When I Complain about Good Things

Last week, Landon started therapy. I was sitting in the waiting room waiting for his therapist to come out, and a mama walked by with her daughter. Something was very obviously wrong; she was probably 11 or 12, her speech was unintelligible, and she couldn't walk without support or help. The therapist came out to take her back to therapy. As they walked in to the rehab center, I heard the girl's mom talking proudly about the progress her daughter was making - she'd been trying to take a few steps unassisted.

WOW. Just... wow.

I complain about Landon's progress being slow. I complain a lot. 

[If you don't believe me, ask my sweet, incredibly patient husband.]

Yes, this is hard, especially because I'm his mama. No, I am not downplaying it.

But when I heard that mom's excitement and pride over her daughter's progress, progress that certainly puts her far, far behind any other child her age, I realized something.

I do not take joy like I should in how Landon is growing, changing, thriving.

I complain that he's not articulating well...

                        ...instead of rejoicing that he's able to communicate with us at all.

I complain that he's too hyper...

                       ...instead of rejoicing that he's active, alert, and full of so. much. happiness.

I complain that he's too clumsy...

                       ...instead of rejoicing that he can walk and run and move.

I complain that he's not caught up to his peers...

                      ...instead of rejoicing that he is just who God created him to be.

I have so much to be thankful for.

So, so much.

                                                    
{Stay tuned... later this week, I'm going to be sharing more about essential oils and how a skeptic (that's me) turned into a believer!}