"There's no way, 'cause you can't pay..."

Indebted.

This word has appeared in my consciousness oh-so-often over the past few days.

In elementary school, I was sometimes late to the table on Thanksgiving because I was too busy adding subheadings to my Christmas list. Later on, I began to understand the unwritten code of conduct: don't talk about what you want until you've smiled politely and told the family and God how much you like everything you already have. It seemed fair enough. Anyway, I knew the people in my life would be happier about buying me the obligatory presents--and maybe even get me extra--the more I mentioned how the Beanie Babies I got last year made a positive impact on my life. I almost enjoyed the pre-Christmas anticipation more than the actual event, because once the wrapping paper littered the floor and all suspense had vanished, the horrible knowledge of one thing would hang over my head like a dark bough of mistletoe: thank you notes.

I owe many things to my mother, and one of the biggest is the ability to properly show gratitude. I can't count how many times during my childhood (wow, I feel so old saying that...) I carefully explained to her that NO ONE ELSE had to write thank you notes. To her credit, my mom was not often swayed by the arguments of a fifth-grader. Every Christmas and birthday, the thank-you notes went out. I tried to amuse myself by picking interesting stationery and figuring out how many different ways I could say the exact same thing. Still, I was lucky if Mom had to remind me less than five times before I finished them. "Dear Aunt Lori, thanks SO much for the Bop It. I play with it a lot..."

Now, older and supposedly "wiser," I like thank you notes. No joke. Probably because I realize just how much effort and sacrifice goes into finding a present or offering help. And how little I deserve said effort and sacrifice. Egomaniac fifth grader that I once was, presents seemed like necessity, routine...right up there with washing socks and going to church. Now that I know myself better, I am further convinced that C.S. Lewis can read my mind.

"I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through. I want God, you, all friends merely to serve my turn."

In light of my own selfishness, I am more and more blown away by the number of people who are willing to sacrifice for me. To listen to me. And thank you notes seem utterly inadequate. Here I am at Biola, the "dream school" I couldn't afford. I just talked to my dad, who misses me a lot but has never yet laid on a guilt trip about my absence or my expenditures. Last night I was at Grandma's one room apartment, where she tried her hardest to fix me a beautiful meal with what she had on hand. Steak and macaroni never tasted so good. I'm typing this on Karyn's laptop, at her house where I've been invited to stay the night. They just bought me pens to replace all the ones I've lost this semester. :) And the Savior sees my inmost being, yet loves me more intensely than I could ever fathom.

I'm going to need more thank you notes.