The art of thankfulness

At a recent worship night, we paused for what seemed like a very simple prayer: to thank God for the joyful things in our week, however small or ordinary they might be. People began to name them out loud: raindrops, flowers, the leaves turning gold, a patch of sunshine that finally broke through the clouds. It wasn’t flashy or emotional, but something about that moment stayed with me.

It was the simplicity that struck me, this quiet act of noticing and saying thank you because it felt deeply grounding, like we’d stumbled into something ancient and holy.

In a world that is weary and wounded, thankfulness can so easily drift out of our thought patterns. Despair, fear, and exhaustion can take its place, and before we know it, our minds are full of everything that is broken and none of what is beautiful. Yet sometimes, all we need to do is stop for a moment, to notice and be thankful. That kind of thankfulness can become a spiritual discipline. It’s a way of turning our gaze toward God who, despite the mess of the world, remains faithful, creative, and near. Gratitude doesn’t ignore suffering, it simply insists that love and beauty still exist alongside it.

I’m reminded of how people are sometimes taught to respond during an anxiety attack: to ground themselves in the present moment by noticing what they can feel and touch, like the chair they’re sitting on, the floor beneath their feet, the texture of a sleeve. It’s an act of grounding, of re-entering the present moment.

I wonder if gratitude works in much the same way for the soul. When life feels chaotic, giving thanks grounds us. It pulls us back to what is real, to God’s good creation, to the kindness of others, and to the ordinary moments that hold our days together.

One of the small ways I’ve been practising this is through painting. Art forces me to slow down and pay attention: to the way light hits a surface, to the shape of a leaf, to the particular green of the grass. It teaches me to care for what is in front of me, to find joy in the detail, to be thankful for what I notice and becomes a form of prayer as I stop for a moment with God. 

This kind of prayer doesn’t require silence and solitude (though those help); it can happen anywhere, in the field, at the sink, behind the steering wheel. It’s the quiet habit of noticing, of remembering that the small things matter and that the presence of God often hides in them.

The psalms capture faith and thankfulness so well, Psalm 9:1-2:

“I will give thanks to you, Lord, with all my heart;

I will tell of all your wonderful deeds.

I will be glad and rejoice in you;

I will sing the praises of your name, O Most High.”

The psalmist doesn’t just feel gratitude but takes it a step further and tells of God’s wonderful deeds. Thankfulness always begins in the heart but rarely stays there. It spills over into how we speak, how we create, how we treat one another. Gratitude becomes a way of life, a testimony that reshapes how we see the world. When we give thanks, we are lifted not out of the world, but more deeply into it, awake again to the presence of God.

Perhaps that’s what thankfulness really is: the art of recognising God in the ordinary places, lifting our eyes, and pausing long enough to say thank you. What are you thankful for this week?

Jo Allen

Joint CEO, Rural Ministries