Conclusion

I have now conducted this experiment for a full month, and am concluding it with this post. It's been an educational month. I'm a very ungrateful person. I wake up with a start in the middle of the night realizing, "I didn't write my prayer of gratitude today..." because I didn't take the time to notice things. And so I will sit in bed and replay the day in my mind until I come across something special that happened that I ought to have taken the time to thank God for earlier, but didn't. I constantly chide myself for not noticing the countless blessings God sends my way. But the good news is that I notice them more than I did a month ago. 

This outward, public experiment in gratitude is drawing to a close. At least, I no longer intend to post on a daily basis. But the work wrought in me through having an attitude of gratitude to my Father is, I pray, lasting. I intend to continue noticing things, and thanking God for them, and drawing closer to Him through deepest thanksgiving. 

Thank you to those who read along with me, noticed things with me, or prayed for me as I asked at the beginning of the experiment. I hope that I was able to encourage some of you to also live more grateful lives. 

I thank you, Father, for the innumerable blessings for which I will never be able to thank you enough. 

Camp Zion

The reason for my absence of posts the last couple of days is currently the very thing for which I am most grateful.

I thank you, Father, for Camp Zion. Thank you for the campfires and sunsets, the laughs, the rowdy singing, the pensive, shining eyes that stare into the flames during devotions. 

Thank you for the waves, sometimes lapping, sometimes crashing, sometimes barely perceptible as the lake spreads out from the shores like a vast mirror, almost motionless. Thank you for the kersplunking of happy campers throwing themselves from the edge of the dock.

Thank you for the stars, uncounted and glorious in their silvery spread. 

Thank you the field, worn and beaten down by thousands of feet over decades of use. 

Thank you for the Throne Room, smelly and spidery as ever.

And thank you, by the way, for the innumerable spiders--detestable yet remarkable in every way. 

Thank you for the crunching gravel, the sawdust paths, the smell of pine. 

Thank you for the Stewarts and their years of tireless, faithful, and thoroughly effectual ministry, and for the hundreds of volunteers who over the years have made Camp Zion what it is today: a place to meet You in new and exciting ways, a place to live with and love people from every background, a place to bask, body and soul, in the warmth of your Son. 

I could hardly bring myself to leave. 

Campfires

I thank you, Father, for campfires. Thank you for crackling wood and firefly sparks in the night, for sweet smoke and loud laughs and lots of bathroom trips. Thank you for friends around fires.

Corporate Worship

I thank you Father, for voices lifted in united acclamation and exultation of you, the Creator God. I thank you for hearts outpoured of love, adoration, and astonishment at your mercy, of incredulity at your grace. Few things are as special to me as singing my heart out with my brothers and sisters to my, their, our Father. 

Arms

I just watched "127 Hours." I thank you, Father, for bravery. For courage. For the burning desire to not only survive but to live that is within us, for stubborn refusal to give up even when all seems hopeless. 

Thank you, Lord, that I have both my arms. 

And less importantly, thank you that James Franco finally demonstrated that he is capable of good acting. 

Bike Rides

I thank you, Father, for bike rides. Thank you for wind that rushes past the ears and waters the eyes, for whirring wheels and the crunch of gravel, the hiss of dirt, or the steady hum of paved road. Thank you for clicking chains and the clack of shifting gears, for squealing brakes, for the thrill of speed, and thank you for sweaty rubber grips.

Forest Trails

I thank you, Father, for forest trails: for crunchy leaves and snapping twigs beneath my feet, for dappled sunlight, pale gold and green through the thick foliage, for bird calls and scolding squirrels, for the sound of water on stones, for the smell of growing things. I thank you for rough tree bark, bright green dragon-flies, and tattered mist strung across mossy glens. 

Depressing Movies

I thank you, Father, for depressing movies. I thank you for the imaginative minds, the dedication, the passionate acting, the stories, the music... I thank you for those movies that move me to tears. 

