In everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 1 Thessalonians 5:18

Years ago, I remember listening to Amy Grant’s newly released Christmas album (still one of my favorites and one to which I can sing all the lyrics of every song!) and being especially taken with “Grown Up Christmas List.” As I prepare for Thanksgiving this year, I’m taking stock and writing a grown-up gratitude wish list with a little help from some friends.

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh 

Like Piglet, I may have a Very Small Heart—being just one individual in a world of 8.2 billion—but as I’ve grown up, I’ve marveled at how I can hold a rather large amount of Gratitude. It’s the mystery of a tiny, teacup heart that never overflows, that defies sense with its bottomless wonder. This is the first thing on my grown-up gratitude wish list: that we know the magic of paradox, embracing how big and generous small can be.

“I thank God for my handicaps. For through them, I have found myself, my work and my God.” –Helen Keller 

I’m not often grateful enough for my handicaps. And though I’ve been blessed with good sight and good health, I’ve been handicapped by other things, namely, insecurity and anxiety that have been crippling at times. I’ve been handicapped by a consuming inwardness, a paralyzing compulsion for self-reflection. And self-flagellation. But like Keller, I’ve grown to see how this handicap has led me to deeper faith, deeper peace, and deeper joy. In Gravity and Grace, French philosopher and activist Simone Weil wrote, “Love of God is pure when joy and suffering inspire an equal degree of gratitude.” I’ve been learning to lean into this, to be grateful—in equal measure—for joy and suffering, strength and weakness. So here’s the second thing on my grown-up gratitude wish-list: that we give thanks for our handicaps—seen and unseen—trusting they will give more than they will take from us.

“The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude.” ― Thornton Wilder

As I was walking this morning, I began thinking about my mom’s famous frozen cherry salad, the Thanksgiving tradition she faithfully made with and without nuts, for our family was nearly equally divided in their love or hate for walnuts. In the years since my parents’ deaths, I’ve grieved, sometimes more profoundly and deeply than I might’ve imagined. But I’ve always been grateful, immensely grateful, for their lives. Increasingly, I’m overwhelmed with the power of this gratitude, how its mercies are new every morning. I walk and remember, giving thanks for things as extraordinary as their legacy and as ordinary as frozen cherry salad. The third thing on my grown-up gratitude wish-list is this: that we remember to pay the highest tribute to those we’ve lost through gratitude.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
—e. e. cummings

One morning last week, the fog was heavy enough as I walked that I didn’t see the doe at the water’s edge until she crashed through the cattails and over the pond dam into the timber, her white tail flying into the amazing day. I’m thankful for this doe and for the muskrat who leaves a deep wake that fans across the eastern pond. I’m thankful for hedgeballs the size of fists that lay strewn across my path, for the lime green mystery of them. I’m thankful for the smell of earth and the sound of owls and coyotes. I’m thankful for each dawn that gilds the hills and for the silver-blue berries of cedars. I’m so grateful for this nature preserve, for its leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky. I’m grateful for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes. In her 1981 novel, Tar Baby, Toni Morrison writes: “At some point in life, the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough.” This is my fourth wish: that the world’s beauty becomes enough for us and that we respond to it with a resounding yes.

“A desire to kneel down sometimes pulses through my body, or rather it is as if my body has been meant and made for the act of kneeling. Sometimes, in moments of deep gratitude, kneeling down becomes an overwhelming urge, head deeply bowed, hands before my face.” —Etty Hillesum

Years ago, as I stood singing beside a friend during worship, I felt an overwhelming and unmistakable urge to lie prostrate upon the altar. After the service, my friend confessed he’d felt the same urge. Neither of us acted, but I’ve never forgotten the sense that my body had been meant for this, that my spirit had been ready when my will was not. When I recall this moment, I see how it was born from deep gratitude. I understand the inclination to fall before God as a natural and appropriate response. And I regret not giving in to it. I regret standing stiffly in the pew as I denied the Spirit’s prompting, too concerned about what others might think. That Etty Hillesum, a Dutch Jewish author, should feel such gratitude in the face of her impending death at Auschwitz humbles me. That she could kneel before God, in gratitude and devotion, both shames and inspires me. Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor, confessed that “[f]or me, every hour is grace. And I feel gratitude in my heart each time I can meet someone and look at his or her smile.” This is my fifth wish: that in gratitude, we kneel more, for every hour is grace, and embracing this is our first and best response.

“I think that real friendship always makes us feel such sweet gratitude, because the world almost always seems like a very hard desert, and the flowers that grow there seem to grow against such high odds.”
― Stephen King 

The world can, indeed, seem like a very hard desert. We’ve all felt its pricks and pokes. We’ve thirsted and wandered through its dark nights of the soul. But friends who share our joys and bear our suffering are flowers that grow . . . against such high odds. In seasons of drought, they walk with us, and in seasons of bounty, they rejoice with us. I’m profoundly indebted to my friends—past and present—and regard them with such sweet gratitude. My life has been much richer because of them. They’ve shaped and challenged me, encouraged and celebrated me. So, here is my sixth wish: that in the hard deserts of our lives, we nuture friendships that blossom against such high odds.

