Yesterday, my older son William taught his little brother Andrew how to play the classic game Uno.
Rain was starting to drizzle outside, and the kitchen was cozy. The boys plunked down at the kitchen table, while I made turkey sandwiches for lunch. William began to explain how to use a wild card, what the reverse card meant, and so on. Andrew listened gamely and studied the cards in front of him, although he insisted on leaving them all face-up in front of him, negating any suspense the game might have developed. They chattered cheerfully back and forth to each other as they flipped cards down.
There was no fighting or arguing. There was no tussling. There was no yelling, screaming, scratching, screeching, hollering, slapping, tripping, stomping, or smacking. It was one of those perfect soap-bubble kinds of brotherly love moments that I wanted to preserve forever. This quick photo that I snapped with my phone is about as close as I could get.
Today in church, the Prayer of Thanksgiving included this series of lines:
“It is easy to be grateful for large things that shape our affairs and sway our lives, the looming miracles of grace that stop us cold in our tracks and shout the mercy of God. Let us know be thankful, too, for small graces that catch us unaware; that occur when we are too busy–or so we fancy–to pause and take notice; or are so subtle, and we so unfeeling, that we disregard them altogether; or so uncommon that we overlook them and miss the patch of heaven they possess.”
Small graces, like that game of Uno. Later that afternoon, there was, yes, some tussling and wrestling and screaming and screeching. There always has been, there always is, there always shall be. But those fleeting moments of harmony are just so delicious in their small perfection. While I sliced apples to put on the plates with the turkey sandwiches, my two children were happily enjoying each other’s company–and it was completely their own idea. I hadn’t asked them to play together. They just did. And I was lucky enough to be right there, seeing and listening. And being thankful. It didn’t matter that they fought later. There, at the kitchen table, there it was.
The Prayer of Thanksgiving noted that small blessings could be as simple as two friends meeting in the supermarket aisle or the smile from a child we don’t know. And then there was this line near the end:
“…[Because you came and lived among us, we know the magic of surprise blessings and the joy of small stuff.”
The Big Stuff matters, of course. It matters a lot. But ah, the small stuff. The Uno game. The perfect flavor of ice cream on a hot July night. Clean warm socks in January. The way that Andrew carefully kisses my nose when I ask him to give me hugs and kisses. The feeling of being completely immersed in a really good book. The soccer coach who gives a high-five to the kid on the other team when he scores a goal. The woman who hugged me when she ran into me at church and says, “I’m so glad to see you!” The heirloom tomatoes that my mom brought to my house a few nights ago.
The small stuff. It’s the stuff that you might miss if you blink. Or even if you do notice it, you might not remember it. It might seem insignificant when compared with larger events or situations. How can you stack up an Uno game against the loss of a job, or a loved one’s serious illness, or the pressures of work? Or even the big good stuff, like the marriage of two people who are so clearly thrilled to be legally hitched, or the birth of a long-awaited child, or a new job with a good paycheck and benefits?
I want to take more joy in the small stuff. I want to notice it and revel in it. I want it to become bigger than just “small stuff.” I want my memories to be chock-full of that small stuff, in fact. The Uno game. The moments that are so dear in their small perfection–or even their small joyful imperfection. I am grateful to have the opportunity to cherish the small stuff.