Guitars

I thank you, Father, for guitars. I thank you for the long, slender necks, the feel of wood beneath my fingers, the vibrating strings, the hum of the low strings and the tinkling of the high, the countryish twang that comes from playing by the bridge and the harp-like sweetness when you play high on the neck, just shy of the sound-hole. I thank you for the diversity of the instrument, its capability of producing lilting lullabies, triumphant praises, songs that make you tap your foot and songs make you tear up, songs with driving ferocity and energy and darkness, and songs that lift the spirits. I love my guitar. 

Dew On Flowers

I thank you, Father, for dew on flowers; for big, sparkling drops of water clinging lightly to shocking green leaves framing startlingly pink flowers.

Baby Naps

A moment to be grateful for: 

This morning in church, my precious nephew sat on my lap in the best mood I've seen him in in a long time. He bounced or swayed slightly to the music, looked around amiably at everyone with big, bright blue eyes, and eventually just sat perfectly still facing forward. Gradually, he drifted off to sleep right there in my lap. At one point, he started awake, arms and legs jerking comically, but after looking around, confused, he nuzzled his face deep into the crook of my arm and before long was fast asleep. Incomparable. =) 

I thought of the line in Ben Fold's "Gracie Girl": "I won't move you an inch even though my arm's asleep..." 

I thank you, Father, for that moment. 

The Beach At Dawn

I thank you, Father, for the beach in the morning. I thank you for the steady rush of the sea, for the hiss of her foam as it slowly recedes back into itself, for the fire set alight in the white crest of the waves as the sun breaks the horizon, for the call of gulls and the whistling breeze that tastes of salt, for the serene loneliness of an empty beach at dawn. 

Why don't I wake up like this every morning?

The Beach at Night

I thank you, Father, for the beach at night. I thank you for the steady rush and roar of the unseen waves, the rustling of long grass in the steady breeze, the cool sand. I thank you for the silvery lining that gilds the whitecaps as they break in the starlight. To fall asleep to these things is an incomparable experience. 

Waves

I thank you, Father, for WAVES! Swelling, rolling, rising, looming, crashing, thundering, racing, pounding, hissing waves, the deepest greens and grays surging into white foam and stinging salty spray. I thank you for their constant roar, their eternal acclamation of him who says to them, "This far shalt thou come, but no further: and here shall thy proud waves be stayed!" 

The Day's Travel

I thank you, Father, for safe travel on the road for my family and for myself. Thank you for the rushing air, the blurred landscapes, the lights of cars caught by the wind and elongated into radiant streaks of white, stark against the blue dusk. And thank you that it's finally over. =) 

Wet Earth

I thank you, Father, for the way the way grass and earth smell after a hard rain. There's nothing quite like it.

Hardcover Books

I thank you, Father, for hardcover books. Thanks for the crinkling of pages when you open one, for the musty smell that you only get from hardcover books, for the smooth, hard texture beneath your fingers, for the snap it makes when you close it, and for how very, very classy they look sitting on a coffee table or on a shelf. 

My Little Brother's Talent

I almost missed this one... falling asleep here... but I thought of it once again as I laid my head down.

I thank you, Father, for the raw, remarkable talent of my little brother. I thank you for the hard work he's done for years, and will continue to do, to become an incredible pianist. I thank you for that concentrated look he gets between his eyes. I thank you for his poise. I thank you for the joy that comes from watching him play, the ease with which beautiful music flows from his fingers. Such talent is rare; I thank you that it abounds in one whom I love, and in one whom I get to see it flourish and grow.

Moments Stolen With My Nephew

Not everything I'm grateful for is a thing--something you can look at, or touch or hold or move. Sometimes--oftentimes--I am grateful for moments.

I thank you, Father, for moments stolen in the midst of my crazy, busy life, with my little nephew. I thank you for that delighted, happy laugh, those big blue eyes, those tiny toes. I thank you for slobber on my face and hands and for tiny fingers pulling my hair. I thank you for that toothy grin. I thank you for that warm bundle of life that I get to grab and snuggle up to. I wish often that I had more time with him, and yet I thank you that at least for now, I don't; because every moment stolen with him is sweeter for that. 

