I live next to a cemetery.
I get the impression that it hasn't always been the safest of places given the hints of broken glass around the place, but I like cemeteries and I have no real issue walking through it to get to the main road. (I only avoid it when I see people loitering around in there)
I'd left Gabe's pram in the car so he had to walk on his own little legs all the way to 'town' and then all the way back. When he got fed up, we jumped on the free shuttle and rode it all the way around till we were back a few blocks away from our house.
He was asleep - so along with a bag of groceries and my bag, I had to carry a 13kg baby.
He was so heavy and so sweaty and the grocery bag was so awkward that I quickly became fed up and was ready to get back on the bus.
Then we got to the cemetery.
I often read headstones and think about what kind of people the named might have been. The headstones of children make me sadder than any others, and one in particular more than most.
A long time ago there was a little boy named Samuel who had parents who loved him and lived on a property that had a well. Left open by a negligent female servant, three-year old Samuel fell in and drowned. His head stone tells us that he was a lovely boy full of potential, as all little boys are...
... and suddenly I was so grateful for my little sweat machine. For his beating heart and bright eyes. For his grubby hands and bruised knees. For his potential.
Sometimes its big things, and sometimes things that would seem highly insignificant to other people, but when we look for them we can always find reasons to be grateful.