Cotton isn’t harvested in a nice shady lawn, but anything can happen at my home; and ‘anything’ usually does. Today’s little mishap involved one of those mattress toppers filled with a few inches of soft, fluffy cotton. I thought washing it in a gentle cycle of cold water, then drying it on the outside clothes line, would not only clean and sanitize it, but re-fluff it as well. Despite my good intentions, however, the underside of the topper ripped, spilling some of its contents. I knew something had gone awry as soon as I spied a handful of cotton in the washing machine, but I carried it outside regardless and gave it a shake. Let’s just say that the rip was bigger than I thought, and picking cotton fluff was my next task.
Though I was tempted to let the next big gust of wind carry the cotton away, I knew gathering it was the wisest thing to do. Dogs will eat anything, and I didn’t want my little Maltese thinking some yummy manna had fallen from heaven for her dining pleasure. Had she noshed on the cotton, her little tummy would have been stuffed with fluff, and the results could have been life-threatening. So there I was, already in a hurry, with one more cotton-picking thing to do.
It was then that I realized how truly grumbly I sometimes am. The weather was hot, but I certainly wasn’t stooped low in sweltering southern fields, plucking cotton from plants that can slash and cut. No, I was outside gathering up handfuls of soft, fluffy cotton from the grass, and I was in the shade to boot. Even so, I didn’t like picking that cotton one little bit.
The Spirit of the LORD spoke to me during those moments. He reminded me of the blood, sweat and tears that soaked the fields of the cotton plantations during the evil days of slavery. From the very old to the very young, from sun-up to sun-down, gentle souls toiled, with a burden too great to bear, in slavery too inhuman. They had no choice.
Migrant workers have also toiled endlessly in those punishing cotton fields. They may have earned some money, but never enough. In some ways, these migrant workers must have felt just as enslaved.
No doubt, the drudgery of those hot cotton fields birthed many a dream of freedom for most of the folks who toiled there. But they birthed something else as well; praise and thanksgiving. Countless numbers of Negro Spirituals –songs of praise– were birthed right there in those fields, under the harshest of conditions, many of which are still sung today. And thanksgiving; the toil was long, hard and excruciatingly hot, but those migrant workers were very thankful to even have work, something that too many of us take for granted.
In those few moments, I asked myself, was I thankful enough? Was I thankful that I had a nice shady yard to work in? Was I thankful to have a sweet little dog to care for and protect? Was I thankful for the nice house behind me; a house in which to escape the heat? And so on.
Those few short moments of frustration aside, my answer was yes. I had spent quite a bit of time earlier that day, and the one prior, thanking the LORD for all of the blessings He had bestowed upon me and my family. In fact, I have been replaying the hymn, Count Your Blessings¹, in my thoughts for quite some time now. Can you, dear reader, say the same? When was the last time you took the time to genuinely count yours?
Perhaps you often offer thanksgiving to the LORD for His many blessings, yet still feel enslaved by a heavy burden. I encourage you to remember afresh the following words, penned from this same hymn:
When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done…..
So, amid the conflict whether great or small,
Do not be disheartened, God is over all;
Count your many blessings, angels will attend,
Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.
¹Count Your Blessings. Johnson Oatman, Jr. Chicago, Illinois: 1897.
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