Dr. Leslie F. Church, of London, once told me of three friends of his who, on a pouring wet day, attended a little church among the Yorkshire dales. The service was to be conducted by a local preacher who had fifteen miles to walk over the hills to the church.
‘Is this man a great preacher?’ asked one of the three as they trudged down the muddy lane.
‘Oh, no,’ replied one of his companions, ‘he is no good at preaching, but he can pray; his prayers are a continuous torrent of thanksgiving!’
The visitors wondered what, on such a day, and with so scanty a congregation, could awaken the good man's gratitude. In due course the service began, as the little old man, drenched to the skin after his long walk over the moors, signaled to the people to bow their heads.
‘Almighty God,’ he cried with fervor, ‘we thank you that it is not always as bad as this!’
Dr. Church's story reminds me of an old couple who, after having enjoyed a modest tea of fish and chips, knelt at their family altar and gave thanks to God that God had ransacked sea and land to provide their evening meal. Sea—the fish! Land—the chips! There is something very beautiful about the grace of gratitude.
F.W. Boreham, Boulevards of Paradise (London: The Epworth Press, 1944), 199.
Thanks to Dr. Geoff Pound for posting this on the FWB Facebook page.
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