by Karen Melang

I’m not sure, but I think I might have gratitude deficit disorder. I can’t seem to manage to be thankful for any sustained amount of time.

Case in Point: Recently my husband began having a fairly minor health issue that we thought should be checked out. An examination was performed and further tests were ordered, but the doctor seemed confident about what the results would be.

He was wrong. The outcome of the test wasn’t what he expected. A "mass" was spotted, and more tests were ordered.

From the moment I heard the word "mass" on Monday until we received the results of the more intensive testing on Thursday, I was in nearly constant contact with God. "Let Jim be okay, God." "I couldn’t bear to be without him, God." "I don’t think I could handle this, God." "What are you thinking, God? I was counting on many more years with him." "We haven’t even gone on our dream trip yet, God." "Do something, God!"

Then came Thursday and the wonderful phone call from Jim. "Everything is okay. What they saw is completely normal. I don’t even need another office visit."

Don’t get me wrong — I thanked God. We both thanked God. We talked about how someday in the not-too-distant future we will more than likely have to face losing each other. We mulled over what we learned from what turned out to be a non-event. We said that we were enormously grateful that things turned out the way they did and that we felt stronger and more able to trust God because of this occurrence.

This end of our experience —  the gratitude part — took hours, not days. And then we went right back to taking our health for granted.

See what I mean about a gratitude deficit?

About a dozen years ago, I had the privilege of being a Women of the ELCA "Woman to Woman" visitor to the women’s organization of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Cameroon. When I came back, I managed to be grateful for a couple of weeks. I was thankful for my bright and shiny kitchen with all my amazing appliances (ah, the glorious beauty of my refrigerator — ice, whenever I want it!), my car, my phone, not to even mention my clean drinking water and my ability to read. Yes, I had a modestly prolonged season of gratitude after that visit. Two, maybe three weeks.

Then back to my rut. My life is good. I have everything I need and a lot of what I want, except perhaps another pair of shoes. I really need something to go with my new holiday outfit. (You see how fast items on my list move from want to need.)

Our culture works tirelessly at keeping us discontented, and most of the time we go along gladly in the pursuit of more, new, and different. Under the influence of advertising, I come to believe that my hopelessly outdated television with the (relatively) teeny-weeny screen has got to go. How can I be happy with only one kind of ketchup when I can get it hot, spicy, chipotle, and even blue? It isn’t just that there are several major brands of mayonnaise. Why be content with regular when it can come with honey mustard, horseradish, and who knows what all else?

We are constantly being pushed to the newest, the most "loaded," the biggest. "Do you want to super size it?" we are asked. Of course we do. We don’t even know enough when we see it.

The underlying message of our discontented society is that the stuff we have is not good enough, and that, in fact, very likely we are not good enough either. Feeling inadequate, holding onto stuff that’s always a bit dated, slightly too small, no longer quite fashionable, we are not very likely to feel grateful.

In such a world, St. Paul’s statement, "I have learned to be content with whatever I have" (Philippians 4:11b) is bold and shocking. "I know what it is to have little," Paul continues, laying opposites side by side, "and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need."

What’s the big secret to having plenty, we might ask. Of course, no one doubts that being in need presents genuine problems. Inadequate shelter, running out of money for food, not having enough beds for everyone — these are the draining and harrowing circumstances of poverty. But having plenty — how hard can that be?

The secrets of going hungry and being in need are likely far worse than those of us who have never experienced them will ever know. But being well fed and having plenty have challenges and temptations of their own.

When I have plenty, I am tempted to take all that I have for granted. Only when Jim’s health seemed to be in danger did I count it an astonishing gift. Only if my job is unfulfilling and irritating do I remember that wise bosses, congenial coworkers, and satisfying work are profound blessings.

