Some say the devil is in the details. But I would say many blessings await us in the details instead. If we will watch for them.

I say “watch” because when we talk about noticing, we can’t always physically see things. Noticing may also occur because of sharp listening skills, sensitive fingers, a honed sense of smell, or a keen gut instinct.

Our guinea pig is getting old and has slowly been losing his vision. The vet said he has cataracts. He often can’t see things that are right beside him. But if he hears a certain crinkle sound and a snap, he knows I am getting veggies from the fridge for him and he shoots across his cage in anticipation. Likewise, on a hundred occasions, Mr. Whiskers has sensed when I was uneasy or sad or exhausted, and in each case he has shown with his body language or behavior that he understands I am struggling and he cares.

Usually, I notice many things about Mr. Whiskers too. I gather when he is annoyed and why. I sense when he is afraid. I anticipate many of his needs before he starts to show signs of those needs. But sometimes I drop the ball. Recently, his water bottle nozzle got jammed and I didn’t notice for quite some time. Several days ago, my husband found far more quickly than I did that Mr. Whiskers had a bunch of poop jammed up under his paw. In both of those cases, I felt terrible and unobservant.

When we notice the needs of another person in our lives, we communicate to them that we are paying attention, that they have worth in our eyes — enough to be noticed. Because noticing requires energy. And doing something to communicate what we’ve noticed and helping meet a need requires even more energy.

And when we are overworked, sleep-deprived, distracted, addicted, or otherwise selfishly affected, we do not have the energy we need to notice, to be blessed in the noticing, and to bless the other we have noticed.

My husband Paul and I have learned more about the blessing of noticing with each passing day. I find great joy in moments where I notice things and can help without him speaking up. I feel exceedingly loved when he does things for me just because he sees the need and not because I asked him one or more times. We both make mental notes of bothersome things the other person mentions and try to notice if that issue comes up again so we can avoid repeating the same trouble. But sometimes we mess up and forget and repeat our mistakes or fail to notice a need the other person has.

But even in that, there are blessings. There is the blessing of noticing that we were wrong or weak or thoughtless and the chance to be forgiven or extend grace. And there is the blessing of keeping a sharp, sensitive conscience so that we might continue to grow in the selfless love of Jesus. Because we care enough about each other and those around us to both notice and to actually do something about what we have noticed.

Yesterday, we went to the local zoo to enjoy the wonderful warm sunshine and milder afternoon. Without me saying a word, Paul decided to leave his phone in the car before we locked the doors. “I don’t want to be distracted,” he told me with a sheepish smile. “I want to be focused on you and all the interesting things we can spot here.”

The walk was sublime. And it wasn’t really because of the weather. It was because of Paul’s company and all we watched for along the way.

“Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free…If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” ~Jesus (in John 8)

I saw life and freedom and gratitude differently this past Thanksgiving holiday week. And a profound truth sank deep into my heart.

**We cannot know the wonder of true freedom unless we recognize and find release from our imprisonment. And we cannot know the humility and quieting of true gratitude unless we have known the blackest of moments.**

A little over a year ago, I married a dear man who had previously spent over six years in prison. And that criminal sentence was based on a single bad choice, one day’s actions gone south. He was not normally the harmful type. I chose to love him and give him a chance, in part, because I understood that we have all made poor choices, acted cruelly to some degree towards others, and (ultimately) sinned against God so that we deserve time in prison and even death.

Even though I have never been sentenced to prison, that doesn’t mean I have never deserved to be.

The same can rightfully be said of you, dear reader. No matter who you are. That is the truth.

Yet, while my husband has been a prisoner in a brick and morter, big-operation institution, I have been a prisoner of a different kind: one enslaved mentally by fear, pain, hatred, and shame. That is also a truth I cannot deny. And I have found my freedom in no longer wishing to deny it.

This is the Truth to which those previous truths have led us, my dear husband and me. Jesus came to Earth to live and die and rise again so that all criminals and all enslaved ones (read: every human) can be atoned for, made pure before God, when we trust Him and His gift with a promise: that the weighty truth of our absolute need for His covering, sacrifice, mercy, and favor lifts us up to experience and cherish true freedom as is otherwise impossible.

This freedom is not to be a set of temporary political rights flaunted during our earthly life so much as it is a calling to train through the growth-spurts of this earthly life so that we will be fully perfected in the life to come.

Which leads to the second half of that profound truth. True gratitude is borne out of our hearts after they have hit the lowest places, after we having known loneliness, neediness, sorrowfulness…brokenness.

