I delivered this sermon on March 16, 2025 at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Palo Alto, California. The sermon integrates my writings on gratitude up until that point and expands upon them in important ways. The video and text are below—enjoy! (The video will start at the beginning of my sermon.)
A little more than one year ago, my mother gave me this little blank book as a gift, to use as a “gratitude journal.”
She’d heard a sermon here at UUCPA—preached by our then-Sabbatical Minister, Rev. Peter Farriday—about the importance of gratitude as a spiritual practice. Inspired, she bought me the journal and passed it along.
The gift was well-timed.
I’d already begun to explore gratitude as part of my journey with Long COVID. I’ve been living with Long COVID for almost two years now. During that time, my symptoms have ranged among intense brain fog, exhaustion and pain following exertion, headaches, joint pain, tingling heat in my face and arms, and, nowadays, chronic fatigue. My days are a careful rhythm of activity and rest.
As part of caring for myself alongside chronic illness, I’d begun meditating on gratitude for my bodily discomfort.
I’ll say that again: gratitude for my bodily discomfort.
That might strike you as nonsensical. To be clear: I do not enjoy hurting. But fighting with pain, resisting it, and panicking over it, I’d learned, only made it worse. The best I could do was acknowledge my body’s limits, honor what those limits were asking of me, and provide conditions for those limits to change over time.
I’d learned to welcome my physical discomfort as a messenger. For example, if my head was aching, I would lie down to meditate and mentally repeat, slowly, these words:
Thank you, headache, reminding me: I need to rest.
Gradually, the headache would release—not because I’d asserted control over it, but because its call to rest had been heard and honored.
So, when my mom gave me this little blank book, I was primed to try gratitude journaling, and I’ve been at it regularly ever since.
Most nights before bed, I write down the date and several things from that day that I’m grateful for. Usually, I write down three things, but the number can vary. At first, doing this was simply a nice part of my bedtime routine. It settled my thoughts and any lingering anxieties from the day. But the journal quickly took on a bigger role in my life.
I began integrating my gratitude journal into my morning meditation routine. Each morning, I would re-read several pages from my journal, and the memories contained therein became objects of reflection for my meditation. In this way, I began each day in fuller knowledge of my connection with others, and this knowledge stabilized me when feelings of frustration or isolation arose. I was not alone, and knowing this fundamental truth was essential when my Long COVID symptoms flared up, or when I would read the news and worry about the many crises we face as citizens.
Over time, this coordinated practice of journaling and meditating also began to transform my perception of events in my daily life—especially my life as a dad with a chronic illness.
For example, one of my kids is very high energy and does most things at peak intensity. At first, when I was weary with Long COVID fatigue and anxious about over-extension, my kid’s energy sometimes felt like a tornado storming through the house. In those raw moments, when my head hurt and I could not keep up, I felt an urge to treat my kid’s energy as a problem, to push it away and protect myself, as if hoarding my own health as a scarce resource.
But when I turned to my gratitude journal at the end of such days, I recalled that same incredible energy differently. I felt awe and appreciation for my kid’s irrepressible spark and imagination. I remembered that I cherish this aspect of my kid’s personality and the unexpected joys that it brings, even as it challenges me in my fatigued moments. This energy is a gift.
Writing all of this down before bed, and meditating on it the next morning, in turn, primed me to remember these insights when similarly-energetic situations arose during the day. I found myself, even in moments of personal fatigue, wanting to help my kid channel that energy constructively and creatively, curious about what it might bring, rather than push it away. I remembered the kind of dad I wanted to be: a dad who accepts and cultivates the gifts that his family brings to his life, and who is called to be a gift to his family in turn.
As my journal filled with memories, and as I revisited them in meditation, I began to discern patterns across my journal’s many entries. I noticed that my journal was full of events like this:
I felt awe at feeling a part of something larger than myself, whether in a natural setting or as part of a social group.
Someone helped me in a moment of need.