Stars

I thank you, Father, for the miracle of stars. I thank you for those cold, blue-white pinpricks of fire, pale and piercing in the night, some of them extinct for thousands of years, and yet their light only now reaching our little world. Their are times when I could weep for the beauty of your creation. Thank you for such tears. 

Clouds

I thank you, Father, for clouds. I thank you for the whispy feather clouds that thinly veil the sun's radiance and seem to take an eternity to move across the sky.

I thank you for the magnificent banks and swells of clouds that roll and tumble like magnificent waves against a sapphire backdrop, casting great, swift shadows on the startlingly green grass below.

I thank you for the vast expanse of grey cloud in all its ominousness and malice, its oppressive and bleak presence making me all the more aware of man's need for light and beauty.

I thank you for the puffy white clouds that dot the azure sky like so many meandering sheep.

I thank you for the moonlit clouds, silent and star-riven, the very deepest blue of night hemmed in soft silver.

I thank you for the sunlit clouds at daybreak and day's end, gold-tinged, fiery, paradisiacal. They seem to me the outskirts of heaven, stirring within me bittersweet longings for the heart of that great city, for gold-paved streets and sinners redeemed and saints glorified and angelic voices and seeing total acceptance in the eyes of One who loves me.

I thank you that the natural things of this world can stir us so, can call to heart that which no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor imagination conjured, and make us long for them, and for you. 

Sand

I thank you Father, for sand. I thank you for the smooth, fine, hissing sand, and the coarse sand that crunches beneath my feet. I thank you for the hot sand that makes me walk fast, and the cool sand that allays the discomfort caused by the hot sand. I love that either hot or cold, it feels great to bury my feet beneath the surface and wriggle my toes. Thank you for that. Thank you for the way I can nestle into the beach and for the way, like a big spongey bed, it takes my shape. 

I delight in sandy beaches. Sitting on the ground is never more pleasant then when on a sandy beach. 

Creative Mothers

Today I helped my mother with a couple things in her Sunday School room, and, not for the first time, was impressed by her creativity, her passion, and her desire to excite the imaginations and hearts of children with the things of God. 

As she described her plans to me for her summer curriculum, "Parable Park," I smiled, more on the inside than outwardly, so she wouldn't notice and ask. I had some good Sunday School teachers in my time, but none that went to the lengths that my mother goes to in order to make her classroom a fun and interesting place. Currently she is transforming her room into a park, complete with a slide, a tree, and a mural, and I'm sure much more is on it's way.

Now, I'm fairly certain that if my mother didn't put in this extra effort, if she didn't build a park in her room, the children who come through her classroom would not leave spiritually malnourished. I'm sure they would, as I know they do in other classrooms, receive sound biblical teaching by people who care about them. But it is people like my mother for whom I am especially grateful. People who don't have to do the things they do, but do them anyway, because they care. Because they are sweet, thoughtful, giving, creative people who want to bring a little bit of extra joy into people's lives. 

And so I thank you, Father, for creative mothers. I thank you for those who work tirelessly behind the scenes, cutting out pictures and making posters, designing crafts and coming up with games, writing songs out on posterboards and recruiting their sons to carry fake trees into their classrooms. I thank you for their dedication to children, to teaching, to loving. And I thank you that the sweetest, most thoughtful, dedicated, giving, and creative mother of all is my own. 

Baby Sounds

I thank you, Father, for bubbling, gurgling laughs, for soft coos and whispers, for tiny burps, and for surprisingly large burps. I thank you for squeals of surprise and delight, and eyes alight with impish mischief and innocent wonder.

Windy Summer Days

I thank you, Father, for hot summer wind, for rustling grass and whispering trees, for clouds that drift lazily. I thank you for cotton dancing white against the blue sky in wild abandon. I thank you for ripples on water and creaking tree limbs and reeds that click like metronomes, keeping time to the music of the third element as it races over hills sighs over valleys. I thank you for hair in my face and clothes that flap and whip and lash against me, for the energy that comes from gulping great gasps of cool, rushing air. I thank you for watery eyes and the sand that hisses as it's carried along the beach in a fine dust. 

