Thank You.

Thank You 
A prayer by Michel Quoist:

We must know how to say, “Thank You.”

Our days are filled with the gifts the Lord showers on us. If we were in the habit of taking stock of them, at night we should be like a “queen for a day,” dazzled and happy with so many blessings.

We should then be grateful to God, secure because he gives us everything, joyful because we know that every day he will renew his gifts.

Everything is a gift from God, even the smallest things, and it’s the sum of these gifts that makes a life beautiful or sad, depending on how we use them.

“All good giving and every perfect gift comes from above, from the Father of the lights of heaven. With him there is no variation, no play of passing shadows.” (James I, 17)

Thank you, Lord, thank you.
Thank you for all the gifts you have given me today,
Thank you for all I have seen, heard, received.

Thank you for the water that woke me up, the soap that smells good, the toothpaste that refreshes. Thank you for the clothes that protect me, for their color and their cut.
Thank you for the newspaper so faithfully there, for the comics (my morning smile), for the report of useful meetings, for justice done and big games won.

Thank you for the street-cleaning truck and the men who run it, for their morning shouts and all the early noises.

Thank you for my work, my tools, my efforts.

Thank you for the metal in my hands, for the whine of the steel biting into it, for the satisfied look of the supervisor and the load of finished pieces.

Thank you for Jim who lent me his file, for Danny who gave me a cigarette, for Charlie who held the door for me.

Thank you for the welcoming street that led me there, for the shop windows, for the cars, for the passers-by, for all the life that flowed swiftly between the windowed walls of the houses.

Thank you for the food that sustained me, for the glass of beer that refreshed me.

Thank you for the car that meekly took me where I wanted to be, for the gas that made it go, for the wind that caressed my face and for the trees that nodded to me on the way.

Thank you for the boy I watched playing on the sidewalk opposite, Thank you for his roller-skates and for his comical face when he fell.

Thank you for the morning greetings I received, and for all the smiles.

Thank you for the mother who welcomes me at home, for her tactful affection, for her silent presence.

Thank you for the roof that shelters me, for the lamp that lights me, for the radio that
plays, for the news, for music and singing.

Thank you for the bunch of flowers, so pretty on my table.

Thank you for the tranquil night.
Thank you for the stars.
Thank you for the silence.
Thank you for the time you have given me.
Thank you for life.
Thank you for grace.
Thank you for being there, Lord.

Thank you for listening to me, for taking me serioulsy, for gathering my gifts in your hands to offer them to your Father.

Thank you, Lord,
Thank you.

My God, I Don’t Believe

PRAYER: My God, I Don’t Believe by Michel Quoist

My God, I don’t believe
that you cause the rain to fall or the sun to shine,
to order,
on request,
so that the christian’s corn will grow
or the parish priest’s Bazaar will be a success;
that you find work for the virtuous unemployed person
but leave others to search alone
and never find a job;
that you protect from accidents
the child whose mother prays
and allow the other one to be killed,
the little one who has no mother to storm heaven;
that you give us food to eat
when we ask you for it,
and allow people to die of hunger
when we stop asking for your help.

My God, I don’t believe
that you lead us wherever you want us to go,
and that we only have to let ourselves be led:
that you send us hardship
and all we can do is to accept it;
that you offer us success
and we only have to thank you for it;
that when you make a decision,
you know what is good for us
and it is up to us to accept with resignation.

No, my God, I don’t believe
that you are a dictator,
all-powerful,
imposing your will,
for the good of your people;
that we are puppets
and that you pull the strings
whenever you feel like it;
that you make us play out a mysterious drama
in which the smallest details
have been preordained by you since the beginning of time.

No, I don’t believe it,
I no longer believe it,
because I know now, my God,
that this is not what you want,
that you couldn’t do this,
because you are LOVE,
because you are our FATHER
and because we are your children.
Forgive us, oh my God,
for having distorted your image as a loving Father.

We believed that in order to know and understand you
we should imagine you
endowed with infinite power and authority,
of the kind that we humans too often seek.
Thinking of you and speaking about you,
we have used words that are alright in themselves,
but in our closed hearts they have turned into traps
and we have translated:
omnipotence,
the will of God,
commandment,
obedience,
judgement. . .
into the language of arrogant men and women
who dream of dominion over their brothers and sisters;
and we have assigned to you:
punishment,
suffering and death,
while what you wish for us is
forgiveness,
happiness and life.
Forgive us, oh my God,
because we haven’t had the courage to believe that, through your love for us,
you have always wanted us to be free,
free not just to say yes or no
to what you have decided for us in advance,
but free to reflect,
to choose,
to act as independent beings
throughout our lives.

We haven’t had the courage to believe
that you wanted our freedom so much
that you risked sin, allowing us the freedom to sin,
that you risked evil,
suffering,
spoiled fruits of our misused freedom,
awful consequence of our rejection of your love,
that you risked losing,
in the eyes of many of your children,
your halo of infinite goodness
and the glory of your omnipotence.
We haven’t had the courage to understand
that when you wanted to reveal yourself to us definitely,
you came on this earth,
small,
weak,
naked,
and that you died on a cross,
abandoned,
powerless,
naked,
to signify to the world that your only power
is the infinite power of love,
love which frees us,
so that we can love.

