Recently, our three-year-old grandson became angry and ran off, racing barefoot down our street in the cold; then our son-in-law called from the back of an ambulance to say he’d been hit by a car; and finally one of our dogs peed in the middle of the floor while our grandchildren were picking up their toys, prompting a quick evacuation of the room.

Each incident was upsetting on its own, but all three — within thirty minutes — sent my stress level skyrocketing.

On a Saturday morning, I discovered that the coil on our garage door had snapped overnight, leaving my car stuck inside. I borrowed my husband’s car for the hour-long drive to attend a baby shower, during which my youngest son called to say he was heading to the emergency room after urgent care diagnosed him with a partially collapsed lung. He assured me he was fine, just fine, and to continue on my way without missing the shower.

He remained hospitalized for three days.

We’re going through such a stretch of hard times that days like these feel like the rule, not the exception. After our daughter’s death in June and the shattering of my arm last summer, I’ve had my fill of physical and emotional trauma and hospitals.

God doesn’t owe me a life of sunshine and roses; I would choose mercy over what I deserve any day. Still, I started joking to my husband that, since things were so rough, maybe I would be long-listed in a writing contest with a significant monetary prize I’d entered, or win a giveaway for Braves’ center fielder Michael Harris’s Bronco (my dream car).

It was a joke. I was joking. What were the chances of either one? The writing prize was so enticing that over 22,000 people entered the contest; likely, even more entered the SUV giveaway. But as tough days piled up like cars in a crash on I-285, I told that joke so many times that a little voice inside whispered, “Someone’s got to win. Why not me?”

A Sunday morning blowup occurred while I was reading the writing prize announcement. (The devil must love it when our tempers flare as we get ready for church.) Although my sweet husband was convinced that I would make the list, I didn’t. At church, I spent the service in the nursery, crying while my three-year-old grandson, whose life has been turned upside down just like mine, repeatedly told me he hated me. That afternoon, I watched the winner accept the keys to the Bronco on the field before the season’s final game.

My grandson’s meltdown was tough enough, but did both of my long-shot high hopes have to vanish on the same day?

At my daughter’s celebration of life, my neighborhood girlfriends (whom God surely put in my life for such a time as this) gave me a book of encouraging stories. One thought from the collection often comes to mind:

If I don’t notice God’s presence when things are going well, I won’t recognize Him when things are hard either.

Like a squirrel gathers nuts for winter, I seek His face during rare peaceful moments to sustain me on days when life feels bleak. While driving to the baby shower, I listed my blessings out loud in the car. On that Sunday when the disappointments came one after another, I spent the afternoon at Truist Park watching the Braves with my favorite pitcher on the mound, and I consciously soaked it all in.

I took a screenshot on my phone to remember the date, the time, and the song my grandchildren and I belted through open windows on a sunny day, in a light moment at a heavy time.

Lately, I wander through the woods behind our house. Fallen leaves crunch beneath my feet; when the wind blows, they patter to the ground like raindrops. I crouch to touch soft, spongy clumps of green moss. God reveals Himself in the gentle flow of water over rocks in the stream and in a gnarled tree with a hollow trunk and a few leafy branches up high.

I’m thankful when I see God’s blessings in my life or notice Him in the world around me. Psalm 116:17 (KJV) refers to thanksgiving as a sacrifice: “I will offer to thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and will call upon the name of the Lord.”

The sacrifice of thanksgiving is an offering of gratitude to a holy God, praising Him for who He is, regardless of our circumstances, seeking His presence on the highest mountaintops and in the deepest valleys.

Sometimes grief is so raw and deep that even if God heaped fresh blessings upon us, it wouldn’t dull the pain. The hits keep coming with no end in sight. It’s hard to see God when sorrow obscures our path, but the more attuned we become to His presence when things go well, the easier it will be to find Him when things get tough. He is here. Always.

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