A quiet lesson in gratitude, being stuck, and celebrating the gift inside the obstacle

 

There was a snowstorm today in upstate New York.
The kind that doesn’t ask your opinion.

And no—this wasn’t “oh, it’s chilly” snow.

This was Syracuse in January snow.

Not 34 degrees.
Not even 24.

It was four!

Which, in Syracuse in January, is basically an f-word.

The kind of cold that doesn’t hurt so much as it offends you.

Cold enough that your face stings. Snow heavy enough that walking to church feels intentional—like you meant to show up.

I kept my coat on during the service because it felt cozy. Somewhere between the hymns and the quiet, I reached into my pocket and found a small knit glove. Red. Soft. Nothing special.

I decided to put it on my left hand.

I’ve learned over the years that frustration usually isn’t random.
It almost always has something to offer—if I don’t rush past it too fast.

I didn’t know it yet, but this glove was about to prove that again.

My left side is paralyzed. I don’t think about that much anymore—it’s just life. But winter has a way of reminding you. That hand gets colder than the rest of me, and I knew the walk home would be colder still.

So there I was in church, locked in a quiet—but very real—battle, trying to get a simple knit glove onto my paralyzed left hand using only my working right one.

It took fifteen minutes.

I’m not exaggerating.

When you can’t feel your fingers, you don’t really know where they are. You can’t tell which finger is folded under, which one missed its slot, which one is pretending it’s cooperating when it absolutely is not. It’s a slow, awkward, tedious process of tugging, guessing, adjusting, starting over.

Julie—my sister, hero, and best friend—who happens to have one more chromosome than most of us—was sitting next to me the whole time.

She wanted to help so badly.

But helping would’ve made it harder. It was already complicated enough with it being my own hand—I couldn’t even feel when my pinky snuck into the ring finger hole. Adding another set of hands, even loving ones, would’ve only led to even more confusion and frustration. So she didn’t step in.

Not because she didn’t care.

But because sometimes the most loving thing you can do is let someone wrestle with their own glove.

And you could tell how hard that was for her.

Her heart is the size of Manhattan.

As I worked at it, I had a passing thought. Not sadness. Not frustration. Just an honest observation:

Wow… it would be really cool to have two working hands.

That was it. No spiral. No self-pity. Just awareness. I don’t think about being paralyzed often, but for those fifteen minutes, it was front and center.

Eventually, I got the glove on.

Then came the final challenge—sliding the wrist down so it actually sat where a glove is supposed to sit. More tugging. More adjusting. More patience than I realized I had.

When it was finally on, I lifted my hand and took a picture.

And that’s when Julie—on the other side of me—slipped her perfect little hand into the frame and gave me a thumbs up.

Great job, Derrick.

And that’s when the thought didn’t just finish itself—
it got loud.

Yes, my left hand is paralyzed.

But listen—if we’re making trades,
you can have my entire good right arm too.

I’m keeping what I’ve got.

Because I have this.

I have a sister who celebrates small victories like they’re Olympic events.
I have love that shows up quietly and consistently—
and flows wastefully.
I have relationships that outweigh inconveniences—this one by about 21 miles.

Yesterday I wrote about gratitude.

Today, I lived it.

Oh—and for the record:

I put that glove on at 11:45 AM this morning.
It’s almost midnight.
I’m still wearing it.

That thing was earned.

Here’s my guess:

You can probably put two gloves on in about nine seconds.

No planning. No strategy. No deep breathing. Just… on they go.

Man, that must be awesome.

But I’m also guessing there’s something in your life that isn’t working the way you’d like.

Maybe it’s not physical.
Maybe it’s a relationship.
Maybe it’s a dream that’s taking longer than you expected.
Maybe it’s something you’re trying to make work, and it just won’t cooperate.
Heck, maybe it’s a ’68 Firebird. Bless its heart.

And here’s the surprise hiding inside that frustration:

Being stuck gives you a free minute or two you wouldn’t otherwise have.

A pause you didn’t plan.
A space you didn’t schedule.

And sometimes that pause is the gift.

Instead of spending it frustrated, what if you used it to notice something in your world that is clicking on all cylinders?

Something that’s good.
Something that’s steady.
Something worth celebrating.

For you, one of those things might even be as simple as this:

You can use two hands ANY time you want.

That really is something.

Gratitude isn’t complicated.
It doesn’t require everything to be fixed.
It’s free.
It just needs your attention.

So while you’re waiting for something to work the way you wish it would…

Celebrate your good things.
Celebrate your Julie.

And hey, if this kind of reflection resonates with you, I share moments like this from time to time—small stories, lessons I’m learning, and reminders to notice what’s already good.

You’re welcome to sign up for my blog, leave a comment, or share this post if you’d like to keep in touch. No spam. No pressure. Just a note, now and then, when something feels worth sharing.