By Jan Lambert

I’d had to quit a job I loved and go on Disability because of illness. I didn’t have the strength to cook proper meals, so I began grabbing whatever was easiest, hoping it would give me a quick burst of energy. Chocolate—every woman’s mainstay, of course—became a staple. A few Almond M&M’s here, a few there, and I could stretch a bag over several days.

At my next doctor’s visit, a quick blood test revealed a blood sugar level of 475. Type II Diabetes had officially set in.
Fear cleaned up my dietary act.
I became quite fond of broccoli and cauliflower.

A few years later, a small amount of overexertion triggered heart damage. I began experiencing frequent tachycardia attacks that left me weak for days. If I couldn’t resolve it at home, I had to call an ambulance and head to the ER. Sometimes it was chemical—my medications would be adjusted. Other times, it was simple dehydration. I started drinking water straight from a gallon jug.

But somewhere in the middle of all of this, I began to realize just how BLESSED I was.

I was poor. I lived on Disability—which was about a third of what I’d once earned. It wasn’t an easy adjustment. I had just enough money to get by, but barely. I bought fabric at Walmart for $1 a yard and started making my own clothes—something I hadn’t done since my days as the wife of a Navy Seaman. I wasn’t strong enough to sit at a sewing machine, so I stitched everything by hand while lying in bed. But I wore those clothes with pride. No one else had anything quite like them. Even the staff in the fabric department admired my work.

The realization that I was actually living better than much of the world came gradually. I read about families in rural Asia who lived in poverty, yet raised their children with laughter and love. I remember one story about a woman in South America who lived beneath a tree—no house, no shelter beyond that tree. And yet she was happy. She loved God. She loved the people around her. That story stayed with me.

It made me pause and ask:
What was wrong with me, that I wasn’t more loving toward others—when I had a snug little trailer home, a fenced yard, money to pay for heat in the winter and a fan in the summer?

What did money really have to do with happiness?

In their terms, I was rich.
WEALTHY.

My needs were simple. I didn’t need a fancy car, the newest phone, trendy clothes, or the latest laptop. So I stopped praying for the things I didn’t have and started expressing gratitude for the things I did:

— my safe and cozy home
— my sweet, brave, protective Service Dog
— my cats, who not only gave love, but entertainment that far exceeded the cost of their food
— my horse
— a car that ran well and got good gas mileage
— enough money to cover the bills, groceries, and medications I needed

We often hear about cultivating "an attitude of gratitude," but what does that really mean in practice?

Can I truly live that out when life is inconvenient or painful?

Can I be grateful when a tire on my van explodes in a strange town on the hottest day of the year?

I was.

I was grateful I’d delayed my drive home until the weather cooled, that the blowout hadn’t happened on a rush-hour freeway or some remote mountain road with no cell service.

Can I be grateful when my seventeen-year-old cat dies?
Can I truly express gratitude for his long years of affection and the lessons he taught me—rather than drowning in the ache of loss?

I try. I work on it daily. That way, when I write in my goal statements:

"I am joyful and grateful now that I have..."
—I can feel it. I can mean it. I can know it’s coming to meet me.

The Law of Relativity teaches us that nothing is good or bad until we compare it to something else. I hold that close—because what lives in my mind influences what I draw into my life.

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