Cabins, Break-Ins, and Bears, Oh My

As a single mom juggling life with disability, my budget is so chronically limited that something as simple as going out to dinner often requires advance planning—but I grew up desperately poor, so I've gotten pretty good at appreciating small blessings. I don't mind simple living.

But there's still a part of me that loves fancy things and longs for an adventurous life. So when my youngest daughter and I were invited to join part of my Bible study group on a one-night, all-expenses-paid, spur-of-the moment adventure, I couldn't say no. (This post is not sponsored, I just have cool friends.)

The plan? Meet up on Saturday morning, carpool from Knoxville to the Great Smokies flea market, and then properly indoctrinate the one member of our group who had never been to Buc-ee's. The rest of the weekend was to be spent making memories in a gorgeous vacation cabin, accented by stunning woodwork, an eight-person hot tub, a fully equipped kitchen, private bathrooms for every bedroom—and an unbeatable Smoky Mountain panorama that stole my breath and brought tears to my eyes. "Sensational View," indeed.

There was, however, one major hiccup: my sixteen-year-old, whose instinctive quest to collect stuff still overshadows her recognition of intangible blessings.

As a mom, I've worked hard to teach my daughters the value of contentment. To teach them that living with less doesn't have to mean living less. To show them how simple blessings and meaningful moments can be an endless source of joy that money can't buy. And when I catch them finding joy in little things, I think I've succeeded.

But teaching kids gratitude is rarely a smooth process, and despite my best efforts to instill a gratitude mindset, my little one is still prone to infections of what I like to call, "the gimmes."

So on Friday evening, I wrapped a dose of parenting wisdom in paper made of metaphors—and framed our series of stops as no-spend window shopping. "You know," I said, to my daughter, "it's like when you go to a museum and look at all the things, right? But the point is to take it in rather than take it home?"

The drive was long and full of excited chatter, the car was stuffed to the brim with backpacks, and the A/C was functioning because my friend's car is way better than mine. The company was fabulous, the radio was on. And most importantly, my daughter had the incentive of a Buc-ee's Dr. Pepper to help her remember the importance of our flea market budget.

By the time we made it through the flea market, my daughter and I had examined purses, perfumes, jewelry, and countless trinkets. She dragged me away from the swords; I dragged her away from the Pokemon cards. We had a fascinating chat with a flea market missionary who was so excited to meet a teenager with a heart for Jesus that he gave her a bag full of books and posters for free. And yes, my daughter did suffer a minor flare-up of "the gimmes."

But in the end, the thing she most wanted was a pair of keychains she'd seen near the entrance to the building. One for herself, with a dangling capybara dressed like a cheeseburger, and the other featuring a little Stitch figurine dressed as a basketball player—a gift for her sister, who couldn't make the trip.

We bought them both, and she got her Dr. Pepper, too.

By the time we finished the flea market, the pit stop at Buc-ee's, and several exploratory stops along the scenic loop of the Great Smoky Arts & Crafts Community, we were all tired, hungry, and ready to settle in for the night.

And as we rounded the final curves on the road to our mountain getaway, my daughter turned to me and quietly said, "You know, Mom, I had the best day."

I glanced at her bag of collected treasures, arching a teasing eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Even though we didn't get to buy everything?"

Hours later, I sat alone on the second-floor balcony as the sun fell behind the mountains. A yellow butterfly floated dizzily through the trees, crickets sang with joyful abandon, and on the deck below, I could hear my daughter laughing with my friends—our family, the people who have taken us into their hearts and made us their own.

Shadows deepened with night as the golden hour passed, the lights of Gatlinburg lit the valley below like fallen stars.

And in the sacred quiet of those few moments, stolen from the space between chicken tacos, gluten free brownies, a visiting trio of bears, and hot-tub girl-talk, I wept tears of awestruck gratitude.

Not because my belly was full of tacos. Not because my lungs were full of crisp, clean mountain air. Not because my ears were filled with nature's song and my eyes alight with the majesty of a God-painted sunset. But because I'm blessed to know people with hearts as bright and beautiful as a mountain sunrise. And because for the first time in months, my spirit was full.

The heartbreaking peace of those solitary moments cost me nothing more than a couple of keychains, and yet they are perfectly precious, valuable moments I'll treasure forever.

Because now, back at home in my cluttered little living room, my ears still carry the echo of my daughter's answer to my question.

"Yeah. We have more than enough stuff anyway."

*****

It’s moments like those that remind me the best things in life don't come with price tags. They’re the gifts you can’t buy—the sweetness of a thoughtful friend surprising you with gluten-free pancakes for breakfast, the laughter you can't hold back when a bear sneaks into your car, the peace of contented solitude. Connection. Wisdom. And love.

I can’t give my daughters a life of luxury or shower them with fancy things. But I can give them strength and perspective. I can teach them how to find joy in little things, live with gratitude, and search for blessings right there in the midst of a completely ordinary life. Wisdom may not cost much, but I know I've earned it...and it’s the one inheritance I can truly promise to leave them when the time comes.

And as I slide back into the chaos of normal life with my heart full of new memories, my soul gratefully encouraged, and a fast-approaching deadline on STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, I wish you the same sense of awe-struck gratitude that's helping me to...

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