When I moved to Rhode Island, I realized the true mark of love for me, the thing that made me say, "This must be where I'm supposed to be" was enduring winter.
I am a sunshine kind of girl. My motto is, "Give me sunshine, or give me death!" (maybe a little less dramatic, but pretty close). Yet despite the snow berms and the pot holes and the endless cold, I didn't want to move back to New Mexico after Groundhog's Day predicted more weeks of winter.
But my method of thankfulness at that time was this:
"I am thankful for the snowy days [the rainy days, the gloomy days, the cold days] because they make me appreciate the sunshine more."
(As a New Mexican, sun is taken for granted. As is warmth. And seeing the sidewalk in mid-February.)
Today, however, I had a new perspective.
I walked to work in the rain this morning--thankfully, with a jacket and an umbrella--appreciating the beauty that surrounded me. The trees, for one, were dressed in beads of glass.
But, what also caught my eye was watching the rain fall, and this was thanks to the perspective of a child (a child who was quoted in a book).
The book is called Drops Like Stars by Rob Bell. I read the whole thing in one night. I'm about to spoil the ending, though, so if you intend to read it (and you should!), forget what I'm about to say.
Here's how the book got its title.
"Several years ago, my three-year-old nephew and I were standing in front of a large window, watching it rain. He started saying,
'STARS, STARS, STARS.'
I turned to my sister-in-law and asked, 'Why does he keep repeating "stars, stars, stars"? She answered, 'He thinks that when raindrops hit the ground, for a split second they look like stars.'"
So today, I was thankful to have walked among the stars and to have noticed them.