My daughter and I spent several days at the beach last week.  It’s a tradition we started three years ago, and I hope we keep it up forevermore. 

I’ve always loved the beach.  I grew up not too far from the coast, maybe an hour away.  Once in a while, my parents would load us up with jugs of homemade tea, loaves of bread, and peanut butter and jelly. And, of course, a gallon of sunscreen.  You know, there’s nothing quite like a PB&J sandwich with a little sand thrown in for good measure. I ate plenty of those as a kid. 

I remember vividly feeling the wind in my hair and the warm sand under my feet, and in almost every other place you could imagine.   I would run down the beachfront and headlong into the salty water.  The waves would crash over me and send me tumbling head over foot back to the shore.  All while the sun shone brightly above, seemingly smiling down on all the ruckus below. 

I never thought about sharks or jellyfish, unless one stung me.  I didn’t worry about getting too hot or about whether I’d applied sunscreen to every inch of skin exposed to the sun.  I didn’t even know the sun was dangerous.  It seemed pretty friendly to me, as a matter of fact. 

I didn’t really mind that my sandwich was gritty or that the tea was warm.   I was just present in the moment.  Happy to be there. 

Fast forward a few years, or a lot of years, and you’ll find grown-up Sandi with a different attitude.  Somewhere along the way, the girl who didn’t mind sandy sandwiches started noticing things she never used to think about.

Let me explain.

We were sitting in this nice resort, enjoying the cool shade of an umbrella while we lounged by the pool.  It was a glorious day, and I was feeling thankful for the time with my adult daughter. 

But then someone took one of our umbrellas.  Seriously.  The nerve.

There were two umbrellas over our chairs, and it was the perfect amount of shade.  We’d been there a while, and the sun had moved from one part of the sky to another, but the umbrellas had provided the perfect amount of shade the whole time. 

I had a book on Audible I was enjoying and an icy drink beside me.  It all felt perfect.  And in this environment, I was able to remind my girl of God’s goodness to us, to let us have days like this one. 

But then someone moved one of the umbrellas.

The sun began to beat down quickly on our pasty white skin.  The ice in my drink began to melt, and my book suddenly became dull. 

All that thankfulness and reflection began to disappear.

It’s amazing how easy it is to sing praises when life is exactly the way you want it, or at least close enough.

But the umbrella.

It was gone.

And someone moved it for their own use. 

They didn’t even notice that we’d already been using it.

Never mind that it was closer to their beach chair than ours; we were using it. 

I was so irritated.

So, then, only moments after saying how great everything was, I began to complain about the heat, the watery drink, the dull book, and the nerve of someone to take our umbrella. 

Keep in mind I’m sitting in a nice place, spending time with my daughter, right next to a gorgeous pool, but suddenly life was disappointing.

My, oh my, how quickly I lost perspective.

My daughter, who was more affected by the “stolen” umbrella than I was, looked at me and said, “Mom, I saw something on TikTok…”  I just stared blankly at her.  What did TikTok have to do with our sudden crisis?  Then she said, “My steak is too juicy, and my lobster is too buttery.”   Ummm, “what?”  Then she started smiling, and I started laughing.  “What in the world does that mean?” I asked her.  And she said, “Think about it, Mom, you’re complaining about sitting in a resort by the pool.” 

I was complaining about the very thing I was only moments before thanking God for. 

We laughed, but inside I felt the sting of conviction.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with not wanting your umbrella to be taken.  Honestly, I would never do that to someone, at least not on purpose.  But what I choose to do after it’s taken is entirely up to me.  I can be angry and complain, which is exactly what I did.  Or I can realize that being in a place I want to be, with a person who means the world to me, is already enough.  I can move and find another place to sit and not let it ruin my day.

It’s up to me.

That phrase has stayed with me since we got home.  When I start to complain, I remind myself of it. 

I used to dream of taking my daughter on a mother‑daughter trip. There I was, sitting in a beautiful resort doing exactly what I’d prayed for, and I was complaining about it.

It was a heart‑check moment I don’t want to forget.

Little girl Sandi wouldn’t have cared about the umbrella. She would’ve jumped straight into the water, drunk the watered‑down drink, and kept her heart wide open.

I think I want to be a little more like her.