When I have plenty, I am tempted to believe that I have fashioned my life myself and that I can take full credit for it. It’s easy to forget all the shoulders I am standing on: my loving and faithful parents and family, mentors too numerous to mention, heroes and heroines from long ago whose biographies provide instruction and patterns for my own life. I am tempted to believe that my usually sunny disposition is due to virtue rather than to the gift of good genetic material and favorable circumstances.

When I have plenty, it is incredibly easy to forget that I am on the receiving end of every thing I have and am. Behind all that I have, "body and soul...food and clothing, home and family, daily work and all that I need" (in the words of Luther’s Small Catechism), stands God, the grand Giver of it all, with hands full to overflowing of even more.

It is not so easy to be good at having plenty. I think the secret is to keep your eye on that grand Giver, rather than worrying about feeling grateful. When we try to manufacture gratitude, we usually end up with some version of a less than heartfelt Christmas thank-you note from a nine-year old: "Dear Aunt Sylvia, thank you for the red socks. They are just what I wanted."

When my little brother Phil was about five years old, his hero was our big brother Paul who played high school football. That fall, Paul earned his varsity letter. Our mom sewed the big "L" on Paul’s varsity letter sweater, which athletes wore all those years ago. Phil thought Paul and the sweater were both fantastic.

When Christmas Eve came, Phil opened a package and found a miniature letter sweater just his size. A million dollars could not have thrilled him more. Now he could be just like his big brother Paul.

Our mother had searched all over town for a small version of the "L" so she could make Phil a sweater like Paul’s. The look on Phil’s face when he opened the present was all the thanks anyone needed, but it is my mother’s generosity that I remember most. The giver stays in my mind far more than the gift. Mom gave Phil what no one else would have thought to give him, something beyond his imagining. He was glad down to his toes.

The first Pentecost people were glad, too. "Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple," St. Luke tells us, "they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts... " (Acts 2:46).

Most of us will be eating a festive meal with other people this Thanksgiving. There will likely be a golden turkey and a special stuffing or two with wild rice or oysters. Perhaps there will be orange-cranberry relish, jewel toned and just tart enough. Of course, we will try to save room for pie, pumpkin or pecan, and we will eat a sliver even if we haven’t saved room.

If we are very blessed, we will be surrounded by people we love who love us back. They will remember how we used to be and recall things that happened long ago. We will all tell stories that are mostly true. We might laugh until our sides ache, and we might pass babies around or chase toddlers. Perhaps we’ll play cards or look at Christmas catalogs, and later we’ll eat turkey sandwiches and leftovers. And even if there are a few awkward moments we hadn’t expected (Grandma’s new husband cheats at cards!), we will be glad.

Contented gladness is one sort of gratitude to the Giver of all things, the Maker of heaven and earth. As we look around our tables, we may come to understand that more than bloodlines and gene pools hold us together, that we are bound by more than old jokes and drawing names for Christmas. At Thanksgiving, perhaps more than any other time of year, we remember that we are, all of us, the glorious creations of an endlessly imaginative God, glad recipients of all life has to offer.

Gladness grows naturally into generosity. Giving is the perfect way to handle the problem of plenty. Glad hearts know that you don’t have to hold onto everything for dear life, since dear life, like daily bread, comes to us fresh every day from God, the true Owner of everything that is. We who have received all that we have from God can afford to be boldly openhanded, too.

Knowing that we are not self-made, we understand that we are merely passing along gifts we have received, not giving away things we actually own. Perhaps we will have as much fun giving as God seems to. Letter sweaters, secret Santa goodies, checks to Lutheran World Relief, knitted socks and mittens, year-round proportional giving, our precious time and energy, and a hundred other gifts make our gladness visible.

I have a gratitude deficiency, that’s for certain. All eternity will not be enough time to offer all the thanks God deserves. But I don’t think I will worry so much about my end of things. Perhaps if I keep my eyes firmly on the grand Giver, at least occasionally I will be overwhelmed by such breath-taking generosity and be moved, in my own small way, to imitate it. Now that’s thanksgiving.