Saying Grace

Back a few years ago, before Katie got sick, her mother invited me over to their home in Poulsbo for a walk on the beach at low tide.

I was weaker in those days, still recovering from a several-year bout with something that looked a lot like immune-deficiency issues. And Karen's beach, already rocky, was covered with a slick coating of seaweed which made walking -- already a bit of a challenge -- quite treacherous for my weak legs. I remember feeling embarrassed, and old, for being so shaky on my feet; wondering if she would still want to be friends with someone so out of shape.

There were numerous blessings in that morning; almost too many to count. But one of them lay in the discovery of a whole bed of starfish, lying in the seaweed and decorated with every color of the rainbow. I had my camera with me and took tons of photographs; we turned them into cards (the start of a whole new dimension to our friendship) and laughed over what the various starfish posturings meant.

This morning I have been thinking about gratitude, and I was looking for a photograph to share that would speak to that. This one, which seemed to leap off the screen, is from that long-ago walk with Karen, and appears to have been entitled "I am strong." So what does strength have to do with gratitude?

Like many adults I know, my faith life seems to have been cyclic over the years: I was active in the church all through grade school, born again in high school, and then lost my Christianity in college though my faith in God never wavered. My belief in Christ resurfaced as I struggled through a divorce, waned again during my career of working for the church, and resurfaced again after the death of my parents.

Looking back over those ups and downs, I think that one signal characteristic of my Christian periods is what my born-again friends tend to call "An Attitude of Gratitude;" an overwhelming sense that everything in my life is a precious gift, both what I have and appreciate now, and what has come into my life and gone.

And what I see now, looking at this image, which seems to me so full of joy, is that strength and joy are somehow side-effects of gratitude.

I don't know about you, but I grew up saying grace before every meal. It seemed rather automatic -- and therefore rather empty -- so, in the throes of my non-Christian first marriage, I got out of the habit of grace and never reclaimed it. I am sad to confess that my children did not grow up saying grace, though they did spend their early years in church. And it seems clear to me, in recent conversations with two dear friends of mine who are teachers, that most of the children currently coming through our school systems did not grow up saying grace.

Because what I see and hear about these kids, and the kids who pour paint over police cars and slash their tires, the kids my daughters have encountered at college, and, in fact, many of the adults whose giant SUVs clog our parking lots and ferries, and in fact much of America (and certainly its leadership) -- which may be a key reason why Al-qaeda felt perfectly within their rights destroying the world trade center back on 9/11 -- is that they -- we -- have entitlement issues.

We, as a culture, have lost that attitude of gratitude: we have all forgotten to say grace. All this richness with which we Americans and our precious children have been so blessed? We think we DESERVE it! And that sense of entitlement doesn't just make us pushy and rude; it also ultimately weakens us. Because entitlement, righteousness, and pride -- whether in accomplishment or possessions -- inevitably precede a fall.

When I first labeled this starfish, I saw those upraised arms and thought of a strong man flexing his muscles. Today those upraised arms remind me of the way -- in my born-again days -- we used to raise our arms in song, a sign of our gratitude to the Lord for all the blessings of this life. Today I also see that curled right leg, as if the starfish is about to turn a few cartwheels.

Yes, that could mean a fall is coming. But clearly this starfish is prepared to roll with the punches. And when I think of the cartwheels my daughter turned as child, I remember the sheer joy on her face as she launched herself into the fall, fully confident that she would soon be standing on her own two feet again. Those raised arms are a critical part of what keeps the momentum moving forward into renewed stability.

For some reason the lyrics of that old song, I Am Woman, are playing in my head right now. But I want to change them just a bit:

I am strong;
I am invincible --
I am GRATEFUL...

Thanks again for the starfish, Karen!