I thank you for the satisfaction that comes from watching bugs, bugs that I hate, caught in a strong gust and dashed in a glorious (albeit disgusting) spray across my windshield, and that I can fall asleep with a smile knowing that there are a few fewer pointless creatures in the world, thanks to wind vs. tiny wings. 

I thank you for the gentle breeze that carries a cloud of pipe smoke curling into the night. I thank you for gusts that inspire muttered curses as the bicyclist wobbles treacherously on the shoulder of the busy road. And I thank you, Father, for the roaring wind that heralds the coming of the storm.

Bagels

Inevitably, the more astute among my readers will mark a difference in profundity betwixt some of my posts. E.g., "Stained Glass" vs. "Funny Fat Dogs." So I'm going to go ahead and clarify here and now that I have no intention of striving for astonishing perspicacity in everything I write. My aim is to draw out the details of gifts from my Father, to better appreciate them in full. Some of those gifts are wonderfully profound and stimulate sincerest reflection. Others, however, are simple, but no less worth reflecting on for that. 

That being said, I thank you, Father, for bagel sandwiches. I thank you for the tang of honey mustard and the spice of pepperjack and the crackling crunch of teeth biting into lightly toasted bread. I thank you for grease on fingers from hot, melted cheese, for sesame seeds stuck in teeth. Bagel sandwiches go beyond the basic nourishment needed to survive... bagel sandwiches are delicious, and easy to make. They are an expression of human creativity and inovation and a love of enjoying and improving things. I thank you, Father, for such an overabundance of food that treats such as these can be enjoyed with guilt-inducing (and belly-enlarging) regularity. 

Stained Glass

Tonight there was a rehearsal for a wedding in the Sanctuary, and therefore much hustling and bustling and hullabaloo, and I was on my feet a lot, between cleaning the rest of the church and helping the wedding folks as needed. 

Towards the end of the evening, as I closed up that end of the building and switched off the final light, I paused and looked to the cross at the front of the Sanctuary, and not for the first time, caught my breath. The sun had dipped below the horizon, yet the sky was still alight with a deep indigo refulgence. This bluest of lights shone through the magnificent stained glass display surrounding the cross and filled the darkened holy place with every color, and I was alone in the midst of purest effulgence. 

I thank you, Father, for stained glass. I thank you for the miracle of light, for refraction, for men who discovered how to break and bend light to reveal its colors, or to filter it through colored glass for no other purpose than loveliness. I thank you that of all the creatures in this world, men alone pursue beauty, value it, and think to create something so impractical as stained glass. I thank you for moments of serenity. I thank you for the beautiful Sanctuaries of the world, places made by men's hands for the Divine. 

Sore Fingers

Tonight we had music team practice for Sunday morning worship. The set is a good mix of driving, upbeat choruses, majestic, theatrical anthems, and meditative hymns. This in and of itself is something for which I'm grateful. 

But the gift I notice tonight is the gift of sore fingers. 

It was the third time or so through a particularly energetic chorus, and my body was beginning to feel the strain that comes when one enthusiastically guitars (yes it's a verb) for over an hour. Dave was there on electric, and he tore through a riff with the overdrive screaming through the speakers, and I smiled. Peeping just above the top of the piano, I could see Dean's eyes, closed, his face uplifted, his mouth crying out what was in his heart, and I smiled bigger. It was an odd moment: to find in the middle of a rehearsal, a practice, a drill, this... rapture. This communal love of music and of God. 

Ordinarily I play with restraint at rehearsal, so as to save my energy and endurance for the inevitable sixth repetition of the same song. But at this moment I let loose. I laughed out loud a little, and let the music fill me. I looked down at my hands and was delighted to see how fast my fingers were moving, how easily the notes sprang from my guitar, how runs and harmonies were coaxed forth effortlessly by hands calloused from years of practice. 

And then we finished. The finale, a flourish of notes, and then I knew that of course that what I had done was not effortless. I had unknowingly committed a great deal of effort to produce that music, and now my fingers felt what had been asked of them. My right hand was so cramped I could barely let go of my pick. 

