Small Thanks

Who taught us to say

thank you to thunder?

Did the first rain pause,

waiting for applause?

Strange, how we shape God

in our own awkward image –

as if the Creator of oceans

needs our social graces,

as if the Architect of galaxies

sits waiting for acknowledgment

like a forgotten aunt at Christmas.

Do we think Jesus keeps a ledger

of every whispered grace,

every desperate prayer?

"Dear child, you forgot to thank me

for Tuesday's sunset,

though I painted it especially bright."

What vanity is this,

to imagine divinity

requires our courtesy?

As if love needs

validation,

as if light needs

permission to shine,

as if breath needs

gratitude to fill lungs.

Perhaps our "thank you"s

are really mirrors –

reflecting not His need,

but our own small hearts

trying to comprehend

what it means to receive

without earning,

to be loved

without reason,

to be forgiven

without asking.

Strange creatures we are,

teaching manners

to the wind.