine I did! Perhaps, the reason Daddy capitulated so quickly to my singsong refrain of "gimme, gimme, gimme" had to do with his attempts to stop the flow of my greed.  (And ingratitude). 

I know now I didn't win; Daddy just chose not to engage in a game he always lost--unless Mother happened to be nearby.

Still waiting for Kai, my faithful and predictable long-haired Dachshund BFF to finish his early morning "business," I heard myself repeating "Thank You, Lord" for this beautiful bungalow.  Of course, You know I'd much prefer a ranch-style floor plan that would relieve me from walking carefully down (and back up) the stairs) to my bedroom, I want You to know how sincerely and deeply I appreciate this home You've given me.  Thank You, Lord"

Years later, my angel of a beautician sang as she "did my hair, "He was there all the time.  He was there all the time.  Waiting patiently in line, He was there all the time."  Years before then, as a child I remember the deacons praying and praising, "Thank You, Lord, for what You've already done, for what You are doing, and for what You're going to do," echoing a boundless faith that "moves mountains!"

Finally, I understand.