My memories of July 4th are mostly darkness, interrupted by bursts of lightning and confusion. Seven of us fought to keep the water at bay until it was clear we needed to abandon our home for higher ground. We found refuge nearby: a group of waterlogged refugees huddled together in a screened-in porch, waiting for daybreak.
Dawn was strange after all that darkness and confusion. The day started gray and shadowy, wet and muddy like the ground, the floors, the cars, and everything else. People wandered here and there, some urgently seeking lost loved ones, while others picked slowly through what once was. As the skies cleared, the birds began to sing. But things were not the same.
I’ve mostly escaped tragedy in my life. Sadness, a broken heart, lost friendships—I’ve had many of life’s average disappointments. But not tragedy, not directly. It had always seemed easy to be grateful, thankful, even optimistic.
How strange, then, to stand in my front yard, in the middle of a disaster, and to relish blue skies and birdsong. Strange to fall asleep that night, brokenhearted and thankful, in a generous neighbor’s warm bed next to my wife.
Reckoning With Circumstance
We were fine. My wife, my son, our moms, my sister and niece, and even our dogs. We got out when others didn’t. This is a hard reckoning. Survivor’s guilt is hard to wear, as I shared in a Facebook post a few days after the flood.
I'm a pastor, so I'm supposed to say that “God was watching over us” and that “God protected me and my family.” But how in the world could I believe that while dozens of parents mourned their innocent girls at a Christian camp just a mile away? How could I say it? How could I think it? Why would God protect us and not them? So I just presented the facts of our experience, and I covered my pastor bases with innocuous words like "grateful" and "thankful," while avoiding the deeper questions.
Months later, those words—"grateful” and “thankful”—strike me differently. They’re deeper, more shaded and nuanced. True gratitude exists in the context of the messy and unpredictable reality of life in a broken world. Thankfulness isn’t innocuous. It is a radical and revolutionary response to a world full of beauty and sadness.
“Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus,” wrote the apostle Paul (I Thessalonians 5:16-18 NIV). This was no pie-in-the-sky promise that life would go easily if the Thessalonians were more prayerful and grateful. Paul knew that real gratitude can exist in the darkest of places. Paul was calling the Thessalonians—and us—to practices that would cultivate a thankfulness that transcends circumstance.
Gratitude Is a Garden
My wife and I recently discussed thankfulness in the midst of pain. As a palliative care doctor, she sees more than her share of suffering. She also carries the loss of our beautiful retreat in Hunt, our “Casita del Rio.”
She hurts intensely for what was lost—the towering Cypress trees, the turtles, our quiet evening kayak trips, and all the loss of life. She wonders if she can return to the place that brought her so much peace and joy. She wonders if it is safe, and if it will ever be the same. And yet we are grateful, both for the memories of what was and the promise of what might be. We are making plans to rebuild, and in doing so, we are planting seeds of hope for the future.
My capacity for gratitude is greater now than it has ever been. I am so thankful for the first responders who airlifted our moms and dropped water and food; for volunteers who worked tirelessly to help strangers dig out and rebuild; for our friends who have loved on us, and our church, which rallied to bring hope to so many families.
That’s the funny thing about gratitude. Like light, it is most evident and most striking when things are dark. Thankfulness is felt most intensely amid struggle.
I was beginning to get a sense of that in the days after July 4. What I shared in a second Facebook post still rings true:
“But God is starting to speak to my broken and confused heart. It started with my friend Jeremy, who reminded us of passages in Romans about suffering, including this verse: ‘We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.’ (Romans 8:22 NIV) He reminded me that the pain and tragedy in our world is not God's original design but an outgrowth of a bigger and more profound brokenness. A brokenness that we all inevitably encounter—maybe through a diagnosis, a divorce, a car wreck, or a flash flood. We struggle to make sense of it, so we blame God, ourselves, or others.
Then Jenna Bishop preached a message from Habakkuk about seasons of suffering and hardship. Jenna reminded us that God is close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18) and that he grieves with us. ‘He breaks over this broken world too because it wasn't his original plan,’ she said. We have a God who weeps with those who lost loved ones in the flood, and with so many others (me included) who experienced this tragedy. He comes close to comfort us in ways we often fail to see.
I can't make sense of the why—how one of the most beautiful expressions of God's creation, our beloved Guadalupe River, could host such tragedy. That haunts me. But I CAN begin to attest to the truth of His ‘coming close to the brokenhearted.’ He comforts through the messages from friends, from the kindness of strangers, and in ways unmistakable if I pay attention.
The water DID miraculously drop that night. We found shelter and safe passage. A neighbor took us in. Others fed us. First responders and volunteers sacrificed so much. People gave and prayed and mourned together.
None of this negates the loss or the brokenness. It doesn't help this make any sense. I’m still sad and scared and mad. I am lamenting, and that's okay. Because I know I'm not alone. I know again—I remember—that the savior I put my faith in 28 years ago is still faithful to all of his promises. So tonight, I can say what I couldn't say last night. ‘Thank you, Jesus!’”
"But then I recall all you have done, O Lord. I remember your wonderful deeds of long ago." (Psalm 77:11 NLT)
That’s the funny thing about gratitude. Like light, it is most evident and most striking when things are dark. Thankfulness is felt most intensely amid struggle.