We couldn’t make the Memorial Day blueberry pancakes this morning because we ran out of milk. I was the one dressed already, so I volunteered to drive to the store.
It was a little after 8:00 AM.
It was just a trip for milk.
I left my children in their pajamas and my husband hovering over his ingredients. I’d have to be quick.
I’m turning the corner out of our neighborhood, and all of a sudden, like something bounding out of a dark woods into my car, I’m aware that I’m really, really happy. The realization struck with such force that it astonished me. For someone who battled the black haze of depression for nearly a decade, I am still amazed and celebrate the sheer joy that accompanies feeling good.
I was so thankful this morning to be alive. I was so thankful for what the holiday weekend represented–commemorating soldiers who died to secure freedom. We’d commemorate them in ways they would want us to: we’d eat pies, swim in the public pool, gather for a potluck dinner. What a gift this life is–this simple life that bursts with beauty in all these hidden places if I just look . . .
Living with flair means I commemorate, with ceremony and observation, how thankful I am for battles won, large or small. And I remember the fallen by being fully alive–fetching milk early Monday for blueberry pancakes eaten in peace, with a family, around a simple kitchen table.