An Odd Reminder

by Thomas Howard - April 7, 2008

Reprinted with permission.

Well brought-up children are taught to say thank you, along with all of the other greetings and responses that attend polite life. Such responses must be imposed at first, of course, and learned by rote, but soon enough they become habitual, and virtually unconscious. This does not, however, mean that they are fraudulent. Somehow the authentic idea of gratitude seems to work its way in, by a sort of osmosis, to the young person's inner being, so that the imposed and learned response gradually flowers into the true generosity of spirit that animates good manners. At least, this is how it seems to work in good households as often as not.

But because we are all mortal (and fallen), things are never altogether ideal. The best of us wake up from time to time, embarrassed at some ghastly solecism into which we have blundered simply through inadvertent ingratitude or some residual oafishness. A letter not written; a phone call delayed too long; a friend's kindness stupidly overlooked.

The region of experience in which this sort of thing is egregious is, of course, our prayers. We make our petitions, heaven knows, and rightly so, since we are bidden by God Himself to do so. And no doubt we often do add our thanks for God's blessings. But if our prayers are hasty, the chances are that what gets huddled in is our list of petitions, with our thanksgivings left by the wayside.

It may be for this very reason that the Church has frequently kept before our eyes in the Breviary and the Lectionary the words in Psalm 92: "It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord: and to sing praises unto thy Name, O most Highest" (this is a 16th century translation). It seems odd, but it may, alas, be the case that we never quite get beyond needing to be reminded to "say thank you."

For my own prayers, I have found that one's acts of thanks are assisted, and somewhat vivified, by picturing with each item its opposite, or its lack. That is, if we tick off before the Throne the general categories for which we owe thanks, we may arrive at the end of the list in the rather mild frame of mind with which we embarked. We thank the Lord for freedom, peace, food, shelter, health, friends, the beauties of the world, His providence, and so forth, all of which suffrages are most salutary to be sure. But where has our mind been all along?

I have found that help is supplied in one's struggle on this point if one pictures, at each point, the situation if the blessing in question were absent.

For example, freedom: When one gives thanks to God for freedom, one may try to imagine what life has been like, for most of history, for people who have had to live under khans, sultans, pharaohs, commissars, and dictators – notto mention life in gulags and prison camps and exile of all unspeakable descriptions, or in galleys or under slavery. At this point the single word "freedom" takes on some bite, and one says it with fear and trembling.

Or peace: One thinks of trying to piece together one's house and family in the wake of Goths or Huns or carpet bombing or Sherman's march through Georgia or any scorched-earth policy or under any reign of terror when the Gestapo or the NKVD might knock on your door in the small hours, and there would be the end until the Last Trump of your family circle. The one-syllable word of thanks suddenly looms like the archangel himself.

I myself include in my attempts at thanks to God the ancient list of the four elements, earth, air, fire, and water, since, obvious as they are, we do count on them, and they are after all gifts straight from God's hand, and one does not always think of thanking Him for such omnipresent bounties.

Earth: Think of a moonscape; then think of this fecund, fructifying place, such a riot of fruit and forests and meadows and loam and fauna and vegetation – the nursery of all of us and the lions and the arctic terns and the dolphins and ruby-throated hummingbirds and so forth. Benedicite, omnia opera Domini Domino!

Air: Think of smothering, or of being shut in a fetid dungeon, or of gasping in the final throes of emphysema. Air.

Water: Think of parching under a merciless sun in the Kalahari or the Sahara; then think of an icy brook in the alps or a burn in the West Highlands or a glittering pool high in the Rockies, or a glass of water got by merely flicking a spigot when your mouth is dry.

Fire: All fire – from the sun down to the blue flame on the stove to the fire I never see in the water heater and the furnace in the cellar. When there's a power failure, pray God that the electric company will get things going again. And meantime, thanks be to God for this lovely roaring maple fire in the fireplace.

I also add light to this list, and try to imagine blindness. My father had lost his left eye when he was twelve in a Fourth of July accident. I had imagined that things would "look" dark from that eye, and I can remember how bemused I was when he told me that he could see out of that eye no more than he could see out of his ear. Blindness. Or even the interminable Antarctic winter. Darkness. Thank the Lord for light.

And so it goes: food, shelter, clothing, health, work, friends, family, the pleasures of this life – "But above all for Thine inestimable love in the redemption of the world by Our Lord Jesus Christ, for the means of grace and for the hope of glory. . . ."

Every one of us will fill in his own list. The main thing to remember: "It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord: and to sing praises unto thy Name, O most Highest."

Thomas Howard is retired from 40 years of teaching English in private schools, college, and seminary in England and America.