Shelter in Place

My travels frequently take me to places prone to tornadoes and other natural disasters. As a result, I am aware of looking for places of shelter and protection in the event of a storm.

The restrooms at airports in Columbus, Indianapolis, and St. Louis for instance, all have signage indicating they are shelters in case of tornadoes. Having weathered a tornado threat, and its accompanying siren, hunkered down next to the toilet in my hotel bathroom one night, I can definitively state that sheltering in a public bathroom is not something I would willingly do. But I digress.

I am convinced life should come with an instruction app, complete with the people and places in which to find shelter in the midst of the inevitable storms. When times of danger, darkness, or confusion overtake and overwhelm us, we should be able to turn to our app and locate a safe person or safe place where we can ride it out. And if dark chocolate and good red wine are involved, even better.

For me, the practice of gratitude has long been a place of safety. The refuge I find in remembering and rehearsing blessings too numerous to count grounds and centers me. It calms my fears and reminds me of the Provision that serendipitously – miraculously – intersects my life at exactly the right time and place.

My battle with cancer battered my practice of gratitude. Frankly, it is hard to be thankful when parts of your body are being cut off and poisons are being infused into your bloodstream. Like leaves on a tree in fall, thankfulness can detach and fly away in the winds of the storm when your existence becomes defined by physical pain and mental darkness.

For months on end, all I could do was remind myself to practice gratitude for even the smallest of graces. Food, when I could eat it. Sleep, when I could get it. Work, when I could do it.

Now on the other side of this storm, I look back and see how gratitude sustained and sheltered me as the storm raged around and above me. Whispered prayers – sometimes nothing more than “thank you” or “Please, God, more of this” – became woven together, covering and comforting me.

Cancer was hard. Treatment was brutal. But, like a cactus wren making a nest among the thorns of a cactus, gratitude nestled in alongside the pain, helping me see hope and light.

I’m happy to let go of the battle with cancer. But I pray I never stop sheltering in place within the safety of gratitude.