“In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it’s wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices.” —Elizabeth Gilbert

It’s safe to say that I could never pay back all the people who’ve sustained my life. It’s better I surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity, better I just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as I can. This would be but a small measure of my gratitude, for how could I measure the worth of such sustenance? How could I not be astonished by human generosity? How could I not thank God for the many ways he works through humans, the times when I’m pulled up and forward by beneficent hands? Years ago, when my son, Quinn, was a baby, I strapped him to my chest in a newly purchased baby carrier and headed down the aisles at Target, feeling pleased and proud that I’d discovered a way to shop with two free hands. Until he began to fuss, and I couldn’t extract him from the carrier, which had become a torture chamber—for him and for me. As I stood in the shampoo aisle, sweating and near tears, an elderly gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and asked if he might help. Before I could even respond, he lifted Quinn up and out of the carrier with the skill of a seasoned pro and the patience of a saint. I was gobsmacked and couldn’t thank him enough. As he grabbed a bottle of Head and Shoulders from the shelf, he smiled and said, “You’re very welcome, my dear.” I didn’t know this man and never saw him again. But in my book of human generosity, he has a page of his own. And herein lies my seventh wish: that when we’re tempted to surrender to darkness and chaos, we remember the scope of human generosity and give thanks.

In everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. 1 Thessalonians 5:18

So, I’ll leave you with the Apostle Paul who says it succinctly and best: In everything give thanks. This is a tall order. Many of us may have scoffed at those bumper sticker slogans that admonish us to develop “an attitude of gratitude.” As we’re running late for work, driving distractedly, and dribbling coffee on our laps, we may have thought, “Not grateful today. Maybe tomorrow.” We may doubt those who give thanks for everything and in every situation, refusing to believe the sincerity of their gratitude. And yet, most of us know individuals who are genuinely grateful, despite—and perhaps because of—the circumstances. To be in their presence is to stand on hallowed ground. Trappist monk and writer, Thomas Merton, claims that “[g]ratitude takes nothing for granted, is never unresponsive, is constantly awakening to new wonder.” So, this is my last grown-up gratitude wish: that we actively grow our gratitude, strengthening it through practice, grounding it in faith, and refining it with wonder.

Wishing you and your families a Happy Thanksgiving.

In gratitude, Shannon

Stourhead, Temple of Apollo, near Mere, Wiltshire

The meaning of a folly is that of a decorative structure that has no practical purpose. It is usually built for purely aesthetic reasons and is often designed to look like a ruined or unfinished building. Follies can take many different forms, from towers and temples to grottos and bridges. They are typically made from a range of materials, including stone, brick, and wood, and are often decorated with carvings, statues, and other ornamental details. —Anglotopia

When architects Louis Sullivan and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe made their architectural statements, “Form follows function” and “Less is more,” they clearly weren’t thinking about follies, which are less about form and function and more about beauty and wonder. For a folly, less is not more; more is more—more whimsy, more history, more ornamentation, more grandeur. In the UK, 1700 of these fantastical structures “built purely for aesthetic reasons” adorn the hillsides, lakes, and gardens of great estates. Architect Daniel Libeskind speaks to the heart of a folly: “Architecture is not based on concrete and steel, and the elements of the soil. It’s based on wonder.”

I love architecture. In Europe, I stood gawking at buildings and was frequently separated from my tour group. I couldn’t help it. At every turn, there was another architectural splendor. In Florence, as I stood at the foot of the Duomo, I might’ve died and gone to heaven right there. It was that magnificent. When I first read about follies in a historical novel years ago, I was smitten with these small structures with such big souls. I’d always had a special love for playhouses and “she sheds,” and follies are their grand dames. What they may lack in size, they more than make up for in extravagance and artistry.

We can trace the concept of pleasure pavilions in gardens back to ancient Greece, but it was the British landscape movement of the 18th century that gave birth to follies. The sight of a folly would make “the pulse quicken as a distant tower comes into view at the end of an avenue,” wrote the late architectural historian Gervase Jackson-Stops. In “Follies in the English Landscape” (Britain Express), we learn that the most common types of follies are “belvederes, grottos, obelisks, pagodas, pavilions, towers, pyramids, ruins, arches, fishing pavilions, bridges, hermitages, cascades, and statues.” Although the folly craze began to dwindle at the end of the 18th century, many contend that it never entirely died out, arguing that lawn ornaments, the ever-popular garden gnomes or pink flamingos, could be considered small-scale follies. In the past, while some follies were used as hunting towers and lookouts, today, they’re alive and well, serving as wedding venues, movie locations, and tourist sites.

It may seem insensitive and untimely to write of follies in a time of scarcity and uncertainty. When I consider the excesses of Versailles and its subsequent fate, I understand why any talk of follies—then and now—may seem woefully tone deaf. Who can think of turrets and towers when a pound of hamburger is $7, and the government remains shut down? A folly is a symbol of desire, not need. It trumpets its extravagance. Nestled throughout the estates of great manor houses, a folly is decadent frosting on an already sumptuous cake.

And yet, some follies were constructed as a response to hard times. During the Great Famine of 1845, the Irish government offered economic relief by employing people to build follies. In our own country, the WPA (Works Progress Administration) did much the same by putting people back to work during the Depression. The Rock Garden in Harmon Park (Kearney, Nebraska) was built through a WPA project, approved on September 4, 1936. The Rock Garden remains one of my favorite places in the world. It’s a magical labyrinth of stone paths and waterfalls, ponds laden with lily pads, and in the center, a lighthouse whose staircase winds around its exterior to open onto a balcony from which you can see the garden below. This lighthouse is a folly, a miniature replica of the real deal. And though you can’t enter it from below (the door off the path is always padlocked), as children, we happily climbed the stairs to look out over our kingdom below. The lighthouse’s whimsy fueled our imaginations, and its beauty stirred our hearts. Each time I return to the Rock Garden and climb the lighthouse, I feel the same assurance that the world will right itself and its beauty will sustain us. Perhaps this is the folly’s greatest gift: to throw us a dazzling lifeline as we struggle to keep our heads afloat, to offer us a bonbon as we struggle to put a chicken in our pot.

The world is a difficult place, and follies won’t cure what ails us. But the world is a better place with follies in it. It’s a better place when, if even for a moment, we can be transported by something so fanciful it takes our breath away.