Thanks

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Martin Rinkart — the pastor from the 1600s who lived through war, plague, famine, fire, and personal loss, yet somehow wrote the hymn “Now Thank We All Our God.” His life reminds me that gratitude is an instrument of resilience. When it grows during turmoil, transition, or trauma — especially when the continual presence of God meets us again and again — we find ourselves able to endure.

There’s an old story that he first wrote the words of this hymn as a mealtime prayer for his children. I imagine that home: gratitude shaping the household, shaping the day, shaping the way they understood God’s care.

Maybe that’s why Martin’s on my mind now. Beckie and I have just moved into our new home — a place we’ve never lived, yet one that already feels like a kind of return. We’re settling our space, creating it together, and learning the nature of our new neighborhood — its rhythms, its community, the way it lives life. There’s something warmly enjoyable about arranging a home at this stage of life. You’re not just unpacking boxes; you’re unpacking memories and hopes. It nudges me toward gratitude — to face each day, maybe even to celebrate each day gratefully.

We’re in a season of deep gratitude. Right in the middle of all this, our family gathered. Our oldest grandson was married this past weekend, and we joined a community of loved ones who filled the days with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who share history as it’s being made. We experienced time with our kids and grandkids — the kind of time that isn’t rushed, the kind that lets you see who they’re becoming.

Because we drove up from Southern California, the trip itself became part of the blessing. We stopped in Chico to see dear friends we’ve known for decades. Then, in one of those small graces life hands you, I discovered that another friend — a guy I grew up with (his mom was my kindergarten Sunday School teacher, whom I always compared with Mary Poppins) — lived less than a mile away. We met up, shared a beer, and told each other stories that no one else experienced.

I’ve told those stories throughout my life. People have smiled, nodded, enjoyed them. But hearing them spoken with “Do you remember…” by someone who lived them with me — that was different. It was like someone handed me a piece of my own childhood in recognition and celebration. There’s a strange holiness in that kind of remembering.

From there we moved on to catch up with another friend, one who lost his wife almost a year ago. We visited to see how he’s doing, but also to talk about the future. And then, on our way back, we stopped in to see the sister of the friend I mentioned above. Their family and mine vacationed together, celebrated together, and shared heartache together. She and her husband were people with whom Beckie and I shared life as young adults.

All of this — the move, the settling, the gathering, the unexpected reconnections — has reminded me of Rinkart’s quiet resilience. Obviously, I am not in the midst of the pain, damage, heartache, or fear that filled his days. I’m at the opposite end of that spectrum of human experience. It would be callous to suggest that we share the same concerns or burdens. But that doesn’t mean his example of gratitude-shaped resilience isn’t something I should learn.

He didn’t find gratitude by escaping the world; he found it by walking through life with open eyes. By noticing the small mercies. By letting memory and community do their healing work. And by continually acknowledging the presence of God.

As I wrote, we’re in a season of deep gratitude and enjoyment. That hasn’t always been what filled my days. But as I touch the story of Martin — his strength and insight — I find that my gratitude didn’t just show up now. It grew as I walked through loneliness, disappointment, and frustration, capturing each of those emotions and teaching me how to continue living within them.

We’re on a new adventure, yes — but it’s stitched together with old friendships, family milestones, and the stories of many ups and severe downs that shaped us. And Martin reminds me that in all of it, I was given the presence of the One who loves us best.

May you find gratitude in your own motion, your own transitions, your own unexpected reunions. They are the breath of life.