Rusty

Some weeks, I feel like this car. Rusty bones. 

I am a person who always wants to report good news, but who has that kind of life? 

When my back goes out of joint, like this past week, I always try to figure out why.

I figure, if I can pinpoint exactly what I did wrong and avoid that particular move in future I will be safe from pain forever.

But that's not how it works.

There is never a why to be found.

You go to bed feeling great, you wake up as the tin man in dire need of oiling.

You were happy, now every time you move, it hurts.

Nooooo. Not again.

We must play the hand we are dealt. 

Sometimes that stinks.

Let's be honest.

Nevertheless, you plug along, collecting rust.

Slowly, slowly you begin to feel better. 

You try to focus on the beautiful sunshine outside. 

You savor hot tea and enjoy the budding trees.

You summon the courage for gratitude.

Gratitude is the hardest best thing you will ever practice.

Believe it.

And rust has its own kind of beauty, which takes time to develop.

Old, rich, deep color.

In life, there is always beauty to be found. 

And joy.

No matter what. 

On rusty days, one must search a little harder to find them.

If you can begin, if you can open your hand just a little bit, God will not leave you comfortless.

This I believe.