Due to special circumstances and parole-related complications, my husband and I were only able to live together for about one-third of our first year of marriage. Even now, we hopefully long for our situation to change soon, and we can’t wait for this separation to end.

It has, frankly, been a frustrating thing to have our life, in part, dictated by parole officials in other states who have never met me (or, sometimes, have never met my husband either). It has also been a humbling thing.

And…now I see that it has also been a gratitude-forming thing.

For the shaft in the mine is so deep and pitch-dark. But the lump of inky rock we are carrying back into daylight together will be broken open to reveal the hardest, most precious stone. I know it.

Because we may temporarily have to live under these restrictions. But we have held fast and kept faith. And this has made us grateful for a hundred things many other couples would take for granted.

This is also and equally true: embracing the Truth found only in my Jesus is the first step in a longer journey. And through every trial and struggle, He can refine gratitude and goodness in the hearts of those who trust Him.

Oh, what good news to know and remember.

Let us, then, acknowledge our debt, our need, our freedom, and our gratitude today. Not to fate or only to our family members.

But to the source of every good thing and everything worked for our good: the Son.

The term humble developed first via Middle English in the 13th and 14th centuries, coming from combined roots that mean low, earth, and on the ground. Also during the same period, a dish called “umble pie” became popular. That pastry, filled most often with venison innards and bits, didn’t necessarily have anything to do with a person’s being humble or lowly. But because the two words sounded so similar, humble pie would later stay on in idiomatic English as a way to express those times when we find we should admit we are wrong — and it can be embarrassing or even humiliating to do so.

Recently, as I watched the state of world affairs go from bad to worse, I became increasingly upset over how my national leaders were handling international circumstances. Our president made one call and the results of that call tripped a trigger for trouble. But then, instead of admitting that maybe the first choice was not a good one, he refused to see anything faulty and even bragged about how his actions were great…before stepping into another, bigger pile of manure with his next move. And on and on, day after day, the hole of the consequences has grown bigger and bigger. And he has never once admitted he was even slightly in the wrong, never once eaten humble pie. I must confess, it has been a painful, shameful thing for me to watch.

And it has reminded me that while it can be awkward to watch someone eat humble pie, especially in a very public light, it is usually much better for the sake of everyone involved if the person(s) who need(s) to eat humble pie will do it early on and right the ship of the situation or the relationship before long.

Before things get too far off course.

A few days ago, while I was working from home, I went to the kitchen to heat leftovers for lunch. A usual few minutes in the (over-the-stove, wall-mounted) microwave would do nicely. But it was not to be. I tripped a breaker in the fuse box and went downstairs to reset it before trying again. Six times of repeating this quick-repair dance in the coming moments found me annoyed, concerned, and slightly out of breath (as I was just finishing my recovery from COVID).

I texted my husband, Paul, and let him know about the situation. He too was concerned about the possible cause of the problem. Was it just an appliance issue, or was it more of a safty issue, with an electrical short somewhere in the wiring, outlet, or breaker box? Since he wouldn’t be back home for a couple days to look at it in person, he encouraged me to make an appointment with an electrician for the following week. In the meantime, I simply wouldn’t try to use the microwave.

When Paul came home today, he asked about heating something quick for lunch. That’s when I showed him the microwave. We wanted to see if the problem remained, so I plugged it back in. Then, not wanting to just turn it on with nothing inside, I grabbed a mug of water, set it inside on the glass turntable, shut the door, set 25 seconds of time, and pressed start. Just as before, half a second in, the breaker tripped. I went back down to reset once more, and Paul went to get an extension cord so that we could check the microwave via an outlet tied to a different breaker. It tripped that breaker too.

“I think it’s the microwave itself, babe,” he sighed. “I think it is going south and we just need to get a new one.”

I bit my lip. I didn’t like that. I hate spending money unnecessarily, especially in large or sudden amounts.

But my dear husband was a man on a mission, and he was going to get that microwave taken down and replace it if it was the last thing he did today. I could see it was important to him, to do this for me and our home, and I wanted to see him do it safely, so I went and found the owner’s manuals for all our appliances and some other items that I hoped would help him do the job without injury. I was afraid it might be heavy for him to lift down from such an awkward angle. So, his focus was on getting that thing down quickly, and my focus was on helping him do so without cracking his head or breaking an arm.

Paul oriented himself before unscrewing the top bolts that anchored the microwave to the upper cabinet. Then, as the machine tipped forward so he could try to lift it off the bottom wall mounting plate, we were both shocked to see fluid come pouring from the back and bottom of the microwave onto the stove and floor!

