Grateful Because

When I get up and I see the bright light of sun, it makes my day. It doesn’t need to be warm weather. Heck, it can be the middle of winter, but as long as I see that blue sky and some sunshine beaming into the kitchen, my day couldn’t have started better.

I think that it’s most of all the promise the intense light brings. “This is a new day!”, it beams, “This day is going to rock!!”

Our kitchen catches the morning the sun. In winter the sun is so low in the sky sometimes that you have to squint your eyes: excellent!

A cup of coffee, some breakfast, that morning sun streaming in, and the hustle and bussle of family life.

Thank You for the morning sun.

It was raining this morning and man… does it smell nice. It smells… fresh and special and… and it’s uncatchable. Sure, many products claim to smell like “fresh rain” but how many actually do? None, in my book.

Apparently it’s not even the rain itself that smells. If everything is right water doesn’t have a smell.

Instead the smell is produced by the Streptomyces bacteria. When it’s been dry a while they produce spores and those spores are what is released into the air when the rain hits the ground. And this is what we associate with the smell of rain.

It’s amazing how also in the process of rain everything works together and is at the same time as simple as a child can see and as complicated as a wise one knows.

Thank You for the smell of rain.

· The wonderful photo of rain hitting cement was taken by sneezypb

I’m truly blessed with my mother. She’s in a category by herself. She’s not a woman, not a human; she’s a mother. Well no, not just any mother, she’s my mother.

When it comes to love and dedication for your children, my mother is my example.

Living on the other side of the ocean we none the less find time to chat almost on a daily basis: the Internet has made ours a small, cozy world.

It’s so natural for me to have my mother. And it’s not. I lost my father 9 years ago. Could happen anytime to me, to my mother. Around me I know those who have lost their mother and whether it was early on or late in their lives, it was always too soon.

So I guess I can count two blessings: that I have such a fine, sweet, special mother — and that I have her.

It’s almost hard to say. It’s almost the wrong thing to say: I’m grateful that so many gave their life for my freedom.

I know you probably didn’t want to go. And that if you did, being there quickly changed your mind. I understand that the “going” wasn’t heroism on your part. And that maybe the “being there” wasn’t either. But when you fought, when it came down to it, for whatever reason you fought; that is my freedom.

I can only imagine how scary it was. How slowly the realization that “this is real” penetrated your every move and thought. I understand that what I imagine multiplied by 10 and garnished with the worst scenes I can think of doesn’t even begin to come close to what you lived through, what you saw. What you came to know.

And if you want to yell and kick and curse at me — I know. And crying is OK too because it wasn’t easy seeing your friend like that. Yes, your wry smile says that that might be the understatement of the year.

I know.

But I have to selfishly point to me and mine, shake my head and say; “Not without you. This wouldn’t be but for you.”

I’m grateful for those through the payment of their lives have meant the liberation of those I love. Of my grandfather who walked for miles to bring back food to his children. Of my mother who waved her father goodbye only to have a gun pointed at her; “go inside!”. Of my father who saw the trains.

Thanks.