Gratitude in the Seventh Pew

Gratitude in the Seventh Pew

Mario Fernandes traced the rim of his coffee cup, watching steam rise into the humid Costa Rican morning. The laptop screen glowed with another rejection email—the fourteenth this month. Twenty-three years of humanitarian work, auditing relief operations from Sudan to Haiti, ensuring every donated dollar reached desperate hands. Now, at fifty-two, the aid world had moved on without him.

The back pain shot through him as he shifted in his chair—a souvenir from loading supply trucks in Syrian refugee camps. His teenage son Joash (Joshua) padded into the kitchen, earbuds in, barely glancing his way. When had he grown so tall? When had he become invisible in his own home?

"Any interviews today, Papa?" his wife Elena asked gently, refilling his cup.

Mario shook his head. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken worries about mortgage payments and college funds.

Sunday morning found Mario in his usual spot—seventh pew from the front, where he could slip out early if emotions overwhelmed him. Pastor Amos's voice carried across the small sanctuary:

"When we choose to be thankful to God, instead of cynical about life, people notice. Fight for gratefulness today, believers. Press into God, even in your struggle. Let others see you're counting on Him to show up!"

The words hit Mario like a physical blow. Gratitude? While his career crumbled and his body ached? While his children barely knew their father because he'd spent years chasing purpose in distant places?

That evening, Joash knocked on his study door, something he hadn't done in days or months.

"Papa, you seemed sad in church today," he said, curling up in the old armchair. "Mama says you're worried about work."

Mario looked at his son-really looked. When had his eyes become so perceptive? "I'm trying to figure out what comes next, mija."

"Maybe God's trying to figure that out too," he said with surprising wisdom. "Maybe He wants you here with us for a while."

Alone later, Mario opened his worn Bible to 1 Thessalonians 5:18: "Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."

Paul hadn't written those words from a palace. He'd penned them from prison cells and through beatings, understanding that gratitude wasn't about circumstances—it was about presence. God's presence.

Mario remembered Fatima, a widow in a Jordanian refugee camp who had lost everything yet sang hymns while teaching children to read in the dirt. Her gratitude hadn't denied her pain; it had transformed it into purpose.

The next morning, instead of scouring job boards, Mario wrote in a small notebook: "Joash asked about my day. Elena made my favourite mixed lentils, also nicked named as Ma & Pa’s lentils. My back pain was manageable. I could walk to the market without help."

Small mercies. Daily bread. God showing up in ordinary moments.

Three weeks later, Mario received a call from a local nonprofit needing someone to oversee their community development program. Not international, not glamorous, but meaningful. As he hung up the phone, Joash hugged him. "See, Papa? God was working the whole time. He just needed you to be still long enough to notice."

Reflection

Gratitude isn't denial-it's defiance against despair. When circumstances crush us, choosing thankfulness declares that God's faithfulness runs deeper than our temporary troubles. Like Mario learned, gratitude transforms not by changing our situation, but by changing our perspective. It reminds us that God shows up in small mercies while preparing larger purposes. Today, I'll fight for gratefulness. Let others witness that your hope rests not in perfect circumstances, but in a perfect Savior who works through broken people in seventh pews everywhere.