“What in the world??” Paul cried, and he hurried to set it down on the glass range top as quickly but as gently as possible.

“I don’t know,” I cried in equal alarm, before rushing to get paper towels for the liquid and then stare in wonder at the holey wall behind where the microwave had just hung.

Thus, we started a short but lively discussion about the jagged holes in the wall, the gap between them and the outer wall, the newly-discovered wet insulation in between those two walls, and the apparently waterlogged appliance now making a mess on the stove top in front of us.

“No wonder it wasn’t working right,” Paul said. “We’ve got to get it out of here! Will you get the door?”

I ran ahead of him to clear the way so he could get it out to the nearby dumpster across the street. It tumbled in with a crash. I sighed with relief that Paul had not injured himself carrying it down and lifting it over the high dumpster edge.

He came back up to help me clean up a little, and we headed off to lunch at a restaurant, talking all along the way about theories for how the liquid in the microwave had built up and how we would probably need to call in the HOA for repairs. Paul also texted some church friends who had an extra microwave we could use in the meantime. We finished lunch and drove to their house to pick up the loaner. After all, we didn’t want to buy and install a new machine that was just going to get flooded out if we didn’t know the source of the leak. We thanked our generous friends and then made another stop before we headed back home.

When we pulled up to the condo, Paul looked at the dumpster with consternation. Before I understood exactly what he was thinking, I saw him step over and lunge across the edge of the dumpster, grabbing and yanking up our old microwave.

“Love, what are you doing?” I cried.

“Seeing if maybe I can salvage the glass plate and rotation ring. You know they might be useful to keep for later –” He stopped short when he had opened the door and looked inside. And as we watched, both the glass plate…and our red mug…tumbled out.

There was a very pregnant pause.

And then it hit us.

I am not sure which one of us busted out laughing first. I think it was Paul.

Well, that’s where the water came from. We had both been so concerned about other things, we totally forgot about the mug. The mug full of water that was never heated. The mug that I had bought for Paul as a gift last Christmas, for about $2 at a discount store.

It had been carried roughly to the dumpster, thrown inside via the hosting appliance, and now thrown to the bottom of the dumpster when it fell from said microwave. And, though the glass plate was broken, the mug was fine.

I ran back into the house to get a broom. And we used the handle to fish out the mug and carry it back into our little kitchen, laughing richly the whole time.

We talked about where each of us went wrong in our actions and assumptions. We smiled over our foggy thinking due, no doubt, to the stupor of recent illness. We shared hugs and kisses. And we thanked God for the sweetness of eating humble pie together, which isn’t so hard to do in the absence of blaming, name-calling, and anger.

Then, we placed an order for a new microwave –which Paul can’t wait to install after delivery.

I pray that we will continue to handle humble pie situations in our future relationship with openness, grace, and immediate understanding. And I pray that others around me and above me will find the better results that can come when we choose to admit our misunderstandings, mistakes, and bull-headedness — before too much or total damage has been done.

As words go, the honorable “cherish” has roots sinking deep, clear back to the midst of Old English and the 1300s. It draws from the French cher and the Latin carus, which both mean “dear.” Its most closely-tied synonyms have and hold echo back traditional wedding vows in my mind, but similarly-themed verbs of bear and nurse bring up equally-fast images of mothers with children.

To cherish is to hold close, to think of constantly, to be deeply connected to from fiber to fiber and heart to heart. It is also to be thankful for, to treasure, and to dream of — while we can.

That is the limit of cherishing. We do it only while we draw breath.

And yet, while we draw breath, we will cherish with all our might. Such cherishing is not dependent upon the physical presence of the one we cherish.

Indeed, while a man holds his beloved bride close, he cherishes her softness. And after she has left his side for Heaven, he cherishes her sweet, graceful memory.

Likewise, the parents cherishing their newborn or toddler do so no more than the parents who, aching-hearted, have to mourn the child physically lost to them in infancy, via stillbirth, or in utero.

For just as this word is deeply rooted, so too are our love for and need for and dreams for others deeply rooted. Often far more deeply rooted than we could see until they are uprooted and torn away.

Thus, it is a painful thing to cherish for all who will really dare to do it, should they be the ones left standing when the storms pass by.

And yet, what would life be without love, and what would love be without risk?

They would not be.

Therefore, I will choose to cherish Jesus most of all and ask Him to help me live and love — to cherish — while I may. And trust that He will help me bear the pain when the uprooting in or around me shreds my heart.