I know now, my God, that you can do everything
. . . except take our freedom away from us!

Thank you, my God, for this beautiful and frightening freedom,
supreme gift of your infinite love.
We are free!
Free!
Free to harness nature, little by little,
and to use it in the service of our sisters and brothers;
free to abuse it
by exploiting it for our own advantage;
free to protect and develop life,
to fight against suffering
and sickness,
or free to squander intelligence, energy, money,
to manufacture weapons
and to kill each other;
free to give or not to give children to you;
free to organize the sharing of our wealth,
or to allow millions of human beings
to die of hunger on fertile land;
free to love
or free to hate,
free to follow you
or to reject you.

We are free. . .
but loved infinitely.

So I believe, my God,
that because you love us and because you are our Father
you have always wanted us to be happy forever,
that you always propose
but never impose.

I believe that your Spirit of love
at the center of our life,
whispers to us, faithfully, each day,
the desires of your Father.
And I believe that amid the great dove-tailing
of human freedoms,
the events that touch us, all our involvements,
those we have chosen
and those we haven’t chosen,
sources of joy or of cruel suffering,
all of these,
through us and for us,
with the help of your Spirit who is with us,
thanks to your love for us in your son,
thanks to our freedom to be open to your love,
all of these can be providential,
each time they become part of us.

Oh my great and loving God,
so humble and unobtrusive before me
that I cannot reach out and understand you
unless I become like a little child,
let me believe with all my strength
in your only omnipotence:
the omnipotence of your love.

Then, one day, in union with my sisters and brothers,
proud of having lived my life as a free human being,
supremely happy,
“Go my child, your faith has redeemed you.”


Even before the world was made, God had already chosen us to be his through our union with Christ, so that we would be holy and without fault before him.  Because of his love God has already decided that through Jesus Christ he would make us his sons – this was his pleasure and purpose.  Let us praise God for his glorious grace, for the free gift he gave us in his dear son. (Ephesians 1:4-6)

Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.  And God showed his love for us by sending his only son into the world, so that we might have life through him. This is what love is: it is not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his son to be the means by which our sins are forgiven. (1 John 4:8-10)

It's not the Falling that is the Worst.

A prayer by Michel Quoist.  He was a French Catholic priest who wrote glorious prayers that aren't so lofty and stale.  His prayers are so honest and real.

I have fallen, Lord,
Once more.

I can’t go on, I’ll never succeed.
I am ashamed, I don’t dare look at you.

And yet I struggled, Lord, for I knew you were right near me, bending over me, watching.

But temptation blew like a hurricane,
And instead of looking at you I turned my head away,
I stepped aside
While you stood, silent and sorrowful,
Like the spurned fiancè who sees his loved one carried away to the enemy.

When the wind died down as suddenly as it had arisen,
When the lightning ceased after proudly streaking the darkness,
All of a sudden I found myself alone, ashamed, disgusted, with my sin in my hands.

This sin that I selected the way a customer makes his purchase,
This sin that I have paid for and cannot return, for the shopkeeper is no longer there,
This tasteless sin,
This odorless sin,
This sin that sickens me,
That I have wanted but want no more,
That I have imagined, sought, played with, fondled, for a long time;
That I have finally embraced while turning coldly away from you,
My arms outstretched, my eyes and heart irresistibly drawn;
This sin that I have grasped and consumed with gluttony,
It’s mine now, but it possesses me as the spiderweb holds captive the gnat.

It is mine,
It sticks to me,
It flows in my veins,
It fills my heart.

It has slipped in everywhere, as darkness slips into the forest at dusk
And fills all the patches of light.

I can’t get rid of it.
 I run from it the way one tries to lose a stray dog, but it catches up with me and bounds joyfully against my legs.
Everyone must notice it.

I’m so ashamed that I feel like crawling to avoid being seen,
I’m ashamed of being seen by my friends,
I’m ashamed of being seen by you, Lord,
For you loved me, and I forgot you.
I forgot you because I was thinking of myself
And one can’t think of several persons at once.
One must choose, and I chose.

And your voice,
And your look
And your love hurt me.
They weigh me down
They weigh me down more than my sin.

Lord, don’t look at me like that,
For I am naked,
I am dirty,
I am down,
Shattered,
With no strength left.
I dare make no more promises,
I can only lie bowed before you.

[The Father's Response]
Come, son, look up.
Isn’t it mainly your vanity that is wounded?
If you loved me, you would grieve, but you would trust.
Do you think that there’s a limit to God’s love?
Do you think that for a moment I stopped loving you?
But you still rely on yourself, son. You must rely only on me.
Ask my pardon
And get up quickly.
You see, it’s not falling that is the worst,
But staying on the ground.

-Michel Quoist