Writers In The Storm

Thank you for loving me, and letting me know you as Savior, King, and Lord.

Thank you for watching over me, even when I rejected your love.

Thank you for not giving me over to my sin.

Thank you for the fresh breath of each shiny day.

Thank you for the blessing of my wonderful husband and son.

Thank you for my loving parents, who first taught me about you.

Thank you for the delightful menagerie of my siblings.

Thank you for dear sweet friends that love me as I am, but still expect me to fly-right.

Thank you for the wise bible teachers that the Holy Spirit has used to open my eyes.

Thank you for the adversity that you have tempered just for me.

Thank you for my robust health.

Thank you for allowing me a place at your table.

Thank you for the love you allow to flow from my heart.

To be continued . . . .

Some recent events in my life have given me pause to consider the nature of gratitude. It’s not an act one performs, but a state of mind that one possesses. Only its absence is glaringly obvious. I’ve decided the opposite of gratitude isn’t ingratitude, but entitlement.

While any resentment I may feel stings, it hardly reaches the level that God must feel. He plucked the Hebrew nation from obscurity to set them on His holy pedestal. He promised them every good thing, if only they would be obedient. When He decided to teach them a lesson in their utter dependence on Him, for even their obedience, He sent Jesus.

As a non-Hebrew member of the family tree, grafted in through Christ, I’m grateful. I know I’m not entitled, but undoubtedly I sometimes act that way. I also know it must grieve Him. I’m sorry Lord.
“Imagine,” a dear friend once said, “if we lost everything for which we hadn’t given thanks to God.”

Yikes!

Since then, I try to have some prayer time when I only thank Him. All good things come from Him, and I do consider myself blessed. I inevitably slip into asking for something. Still human.

My life, my salvation, my blessing. It’s a gift. I didn’t do anything for it. I can’t buy it, or even make payments. I can only be grateful.

It is the essence of a tithe. God doesn’t need my money, but through it I can share in His works. It is an offering of love, of my first fruits. If I grew apples, the point would be more salient. Out of that which He provides me, I am grateful, and return a portion of it to Him.

Samuel Wanjiru from Kenya broke the Olympic marathon record in Beijing with a time of two hours , six minutes, thirty-two seconds. He ran all twenty-six miles in under five minutes each. Phenomenal. His relentless pursuit earned him, and his proud nation, the gold medal.

I watched the ending of this race with family. They cringed at he stopped at the end of the race, all being involved in physical therapy, they understood the physiological need for him to keep his muscles active for a while and cool down gently. Stopping was singularly unwise.

But his priorities weren’t his next race. He knelt before the atheist nation of China, before the world, and, simply, before his God to give thanks. In gratitude, he returned the glory to the rightful owner.

Thank you for the flowers and the green grass, thank you for the trees, thank you for the birds, thank you for my house, thank you, thank you, thank you, Jesus. Amen.

As a kid, I didn’t have a problem with gratitude, at least most of the time. I could almost always find something to be thankful about. Even without cognitively counting my blessings, I intuitively responded to life by thanking God for the good things. Maybe it had something to do with that dusty Pollyanna book I found in my great-grandmother’s cellar when she was “breaking up housekeeping” to retire to a nursing home. Pollyanna approached life by “playing the glad game”–”…when you’re hunting for the glad things, you sort of forget the other….” She made an impact on me–Pollyanna knew how to look at life and be happy.

I sometimes look at the grumbling Israelites and think, “Didn’t they get it? God parted the Red Sea for them–what else could they ask for?” Then I encounter my own wilderness experiences, real life tests for “the glad game.” In some of those desert wanderings, I thirst. At other times, I grow weary with God’s provision–manna, again. In still other moments, I long for days past–the counterfeit freedoms of slavery, sure food, a certainty of a place of rest. Or the promise of a brighter future seems too unbelievable in present circumstances. And in darker days, I want out. Please, no more sand. Just get me out of this ugly, dry, hard, exhausting, barren place–even if it means slavery. I’m tempted to believe the lie that anything is better than what I’m experiencing. Like the Israelites, I’m confronted with the ugliness of my own ungrateful heart.

My struggles stem from unbelief in God’s goodness and ingratitude for His provision–He didn’t give me what I wanted, expected, or asked for. He didn’t make my life easy. He didn’t answer my prayers, cries, and questions the way my genie-deity should. He didn’t part my seas and deliver me. So I doubt His goodness and care. I fail to thank Him for the help of His presence, the certainty of His love, and the assurance of His grace even in the difficult times.

The desert times remind me to just be glad. A choice. A decision to deliberately look for the good today and to delight in the blessings of the past. Childhood thank-yous and Pollyanna glad games. And remember to trust my God when the gladness comes with pain.

On the tarmac, the plane turned toward the gate. A red and blue American Airlines emblem on the tail of another plane appeared in my portal window. The red and blue swam together as tears pooled in my eyes. I gulped, determined not to lose it right there on the plane.

The seat belt light chimed then turned off. I pulled down my carry-on bag, heavy with mementos from my year in Russia. A scratchy, I’m-trying-not-to-cry feeling, made my throat ache.

At the gate entrance, a marine stood next to an American flag. Too much. The dam broke and pent-up tears coursed down my cheeks.

The marine looked at my twisted face, “Been gone long Ma’am?”

I squeaked, “Yah,” and started sobbing in earnest.

He smiled, “Welcome home.”

Ten-years later, I can only sing “Oh, say can you see…” before my voice cracks and tears leak out. In fact, the kindergartners in my daughter’s class watch me during the pledge to see how far I get before the waterworks start.

One year away changed my life.

• I appreciate police, fire and ambulance workers.
•  I’m thankful for building codes, permits and zoning.
• I respect our IRS and the roads, law enforcement and playgrounds our taxes provide.

What everyday things do you appreciate?

Add your list to the comments so we can give thanks together.

I’ve traveled to a couple of foreign countries. I remember few of the many words I exercised while visiting, but I remember how to say “Thank you” from every one. While on foreign turf the phrase, “Pardon me, where’s the bathroom?” probably ran a close second in usage. I would practice that particular phrase so that I could deliver it with absolute clarity. There was no room for error. Yet, I don’t remember it now. It wasn’t a keeper.

There’s a universal quality about giving thanks. The words serve to train the heart. It can be said without words, through a clenched smile, a bowed head, or a stream of tears. It is an expression of gratitude.

The ancient Roman Cicero said: Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.

Gratitude requires no deed. It is a posture of the heart. It is recognition and appreciation of that which has been given and cannot be repaid.

Chapter seven in the book of Luke tells of the woman who led an unholy life, but recognized Jesus as The One who could take away her sin. She recognized him as God. She followed him, poured expensive oil on him, cried at his feet, and dried them with her hair. He forgave her not because of the perfume or the tears, but because her heart was sad and repentant at the choices she had made. Her heart recognized Jesus as The One that could give her another chance. She had much to be forgiven. She wanted a clean heart and a rebirth of her spirit. I know how she felt. I thank God for making me clean in His sight, through my belief in Jesus.

I’m thankful the issue wasn’t left up for a vote.

Some days, I don’t want to pray in the conventional sense of asking for help. I just want to spend time at my Lord’s feet in thanks. I want to bring before him anything and everything I can think of for which I am thankful. The list I come up with is probably pitiful, compared to what He has done for me in His eyes. But my heart is right when I do it, because I have been given and forgiven much. He knows.

My heart is bowed.

I am grateful.