Hope is home. By that I do not mean a philosophical shift in my thinking. My daughter, the one who has been in France for two weeks, is again in our midst.  Even with a carbon copy of her still here, namely her twin, I missed her. For today at least, she can do no wrong. Want a ride? Sure. Extra toppings on your pancakes? A pleasure. Sleep in? After twenty four hours of traveling, of course. 

I had a similar bump in goodwill when John came back from camp a few weeks ago. It is nice to be able to muster kindness without any effort. 

Having recently finished the book about the Holocaust, I am mindful of my blessings. I took a shower. It felt good. The author wrote about the longing for clean skin. The clothes I put on were freshly washed, and the description in the book of how Edie's shriveled body was covered came back to me. Or not covered. Last night I hovered between having fresh mango, a big salad, or a veggie burger. It was not as if I was famished. You know... like three million people in 1944, or in Syria.

The gratitude may not last, I fear. I remember, just barely, the wonder of a wrenched back finally being relieved by the chiropractor. Not that I am grateful now for the absence of pain then, but cognitively I recall that I once was. The thing with gratitude is, it needs to be refreshed. 

Sometimes I wonder if the One in charge of Thankfulness knows this. Is the larger picture intentionally one of give and take? Not because generosity is too difficult for God to manage in a sustained way. In fact if I am mindful, the giving never lets up. But there are benefits that slip out of reach if only for a few days or decades. People we love go away. Mangoes go out of season. Money becomes scarce. Cleanliness seems unachievable. Flowers wilt in the vase. 

And then the goodness comes swinging back, and with it a fresh wave of gladness.