A friend once told me about the "home" he and his father had as refugees in Europe during World War II. He, his mother, and his younger brother moved constantly from place to place. . . . Each time they arrived in a new place, his mother would open the small suitcase that held all their belongings and bring out the lace tablecloth she had used for their Friday night meals in Poland, before they were forced to leave and begin their flight. In each place the ritual was exactly the same. She would place the suitcase on a table, carefully drape the tablecloth over the suitcase, light a candle, and in that moment, wherever it was became home. This ritual was their prayer.
I wonder if gratefulness is the
bridge from sorrow to joy,
spanning the chasm of our
anxious striving. Freed from the
burden of unbridled desires, we
can enjoy what we have,
celebrate what we've attained,
and appreciate the familiar. For
if we can't be happy now, we'll
likely not be happy when.