“But I don’t wanna go to school today,” my grandson told me as I opened the car door for him.
“I know,” I said, “some days I don’t feel like going to work, either.”
We all have those days, days when we just have to slog through, days when it feels like we are trudging in thick mud that keeps tugging on our shoes as we struggle to lift one foot after the other.
On those days, I find myself repeating, “just for today, just for today, just for today.”
And then, sometimes, when I’m mindful enough to be mindful enough, I look for something for which I am grateful.
One of my heroes of the faith, Charles Spurgeon, once quipped, “We are in a wrong state of mind if we are not in a thankful state of mind.”
If I’m struggling—not simply with the day by day challenges that face each of us but with something deeper within, something that’s creating a hitch in my stride, so that I’m keep kaplunking round and round, going nowhere, like tennis shoes tumbling in the clothes dryer—I stop and look within: the problem is with myself; I’m in the wrong frame of mind.
My wrong state of mind is the result of an ungrateful state of mind.
“We have a lot to be thankful for today,” I told Eli, hoping my words would ignite a change in his attitude.
They didn’t.
“Like what?” he cynically asked.
I almost threatened him with some handy guilt-laden barbs, like, “I don’t have to pick you up, you know,” or, “I’m going out of my way just to get you, so you’d better appreciate it.”
I discarded the thought.
“Well, we have this nice road to drive along,” I said, instead.
“Now, how lame can you get?” I asked myself, “What seven-year old is going to be thankful for a paved road to school?
The fact is, on the way to pick him up, I had to make a short detour because a road was under construction. And as I was making what I’m sure was an illegal U-turn, I wondered what it would like for me to pick up my grandson in hazardous roads, like in Beirut, Lebanon, or some remote village in Tanzania, the thought of which had saved me from being ticked off at whoever the person was that would choose to repair a road on a day when I needed it.
“Let’s see, the traffic is mostly on the other side of the road, we can be grateful for that. And, uh, you have a ball game tomorrow night, yes, remember you have a game, and today the weather is cooler, and that’ll mean nicer weather for recess.”
And then, as if to summarize the day’s pristine possibilities, I declared: “Yes indeed, altogether, I’d say, it’s a beautiful day, Eli, a beautiful day.”
Looking in the rearview mirror, I thought I glimpsed a hint of a smile, so I proceeded with the “beautiful day” thought: “Just look at this beautiful day, Eli. In fact, when the teacher opens your car door to let you out, I’m going to tell her it’s a beautiful day. That’s what I’m going to do: I’m telling her it’s a beautiful day.”
“I dare you,” he said, suppressing a giggle.
“Okay, I’ll take your dare: I’m going to do it.”
He almost broke into a snicker, and then just as the teacher reached for his door, he reneged on his dare: “No, PopPop, don’t say it.”
It was too late: as Eli slid out of the seat, I shouted, “Thank you, and, it’s a beautiful day.”
The teacher responded with her agreement, “Yes, it isa beautiful day.”
I couldn’t help but spy Eli out of the corner of my eye as I drove off. He didn’t know I was looking, but there he was, grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head as he walked along, as if he were saying, “What am I going to do with my PopPop?”
And that was enough for me.
In that moment, it was a beautiful day.
And it has been ever since.