I helped someone else, taking the risk to extend my hand, whether individually or on an organized scale.
The steadfast presence of another person—whether a family member, a friend, an acquaintance, a care provider, or a stranger—reminded me: I am worthy of love.
An institution or a business provided a safe and welcoming place for me and my loved ones to grow and flourish, whether our favorite coffee shop, our school, this church, a doctor’s office, or some other place.
I rested when I needed to rest, instead of grinding onward and wearing myself down.
I, or someone I care about, felt seen, heard, and acknowledged, or took a risk toward a cherished goal.
That’s an incredible terrain. In seeing this terrain as a whole, I began to understand that my journal is much more than a catalog of memories and affections. My gratitude journal is a spiritual map of my relationships, of my belonging in the world.
My journal maps the people and places and institutions through which I matter—toward which I give of myself, and from which I receive. It maps the many ways I am vulnerable to the action and inaction of other people and the world, necessarily and inescapably. And it maps the scope of my responsibility to welcome, care, tend, nourish, strengthen, and safeguard from harm.
When I write something down in my gratitude journal, I acknowledge, implicitly, my fundamental interdependence with that person, place, or practice. Each entry is a signal that this or that relationship calls me into living and infuses my life with an energy and a resonance I cannot name, but for which I can say, “thank you.”
This map of my belonging calls me toward the man I want to be: a man who grows by loving and being loved, caring and being cared for, and remembering that others have the same value and dignity as myself. When I recall this map in its richness, my body relaxes and settles. I feel grounded, spacious, and resonant. My values and my best intentions come to the fore of my experience and call me onward. I am at home.
In gratitude, I remember that my flourishing is thoroughly and inescapably entwined with the well-being of others. I remember that I can never in good faith affirm my own life by subjugating, dominating, or denying the value, dignity, and hopes of others. Rather, I am called to connect, to understand, to help foster the flourishing of others on their meaningful terms, which are as vital and important as my own. And when I fall short of this in fear or ignorance—which, being only one person in a complicated world, I inevitably will—gratitude calls me back to the truth of my interdependence and challenges me to open myself further, knowing I’ve never regretted taking the risk to be curious.
Moreover, I remember that I cannot access or express gratitude without also accepting and acknowledging my own vulnerability, my finitude, the limits of my control. There is simply no way to be nourished by human connection without also risking pain and disappointment, without acknowledging the limits and dependencies of the self. That’s because gratitude springs from the meeting of human needs, whether for being part of something larger, for accompaniment and care, or for the simple knowledge of being essential in the lives of others. Through our vulnerability, we matter.
So, in these painful times of crisis upon crisis, do not be lulled into the lie that you are isolated, that you do not matter, that your good is best served by keeping your head down and simply going along.
Do not be bullied into believing that you must control and dominate to be secure; that your heart should remain contracted and rigid, anxious and jealous of positional power, instead of open, spacious, and welcoming.
Do not be paralyzed by the thought, "Who will be there for me?"
Think of those for whom you are grateful, dwell in the resonant truth of that connection, and be there for them.
Be awed by the network of relationships and causes that makes your life possible—the concrete truth of your interdependence, your irreplaceability—and take responsibility for your role in nourishing those relationships and those causes.
This is who you are.
In closing, I invite you again to close your eyes. Feel your feet on the floor, and the chair holding you up. Take a deep breath—in, out—then another.
Think of someone for whom you are grateful. Perhaps this person helped you in a vulnerable moment. Perhaps they are a steady presence that makes your life easier, more navigable, more flush with possibility. Perhaps they make you laugh. Envision this person and the concrete acts that call forth your gratitude.
You are now responsible for what you do with this image, with this precious knowledge of your interdependence. To whom will you reach out? Who and what will you protect? Whose good is bound up with yours?
By allowing this knowledge to change us and call us into caring action, we build a world.
Please open your eyes.
In gratitude—amen, ashe, and blessed be.