During one busy holiday season a few years ago, when my house was jampacked with kids, grandkids, spouses, friends, and even a few neighbors, I tripped over my grandson as I was running into the kitchen to finish dinner preparations. 

At the time, I’d been feeling a little put out. Well, actually, more like overwhelmed, overworked, and joyless. But all of that was eclipsed by searing pain when I struck my bare toes against the kitchen cabinet. I let out a loud yelp as I stumbled, but nobody noticed because of the crazy-high noise level in the house. While all the talking, game-playing, and music carried on, I limped out of the kitchen and into my bedroom and closed the door. I wanted to inspect the damage and indulge in what I felt was some well-deserved self-pity. 

I looked at my toes, which were fast becoming swollen and blue. The little one appeared to be out of joint, and I wondered if it might be broken. But then I knew I had to make a decision. Was I going to make a reality of this painful discord of the physical senses? (I had a long night ahead of me, and that route didn’t look good.) Or was I going to lift my thought above this ugly material picture into the light of spiritual Truth?