The first few nights in the hospital were the hardest. I had never checked myself into a hospital before, nor had I ever needed surgery or undergone a major illness. And I had expected that trend to continue, at least for the next 10 or so years. 

     But there I was that first night, on a temporary stretcher in a side room of the ER, waiting for a more permanent room. My teenage son sleeping on the bare, cold floor next to my bed; my co-pastor asleep in a hard folding chair nearby.  Every 3 hours someone came into the room to inject medicine into my veins. Every few hours I would hear from the hallway announcements with thinly veiled urgency, telling us that someone nearby was in need of life saving help. Would one of the next announcements be calling them to my room?

     It was hard to sleep in that environment. And for some reason 4:30am was my cry time. Still awake after my 3am medication wake-up, unable to fall back asleep before my 6am medication visit, I would be alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of how differently my life was turning out compared to the life I expected. Thoughts of how differently my life was turning out compared to the life I had thought I deserved. Thoughts of how little time the doctors were telling me I might have left to live. Thoughts of my mother dying four weeks after receiving the same diagnosis I was suspected to have.  Thoughts of my own father dying of cancer before having the chance to meet my children. Thoughts of all the life events I might not live to see.  Thoughts of the sign in my bedroom that invited “Grow Old With Me,” an aspiration that now seemed to mock us. Thoughts of how hard it would be, and how unfair, for my wife to be widowed and my children orphaned at such a young age.

     So yes, that was when I would cry. 

     And each time, as the bitterness and anger and grief and despair and helplessness started steering the ship of my heart, the Spirit of God would give me a gratitude adjustment.  I would remember that none of us is promised a long, healthy, and safe life. Even if I do not live to see another day, the fact that I have already lived 49 years in good health with a wonderful wife and kids that I adore is an abundant blessing that I do not deserve.  I need to be grateful for what I have been given, rather than bitter for what I might not be given.  And if I only have a few months left with my family, that's still a few months graciously given to us. It's a few months that we can spend with greater wisdom and preparation in light of the reminder of how precious that time is, time we otherwise would take for granted.

     I would think about the phrase "take for granted." We take something for granted when we assume it will always be there and that it is something we deserve. When we take our days, our health, our future for granted we lose sight of the precious gift that each of these things are to us. Gifts we did not earn. Gifts we cannot assume we will always have.  It took me just one night in the ER to learn how much I was taking for granted.  I didn't realize there was such a gap between what I deserve and what I thought I deserved.  Months ago, if asked, I would have told you that I don't deserve all the blessings in my life.  Because that's the right answer to give, that's good theology.  But it's when the things we think we deserve are taken from us that we learn what our hearts truly believe.

     And so for several nights in a row, usually at 4:30am, I fought that battle. I learned to exercise some muscles that had begun to atrophy- my gratitude muscles. The less we use a muscle, the weaker it gets. But as I was forced, night after night, to respond to bitterness with gratitude, that muscle got stronger. By the end of my week in the hospital, it was always just a short fight. Gratitude, gaining strength through repeated use, would stomp out the root of bitterness as quickly as it would spring up.

     Now, one month later, with still no certainty or clarity about the medical prognosis, I'm trying to keep my gratitude muscles in shape. The Lord may heal me and bless me with many more years than the doctors expect, and I hope and pray that is the case. But regardless, I will acknowledge each day as the gift that it is, and I will receive with a thankful heart every moment that I do not deserve.  I could become preoccupied with all that I lack and all that I fear and all that is “unfair” in my life.  Or I could remember how blessed I am, even in the midst of difficulty.

     There is a verse of Scripture that my dad would recite every Sunday morning before worship.  Perhaps that’s a habit I need to establish in my own liturgy: This is the day that the Lord has made, [I will] rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24).  Oddly enough, I'm still waking up around 4:30am most mornings, even in the comfort of my bed at home.  But when I wake, I begin by stretching my gratitude muscles to get them ready for the day ahead of me.