On Being Cold, and Grateful

We took a family trip north this past weekend to go skiing. Skiing is not the best in Michigan, due to the fact that there are no mountains here, but we’ll take what we can get. We traveled north to stay at a friend’s cottage and this cottage while not large or elaborate by any means, is very close to Lake Michigan. I believe my friend called it "a little humble place" which describes it well. You can see the lake from the living room and can hear the waves crashing against the shoreline. It wasn’t terribly cold by Michigan’s standards, but Michigan is cold relatively speaking most of the winter, which means it was still cold by most people’s standards (unless you live in some crazy place like the Antarctic, or Cheboygan).

It was Friday night and the boys had just gone to bed. Bill was building a fire in the huge stone fireplace and I was snuggled up under a blanket, ready to watch whatever we could find on television. The TV was turned down low so as not to keep the boys awake and Bill was quietly rearranging logs, trying to get the fire going.

That’s when I heard it.

The wind had picked up outside and as I listened I could hear it brushing against the sides of the small cottage. The waves on the lake were building as well and I could almost feel their frigid chill as they lapped against the ledge of ice that had built up on the beach. The wind ebbed and flowed, much like the waves, and it blew into my mind a memory. I sat and listened and remembered a time, a time that seems to be ages passed, when I had no place to hide from the wind. It still amazes me how quickly I can recall what it was like to sleep in the wind and the rain, the cold of the night pressing heavily on my shoulders, back, and chest. What it felt like to be so cold that sleep was impossible and while many in the town slumbered, I aimlessly walked, trying to make my legs stop aching, trying to make my jaw stop quivering. Sometimes it seems like someone else’s life, like it was a story I heard about what it was like to be homeless – a 3rd person narrative. But then I remember this story is told in first person, and I’m the narrator.

This has happened to me repeatedly over the years. I’ll be lying in bed listening to the rain fall hard against the roof and remember seeking shelter from a cold October rain. I’ll step outside my door on a snowy winter morning and remember opening my cheap motel room door to get the milk that was kept out in the snow, hoping it wasn’t frozen.

And what comes next, after the memories, is a sense of overwhelming gratefulness. No, I’m not usually brought to tears, but my heart jumps just a little whenever I consider from what and where I’ve been brought. Remembering that 11 years ago, on my best days I was dodging angry motel owners and on my worst, dodging the cold of the night air, sets me back just a little. Grateful is the only word I can use to describe these moments of memory.

Sometimes I lose sight of this grateful attitude. I get caught up in what I don’t have – more time, more energy, more talent, more resources, more, more, more. But then God gives me a pause in life when I can hear the wind breathing hard on the exteriors and I am reminded of the shelter He has given me. And for just a moment, I am grateful once again.

I have asked Him to never let me forget those cold and lonely nights because I often need a nudge back to where I should be – grateful. When perspective gets misdirected it’s hard to be grateful. Just keep listening for the wind and let it remind you. Rest in those memories until you return to a place of gratitude, and then rejoice and be glad.