Friends,
Many times this past week, as I’ve stared at the same four walls, the same institutional beige curtains, and what I suspect may be the same bowl of Jell-O reincarnated from yesterday’s lunch, I’ve found myself thinking of St. Paul’s admonition to “in all things give thanks.”
Now, I will confess that I have long admired Paul’s spiritual fortitude. His ability to write letters full of hope and gratitude while chained in a Roman prison makes my minor irritations with hospital life seem, well, less than apostolic. But still, when one has been on “absolute bed rest” for what feels like the gestational period of an elephant, one’s sense of gratitude can get a bit thin around the edges.
There comes a moment, usually around the third failed attempt to sleep while someone takes your blood pressure at 3 a.m., when one’s thoughts drift perilously close to grumbling. And yet, in those moments, Paul’s words echo like a small but persistent voice in the back of my mind—“in all things give thanks.” Not just the lovely things. Not just the obviously blessed things. All things.
It took very few days to discover that the hospital kitchen had only three options of entrees for a gluten-free diet. In the early days here, they seemed pretty good actually. But after nearly two weeks, it becomes VERY repetitive. It might be easy to slip back in to grumbling.
Now, I am a parish priest, which means I am well-practised at finding theological meaning in the mundane. I can locate grace in a parish budget meeting, hope in a funeral lunch, and holiness in the smell of burnt coffee. But hospital life tests even my most creative hermeneutics. There’s only so much sacramental symbolism one can wring out of an adjustable bed and a non-slip sock.
Still, in quieter moments, I find myself noticing small mercies. The nurse who smiles even after a 12-hour shift. The doctor who explains things with genuine kindness. The friend who texts just to check in. And even the pudding, which, though of dubious texture, is reliably chocolate.
Gratitude, I’ve come to realize, is less about liking everything that happens, and more about trusting that God is somewhere in everything that happens. Paul wasn’t telling us to be thankful for all things—he was inviting us to be thankful in all things. There’s a subtle but holy difference there.
And so, as the days wear on and the waiting continues, I find myself trying—however imperfectly—to give thanks. Not because I’m particularly saintly, but because I suspect that thankfulness is less a feeling and more a discipline. It’s the practice of remembering that God is present even in fluorescent-lit hallways, IV drips, and endless announcements over the hospital PA system.
It’s the stubborn belief that grace still works the night shift.
So yes, St. Paul, you win again. I will, in all things, give thanks. Even for this season of waiting. Even for the puddings and the pokes and the paperwork. Because if God can transform a Roman prison into a place of revelation, surely God can work through my hospital room too.
And who knows—perhaps tomorrow’s Jell-O will be lemon.
Thanks be to God.
Giving Thanks in All Things
Gracious and ever-present God, when our patience wears thin and our gratitude hides behind complaints, remind us that You are still near.
Teach us to give thanks not only for blessings easily seen, but for those that come disguised — in waiting rooms, in weariness, and even in the odd mercy of hospital pudding.
Help us to see Your grace at work in the kindness of strangers, the skill of caregivers, and the quiet persistence of healing. When we are tempted to grumble, turn our sighs into small prayers of trust.
When we feel forgotten, remind us that we are held — always — in Your steadfast love.
Through Christ our healer and companion,
Amen.