Ingratitude exposed

Yesterday Dave and I spent a lot of time reorganizing our home.   A bookshelf was moved out of our room and into Joseph's room.  A dresser was moved out of Joseph's room and into our room.  A night-table was retrieved from the shed and put in our bedroom, in between the dresser and bed.  The mattress of the guest bed was exchanged with the mattress of our bed.  A desk was moved into the living room.  A rocking horse and wheely lady bug were moved under the stairs.  A rocking chair was taken to the Salvation Army.

Just to recap, our family lives in a space that I've described before as "teeny-tiny".  We've lived in smaller places, and I'm sure that someone out there reading this is living with even less square footage, so "teeny-tiny" may not be all that accurate.  But "teeny-tiny" is how it sometimes feels.  On good days, when we turn on the heat and it's warm in 5 seconds, or when we have friends over and we are oh, so cozy, or when you can smell the rising pizza dough anywhere, or when Dave's guitar is loud and lovely everywhere no matter how softly he plays, this place feels just right and I love it.  On bad days, when our shoes and coats take over half the living room, or when the hockey equipment takes up all the front porch and the laundry closet, or when I can't open the oven because someone is sitting at the dining room table, or when Joseph's cries are clear as crystal no matter which room I escape to, this place feels all wrong and I hate it.

Yesterday it felt like the latter.    All that organizing left me tired and discouraged.  The hour before bed was marked by a swift descent of my mood.  It began with "all I do around here is organize" (whine, complain, change-into-my-pj's-with-a-pout) and moved to a full-blown "life sucks" (fume, growl, throw-the-covers-over-my-head-in-anger-good-night).

With a day's distance from those feelings, I've given it all some thought.   And as much as I'm someone who spends a lot of time affirming all sorts of emotions in all sorts of people, I can't affirm this one.   My frustration about my house is not legitimate.  And here's why. 

When I think about it - when I really, really think about it - the time and energy that I put into managing our teeny-tiny space isn't done out of necessity.  It's done out of a lack of contentment.  If I'm honest with myself, I'm the type for whom nothing is ever right.  The furniture doesn't fit in the room the way I want it to.  The closet isn't as efficient as I want it to be. The kitchen doesn't look as good as it should.  If my home could talk, it would say, "My goodness, Brittney.  You're hard to please."  And it'd be right.  And that's not something I'm proud of.

Thanks to someone at church, I'm reading a book right now that's reintroducing me to the importance of gratitude.  Gratitude is so central to the life of a Christian!  I know this, but I forget it.  There's this part in the first chapter that describes humanity's first sin as ingratitude.  Ungrateful for what God had given them (a beautiful garden), they went searching after something else (the one tree that was off limits).  Ann Voskamp writes, "Our fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren't satisfied in God and what He gives.  We hunger for something more, something other."  It kills me to think that when he hears all of my whining and complaining and fuming and growling, God might respond, "My goodness, child.  You're hard to please."

I don't want to be hard to please.  I want to be thankful for what is, because it's from God and to wish for anything else is to miss the goodness of what he's given.  I want to be thankful for what is, because it's what is, and to wish for anything else is to wish my life away. 

If there was a button in my heart to turn off frustration and turn on gratitude, I'd like to push it.  But a lifetime of knowing myself and a few short years of being a pastor has taught me there is no such thing.  Ingratitude can't be solved by mere awareness anymore than my house can grow a few more closets by my say so.  Replacing frustration with genuine thankfulness takes work.  And I don't exactly know what kind of work.  But I'm assuming there will be some pointers in the book if I keep reading.  The mess of coats and shoes the corner will have to wait.

A picture of a rainbow over our home, just as a reminder that there's hope for it - and me - yet.