Counting What You Have

My boys,

I counted the mugs tonight.

Twelve.

That is too many mugs.

Four get used constantly.

Three are chipped.

One has a handle I don't particularly like.

The others somehow survived every attempt to simplify the kitchen.

Still, twelve.

Enough for coffee with people who haven't arrived yet.

Then I counted the shoes by the door.

Eight.

Mine were lined up.

Yours were not.

One shoe was on its side.

Another had somehow traveled several feet away from its partner.

I almost fixed them.

Then I counted again.

Eight shoes.

Four people came home.

In the dining room, I counted the chairs.

Six.

We don't need six every night.

Most nights there are empty ones.

But I like that.

An empty chair at a full table is not always absence.

Sometimes it is capacity.

Room for someone unexpected.

Room for a friend.

Room for the person who thought they were eating alone.

I opened the refrigerator.

Three kinds of fruit.

Eggs.

Milk.

Leftovers.

Vegetables.

More food than we will eat tomorrow.

I closed it.

That count felt different.

Upstairs, I counted bedroom doors.

Four.

Behind three of them are boys becoming men much faster than I would prefer.

Behind mine is a bed I get to sleep in tonight.

Four doors.

A roof over all of them.

I counted the lights I turned off as I walked back downstairs.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Each room had been used.

That matters.

The living room had a blanket on the couch.

The kitchen still had a glass beside the sink.

The table needed wiping.

There were fingerprints on something I cleaned yesterday.

Evidence.

Not of disorder.

Of life.

I spend enough of my days counting other things.

Revenue.

Expenses.

Hours.

Customers.

Projects.

Problems.

Days until.

Years since.

Numbers are useful.

But they can train your eyes toward what is missing.

How much more?

How much longer?

How far behind?

Tonight I wanted a different ledger.

So I counted what was already here.

Twelve mugs.

Eight shoes.

Six chairs.

Four bedroom doors.

Three boys asleep upstairs.

One home.

More than enough.

I don't want gratitude to become something I only feel when life gives me something new.

That would mean I have to keep receiving in order to remain thankful.

I would rather learn to look again.

God has already placed things around me that I once prayed for, worked for, waited for, or could have lost.

Some of them are chipped.

Some are crooked by the door.

Some leave fingerprints everywhere.

Count them anyway.

I love you.

— Baba

Question:

If you stopped counting what you still want tonight, what could you count that is already here?

Moral:

Gratitude becomes practical when we learn to inventory what is already in our care. Enough is often easier to recognize when we stop measuring life only by what has not arrived yet.

This story reflects real experiences and philosophies behind Backyard Brew. It is shared to inspire perspective and intention.

Author: R. Solace