About this time yesterday, I forgot I had anything to be thankful for.
Our electricity had gone out at six a.m.—the same time I stuffed myself into three jackets and a scarf and wandered around the house like I was waiting for a bus. In Alaska.
Our kids pleaded for the eighth time to throw themselves in the snow. My son breathed onto the window and then wiped it with his hopeful cheek. My daughter didn’t move.
The answer should have been obvious. “Have at it!” I wanted to say. There were enough snow drifts for everyone.
But the power…the power was still a problem.
We sulked instead by the window and played UNO in the shadows. We held a flashlight to the fridge. Ten hours into our indoor snow-camping experience, my kind words had faded, and like the day light, I wasn’t sure they were going to be back for a while.
Here at my in-laws house, the wood stove is pumping. My kids, still in last night’s pajamas, are stacking Jenga blocks and rolling the dice to Monopoly for the first time. My mother-in-law has survived five games of Go Fish with a smile. I’ve whittled down to a single jacket. And my son has stared for half an hour at the screensaver afraid he’ll miss what comes next if he leaves
It seems we’ve gotten little done this week–no more than eat, freeze and thaw. Maybe less. But I’m realizing as my son pulls my hand away from these keys for another game of Jenga, that this urge to get things done hardly matters now.
This is exactly where we’re supposed to be. Right here. Right now.