And I smiled. I wouldn't want it to be effortless. I wouldn't want to not have to try. Where's the satisfaction in that? My body is amazing, the things I'm capable of doing are incredible, and yet I have to strive to do them. I have to try, and try hard. What I am grateful for is that I can try. I can work hard and hurt myself in trying to produce something beautiful. I know that because there is pain when I finish, I can improve. I can work harder and grow more skilled and more calloused so that one day,  I can produce the same result without the consequence of pain. I can get better. And that is an encouraging thought. 

I love getting carried away in music. I love trying too hard, pushing a little too far, and making myself sore. I love being reminded that I'm good at something, and that I can, in time, get even better. And so I thank you, Father, for cramped hand and sore fingers. 

Funny Fat Dogs

The other night I retired to my bedroom at an irresponsibly late hour (as is my custom), and Maddie, my adorable albeit ludicrously overweight Black Labrador, followed me downstairs to snuffle at my door, as is her custom. Our pets spend the night in the part of the house that can be closed off from most of the bedrooms precisely because they tend to snuffle at doors. Most pets do. As it happens, my room is also in this part of the house. And Maddie, being the type of dog who needs to be around people, has taken to coming downstairs and spending the night on my bedroom floor. I like to pretend this is because I'm her favorite, but I have to concede the possibility that she might grace me with her presence solely because my bedroom is the only one accessible to her. 

This particular evening I was retreating to my bed feeling defeated, my spirits crushed by a spectacularly awful day. I slipped under the covers without taking the time to change, and no sooner had my eyes closed than I heard the thundering footsteps of my elephantine dog trying to descend the stairs without falling headfirst, imbalanced by her inordinate weight. I couldn't help but grin. Thank you, Father, for funny fat dogs.

For one cranky moment, I contemplated leaving the door closed and spending one night without sputtering snorts and grunts punctuating my repose, but then I heard her press her nose against the wood and start sniffing loudly, and I couldn't deny her entry. I rolled out of bed and half-crawled to the door to open it. Maddie came barreling in with even more enthusiasm than usual, and before going to her spot where I often lay out a blanket for her, drove her head into my chest and knocked me backwards. 

Overwhelmed by a long and discouraging day ending with this unexpected and unrestrained expression of affection, I succumbed to the happiness welling in my chest and lavished attention on my dog, petting her and wrestling with her for a while. After a few minutes, she quieted down and flopped onto the floor, though when I tried to get up, she shuffled towards me and put her paws on my legs to keep me down. I smiled, and stroked her head, and whispered, "I love you so much, doggie. Do you know how much I love you?" 

At this, she looked straight into my face with those big, brown eyes, then nuzzled her face deep into my lap and wagged her tail. My heart just about burst from the sweetness of that moment. 

I thank you, Father, for soft fur and hot smelly breath and thwapping tails and cold noses and unabashed affection. I thank you for creatures whose simple love reminds me of Your unfathomable love: unreserved, given freely and in spite of many shortcomings. 

Try Eucharisto

Like so many others, in reading Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, I am inspired to lead a life marked by gratitude to God my Father. To live a eucharisto kind of life. To notice the innumerable gifts he gives, and thank Him for them. I want to be enthralled with life, to fall in love with love itself, to burst with joy at the thought of the myriad blessings our Creator God bestows and revel delightedly in every unique and precious moment that I draw breath. 

And so, this blog. This "experiment in gratitude." This blog is not a promise or a vow or a resolution to be a better person, but merely an attempt at a healthier lifestyle. This my effort, and invitation to any who feel they could use more gratitude in their lives, to "try eucharisto." Try thanksgiving. 

I will not be compiling a list of 1000 things I'm grateful for, as Ms Voskamp did, though I love the idea. Rather, my intention is to notice at least one gift, one beautiful or heartwarming or exciting or creative or inspiring moment, every single day, and thank God for it. To notice the details, the things about the gift that make it so special, and exult in its giving. 

And finally, I invite any who wish to join me in this experiment to do so. Pray for me as I try to live a life of thanksgiving to the Giver, and tell me to pray for you. Write to me, or leave me comments, to tell me of a gift that you were given today, and we will see what comes of this. We will see what happens when one tries eucharisto.