Excess Blessings

When I was in fourth grade, our gifted and talented program began a study on ancient Egypt. Our study centered mainly on Ramses II, who oversaw the construction of many of Egypt's wonders, who spent his lifetime attempting to capture what is modern-day Syria, and who (so the story goes) was the "Pharaoh, Pharaoh, who just wouldn't let Moses' people go.... OOH!" Back then, my Bible knowledge was limited enough that this fact conjured up images of an ark and a great flood, which made it even more incredible in my young mind that all of these artifacts would still exist. I mean, there was a lot of water after Moses loaded up his animals in the ark, right?

That lapse of brilliance aside, I really enjoyed learning about Egypt, which was why I was ecstatic when we were told where the study was heading. As a conclusion to our weeks of learning, our small group of fourth grade PACE kids were going to travel to the faraway land of Dallas where a museum was hosting, for a limited time, artifacts from Ramses II's Egypt. The collection was extensive, we were told, but as we walked through the exhibits during our visit, I couldn't help but notice how small all of the artifacts were. Most were housed in glass cases, the temperatures of which were monitored closely by uniformed attendants. One of the attendants even told me, when I put my hand up next to the glass to feel how cool it was, that I wasn't allowed to do so, as it could change the temperature by a fraction of a degree and potentially wear away the ancient doo-dad it contained. I remember thinking that these small pieces were true treasures, to be cherished and protected, as they were so very rare and so very, very valuable. The tour ended with a rather outstanding item -- a huge statue of Ramses II himself, blocked off by ropes and guarded by several uniformed men. The statue was nearly as tall as the building and seemed to glow underneath the special temperature-controlled lamps that were shining on it. I remember holding my breath just a little bit, treasuring this moment in its imposing shadow, knowing that I would surely never have the opportunity to see something this incredible again.

Eleven years later, I was on a plane to Egypt. Through circumstances and life changes I couldn't have predicted as a fourth grader, I was going to spend a month living near remote Bedouin tribes along the Red Sea, traveling with a group of other college students as we sought ways to minister to one of the oldest cultures in the world. (Yes, by this time I had gotten my facts straight and knew that Moses was the one who parted the Red Sea. So that his ark could finally hit dry land, of course.) A few weeks into our stay, we all spent a day at the Cairo Museum. I remember our drive there, through busy Cairo traffic (which included ox-drawn carts, believe it or not), past the Pyramids, past modern Muslim mosques, arriving just as the museum was opening. We toured room after room after room, full of artifacts that were older, bigger, and more plentiful than those that graced the Ramses II exhibit I had attended in Dallas so many years earlier. Only two of the rooms in the museum were air-conditioned, temperature-monitoring reserved only for the burial mask and finery of King Tut and for the mummy room. (Yes, the mummy room. And do you know who was there in the mummy room? Dear, old Ramses II, with some of his fingernails still intact on his discolored skin. Gross but totally incredible, given how very ancient our dear friend was.) I really, truly felt like my mind was going to explode with the wealth of information this museum had, with the sheer volume of artifacts it contained, and the value of the pieces. There was just so much!

After exiting King Tut's room, I climbed the stairs down to a less crowded level, where something caught my eye. To my right was a large room, about the size of a gym. There were no lights on, but as I peered into the darkness, I could make out the shapes of literally hundreds of statues, artifacts, and treasures of ancient Egypt. I'm not sure what this room was called in Arabic, but it's purpose was clear to me -- it was the Room of Excess. Simply put, the Cairo Museum had SO MANY treasures that it was literally overflowing. Because of it, they were taking pieces that would have been placed under temperature-monitored glass and guarded by an attendant in Dallas and... well, just throwing them into an extra room in Cairo! While I don't doubt that even these pieces were treasured and valued, even I, after just a few hours in the wealth of the museum, was desensitized to the Room of Excess. I had already seen so much. What was another room of treasures really, except just another room?

I've been thinking about this lately, about how for most of us, we're living in a "Room of Excess" when it comes to how God has blessed and is blessing us. Most days, I'm desensitized to His blessings, likely because I've grown to feel that I'm due most, if not all, of them. I'm amazed at how entitled I feel, spending my life assuming that I deserve all good things with nothing bad. But God doesn't promise us that. And He doesn't OWE us anything. God doesn't even owe us mercy, but by graciously giving it to us through His own suffering and pain, He said more about His character than He did about ours. We don't come into this world OWED anything -- we come into it unable to do anything to save ourselves. Praise God, who blesses us despite our depravity! May we NEVER approach Him expecting anything, much less the undeserved grace that He's given to us!

And yet, here I am. My children are healthy. Do I praise Him for this truly undeserved blessing, or do I spend at least some of my days taking for granted the fact that they're running around with so much energy? If they got sick, would I blame God, who never promised healthy children to me? My husband has a job. Do I praise Him for this blessing, or do I bemoan the fact that he's always on call? If he lost his job, would I blame God, who never promised steady work to us? We have a home, transportation, medical care, more than enough to live on. Do I praise Him for this blessing, or do I just believe this is a right that I'm owed as a modern American? If I lost it all, would I blame God, who doesn't owe me a single good thing in this life?

I'm guilty of throwing blessings into the room of excess, hardly seeing them as blessings anymore, simply because I've grown accustomed to life being full of them. What I would treasure if the blessing were few is simply pushed aside without a word of thanks, so that I can keep my greedy hands open to receive more.

I'm choosing today to treasure the blessings, just like they treasured those tiny artifacts in the Dallas museum. To thank God for every breath Ana takes, for every heartbeat Emma has -- rather than throwing the blessings of loud, active toddlers in the Room of Excess, simply because I've grown desensitized to true treasures.