Missing Out On Nothing

Missing Out On Nothing

I remember eating very little candy growing up on a ranch outside of a small—a very small town in NE Wyoming. 

I remember the six of us had almost no cavities. 

I remember junior high, and we lived in the Ozarks. We weren’t given much. My friends got stereos and cars and were allowed to go to parties I wasn’t. I thought it was the end of the world—very unjust—but now I see it as God’s grace.

I was given land—the freedom to roam acres of my dad’s ranches on foot or on a horse. I was given a place to go—a ravine with a creek running through it. I escaped for respite there.

We were a normal and happy household—far from perfect. There were moments of unhappy children vocalizing frustration, sadness, and anger. There were moments when a father, who was almost always patient, wasn’t. We were loved. We were in our rightful place—not as most important to our parents—they were most important to each other. 

And even though it was messy and hard at times, we had a wonderful space to grow into adulthood. 

I can say now we were rich—not because of the land and cattle—but because our parents loved one another well. They loved each of us enough to sacrifice for our good—even when we protested loudly. 

And I don’t feel like I missed out on anything