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Snow mounds once generated adrenaline and competitive pride for me. If Mother Nature challenged, I was up early battling the elements and clearing the farm’s one-hundred-yard lane so I could be ready for the day.

My arms and my back hurt. By afternoon my chest ached when I took a deep breath, but it felt good. The little pains were invisible rewards for doing just enough. Each winter storm required digging a path just wide enough to get the vehicles in and out. There were no merit badges for doing more. There was no honor in doing less. I had been taught that by example.

My father rarely asked for help. I doubt he ever missed a day’s work. He had too much to do. The smell of coffee indicated he was up. The sound of the back door shutting announced his departure.

Besides the factory job, dad fixed the cars, kept the well pump working, and found peace in his garden. He did everything else too, and he did just enough of everything to provide for a family of seven. And, what he did, he did right. No one did more. He found no honor in doing less.

Thankfully the world I grew up in was generous. There was always enough in our home. Enough space. Enough food. Enough love. Was there more than enough? We could share with others when needed. Was there just enough? Probably more often than I remember. Did I know the difference? I don’t think so. It didn’t matter. The richness of experiences and family was priceless both then and now.

Once when I told a group about my mom making tomato soup to feed the neighborhood kids at lunch, a lady indicated that she had something to share. My mom would occasionally add more water if more children showed up. The soup may have been thinner, but there was enough. My guest had a similar story.

She spoke affectionately about her mother also serving soup for the family meal. The warmth of the gatherings had been special for her. So, when her mother died, she requested that soup tureen.

It took a while, but the treasure was located. When the lower doors of an old pie safe were opened, she found the tureen buried behind some familiar bowls of yesteryear. To her surprise, it was not as big as she had expected. She reflected joyfully, “It was small, but it always held just enough.”

When we are digging out of the storms in our lives, we only need a path wide enough for safe wiggle room. When we are sifting through the past, hopefully we’ll find moments when having just enough made us feel like kings. As we prepare for tomorrow, may the world be generous to each of us, and may each of us be thankful for just enough of whatever we need.