why we really can always be thankful
“Who are these for?” Zoe asks, watching as I pour caramel sauce into dessert cups. The sticky, golden ribbons slide off of the end of the spoon, pooling. She’s grinning, tossing the words as though in joust.
“Well,” I begin, carefully dipping the spoon back into the pot for more of the buttery sweet. But before I can answer, she’s laughing.
“You know,” she says, “you never make anything fancy for me. It’s always for someone else.” In the comment, I hear some echo of the prodigal’s older brother. You never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends (Luke 15:29). The sinister slithering suggestion of something withheld seethes beneath our discontentment. So it was, even for Eve in the garden. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you’ll see what’s really going on (Genesis 3:4 MSG).
I glance up at Zoe again, taking in her creamy, high-boned cheeks, those stormy eyes. She’s trying for humor, but I can hear the faintest bend of inflection against the hard edge of truth. And she’s right; this dessert is not for her; it’s for Riley’s and Adam’s teachers.
“Your dad–,” I start again, turning to drop the pot and the spoon into the hot, soapy wash water, watching it displace the foam and slowly sink. I hurry it along, pushing down into the center of the pot with my fingers.
“I know,” she parries darkly. “Dad used to say the same thing to his mom. I always say this and you guys always tell me that story. Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” She leans against the counter top, bounces her body back and forth against it, watches as I cover the cups with plastic wrap.
I learned a long time ago that always and never are hungry, emotional words.
It will not benefit me at the moment to begin to unravel the comparison my daughter makes by pointing out that this dessert is the first I’ve made for Riley’s and Adam’s teachers all year, nor will it help to list aloud the catalog of things I cook for her pleasure, including the meals she enjoys, although the urge to list all the evidence against her claim is tempting.
“You’re silly. I make things for you all the time,” I say simply, gathering up a few of the cups to stow them in the refrigerator.
“You don’t. You make me pumpkin pie and stuff like that, but not the fancy stuff.” Illogical discontentment will not soon be dissuaded by logical arguments.
“Wait. What constitutes a fancy dessert?” I look down at the cups in my hands–clear, disposable cups normally used for drinks, chosen so no containers need be returned to me.
“Something unexpected,” she says. “Something like that.” She points at the cups still sitting on the counter.
“So, pumpkin pie is expected?” I lift the question and let it hang, dangling the lesson, carefully depositing the rest of the dessert into the refrigerator.
“Well, you know what I mean,” she says, and I do. Our blessings turn into expectations, and we lose track of our gratitude.
She should be more grateful, I think. She should be content with what she has (Hebrews 13:5).
But no sooner has the thought arisen than the Spirit reminds me that gratitude is my own life long lesson. I have years on my daughter, and still I find myself staring dumbly at a piece of paper, trying to write down my blessings. Someone will ask, “What are you thankful for?” And I will search for newer, grander gifts to mention than, say, breakfast, shoes, water, even though in certain parts of the world, those are the fancy things. Sometimes, I write down my gifts or share them on Facebook and still forget to be the one who goes back to God to say thank you (Luke 17:17-18), acknowledging that He is the source of every good and perfect gift (James 1:17). And from time to time, I catch a glimpse of someone else’s good fortune and sulk with envy, wishing my Father would give me something like that. You always save the best things for other people. It’s a wild, reckless, hungry untruth; one often carefully glossed with levity.
“Don’t be afraid,” the LORD said to Abram. “I am your very great reward,” or quite literally, your exceedingly and increasingly abundant wealth (Genesis 15:1).
This has been God’s response in my less grateful, emotionally hungry moments, and I am beginning to understand that this is how He can expect me to give thanks always (1 Thessalonians 5:18) without denying that life is often painful. As Gregory of Nyssa said, “That which we hope for is nothing other than the Lord himself.” God himself is the most extravagant gift; and He died to offer me all of himself. As Anne Voskamp elucidates so well in her book, The Broken Way, the Supper itself repeatedly reminds us, “All that I am is yours (46).” Maybe you’ve heard this, that “prodigal” means without saving anything, and that the truly prodigal one in the parable is the Father? Yet the younger son earned the title for his wastefulness. And the older brother did not understand that he possessed a wealth his younger brother envied: all that time living in the Father’s presence. Similarly, Eve did not value the sound of God’s footsteps. Dare I say that the God who gave me all when He gave himself still withholds the best from me? Do I dare withhold my thanks to swallow such a lie? Indeed not, nor can I allow my expectation of His blessings to sour my gratitude.
I close the door against the refrigerator chill, and turn back to my daughter.
“But you have something better than all fancy desserts in the world,” I tell her, letting my smile stretch wide and the laughter begin to spill, wrapping her up in my arms from behind. “You have me. And I love you,” I say, loudly planting a kiss right on her beautiful cheek.
