Gratitude

There once lived a poor wise Man who built his home in a valley by the side of a mountain. He lived alone for many years, enduring fair climate and foul, pestilence and plenty. With diligence and patience, he brought forth harvests from the once-barren soil. He sustained himself with the fruits of his garden and the meat from his flock. He was thankful for his fortune, proclaiming his gratitude each day. 

One day, he met a beautiful woman who became his wife, and he was thankful for her. He loved her kindness and virtue, and cared for her above all else. Every day he was grateful. 

In time, the Man’s wife bore children. He treasured his sons and daughters, and raised them with love. They lived together in peace and health for many years. Each day he was grateful, and gave thanks. 

One day, a terrible plague came over the land and took the Man’s wife and children. He wept and mourned for them, and grieved for many years. After a long time, when he had no more tears to shed, he again became grateful, remembering the brief happiness he and his family had enjoyed. He gave thanks, recalling the great multitudes who have never known such joy. He returned to his planting and herding, and again was thankful each day. 

Then one day a demon, disguised as an angel, appeared to him and said—

“Man, do you not know that you have been promised far greater happiness than has been allotted to you? Do you not know that it is your right to claim whatever happiness you desire? You have such narrow vision, only giving thanks for whatever puny morsel fate tosses your way, but never demanding the remainder that is your due, and had been withheld from you? You, Man, have been cheated.”

The Man listened to the demon’s words. Believing he was an angel who spoke the truth, he was deceived. His grief was renewed, and resentment grew in his heart. Forgetting what had come before, he began to curse the fruits of his garden and the meat of his flock. He cursed the land. He cursed the mortality of his wife and children. He cursed his birth, and rose up in indignation.

“Why do I not have a larger hut, more luxuriant food? Why not more wives to satisfy my desires, and children to carry on my line?” he demanded. “Why have I, above all, been deprived of my birthright? Why has fate cheated me so?”

Clinging to his resentment, the Man became a recluse, nurturing his spite against the world. His prophecies became apocalyptic; doom dripped from his lips. Hearing of his melancholic wisdom, kings from lands near and far sought his counsel, sent him riches, offers of royal title, and even their daughters’ hands in marriage, but he refused, insistent that the debt owed to him must first be repaid. In time, the Man forgot the world, and he was forgotten in turn. After many years, he lay sick and dying, and despaired of life. He cursed God, and the human race, for his wretched lot. He died alone, save one companion who remained dutifully by his side: the demon, cloaked in angel’s garbs, sat by his deathbed and smiled.

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If one should give me a dish of sand, and tell me there were particles of iron in it, I might look for them with my clumsy fingers, and be unable to detect them; but let me take a magnet and sweep through it, and how would it draw to itself the almost invisible particles by the mere power of attraction. The unthankful heart, like my finger in the sand, discovers no mercies; but let the thankful heart sweep through the day, and as the magnet finds the iron, so it will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings.¹

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1. Henry Ward Beecher