I received a message recently from someone who reads my nightly gratitude post, “Counting it ALL Joy” on Facebook. Here’s what it said: “Your Counting it ALL Joy is killing me.”
I’d been posting a lot of things about my new little granddaughter including an adorable picture of her in her hedge hog Halloween outfit, so I thought she meant it in a nice way – killing her with joy. But then I read further.
“ …we face issues that do not have a shred of joy in them. I stand here in front of your words and beg my Father to help me, in faith, believe it and to live it. This formidable mountain casts a deep shadow.”
Oh my heart. She’d been reading not just the gratitude posts but also the blog series on climbing the mountains in our lives. Her mountain was so vast the shadow was blocking out every bit of light. All I could do was empathize because I’ve been there. That’s how this whole practice started—when I was drowning in the depths of my own darkness. It’s one thing to count your blessings when you can look out your rustic farmhouse window, see the sun rise and the light fall on that patch of glorious sunflowers you planted last spring. I looked out the window and all I could see was the dumpster. I get it.
How do you count it all joy when you’re not joyful?
Summer: there are two kinds of people in this world: those who live for summer, swimsuits and suntans and those who wilt when the temps rise about 70 degrees.
I’m a wilter.
Fifteen long, hot, there’s-only-one-season-year-round-never-ending Florida summers, followed by a decade of hot flashes made this rose droop. At my age, shorts and tank tops are out of the question and can we please not discuss the trauma of trying on bathing suits?
I honestly began to dread summer to the point that depression would set in the higher the temperature climbed. Claustrophobia. I got S.A.D. starting in March. But guess what?