As for me, I said in my prosperity,
‘I shall never be moved.’ —Psalm 30
Every day I am faced with a mountain of it. Every morning I awaken to the sounds of my baby laughing or talking to himself. I stumble out of my warm bed, in my apartment which is small but safe. I turn on the heat, which I never have to worry about paying for. I lift my sweet little guy out of his crib and we go get some breakfast. There is always food in the kitchen—so much that we have a hard time deciding what to eat. I turn on the tap and clean, safe drinking water fills up my kettle. My son is smashing some banana into his mouth and massaging the rest into his highchair. He has never cried from prolonged hunger; I have never been one of those stunned mothers on the news brushing the flies away from his eyes. He has never been seriously ill and I don’t have to worry that the food or water I’m giving him will make him so. After breakfast we lounge in our pyjamas playing. There is no office to rush to, no babysitter to explain things to, just us. Sometimes I am tired and sometimes he cries, but there isn’t anything a nap couldn’t fix.
All this I take for granted. I am not grateful each morning as my feet hunt for my slippers. I don’t thank God for delivering me safely through the night. I don’t think of those who haven’t slept due to bullets and bangs and the fear that makes them wonder whether they will wake if they dare close their eyes. The trinity of the bed, the deadbolt, and the neighborhood watch bestow on me a peace which passes all understanding.
And I don’t think about God. I read my son a Bible story before his nap but the words are so familiar that I find myself falling asleep. I know God is all around us, but I don’t see Him. When we go on our walk my baby squeals with delight at the sight of a crow or the feeling of the wind. All I see are the grey clouds and wonder if it will rain. When it does, I curse the sky and my wet shoes.
I am a consumer of the finest degree. I scrupulously examine breakfast cereals for their sugar content and disdainfully place them back on the grocery store shelf. How dare the sky rain on me? I will write God a letter and ask for a refund of this day. A day I don’t deserve but to which I somehow feel entitled.
