Gratitude

     I dreamt I went to heaven.

     An angel greeted me upon arrival, led me into a colossal sized structure near the gateway.  We walked side-by-side inside the vast edifice, a depository awash with angels.   On the wall in the entry area was a map detailing the layout of the structure.  Much of the building was sealed off, visitors confined to a long corridor leading to an array of rooms.  The angel led me down the corridor, pausing in front of the first room.

     "This is the receiving department.  All prayer petitions are collected here."

     The angel directed me through the doorway.  The room was immense, buzzing with activity, millions of angels sorting petitions written on voluminous amounts of paper arriving from all over the world.  Nothing was out of sorts.  No request left unattended.  I was astounded by the flow and function in the room, the great detail and care given to each sheet of paper.

     "No request goes unanswered," the angel said as he ushered me out of the room.

     We proceeded forward, moving down the long corridor.  Soon we entered another massive room.  The angel said to me, "This is the Distribution Department.  Here is where all prayer requests are processed.  The miracles, blessings, answers to prayer that people seek are acted upon here, then delivered to the recipients." I glanced around, noticed how busy the room was, angels working hard to meet every petition. Along the far wall sat mountains of packages, uncountable, all tightly bundled, ready to be delivered to Earth.  As soon as one mountain vanished, another emerged.

     "Every prayer is heard and delivered in a timely fashion," the angel said.

     We left the room, and pressed forward down the corridor, reaching yet another large room.  To my surprise, only one angel was at work, and he was hardly busy.  He sat there, idle, doing nothing.  I asked my guide about the purpose of this room. "This is the Acknowledgement Department," he said, somewhat embarrassed.

     "Why is there no activity here?" I asked, dumbfounded. 

     "So sad," the angel sighed, "After people receive the answers they've sought, very few respond with thankfulness.  Even fewer acknowledge or exhibit any gratitude for the many blessings that envelop their lives."

     This puzzled me, so I asked the angel another question.

     "How does one acknowledge God's blessings?"

     "Simple," the angel answered, "Just by saying 'Thank You, Lord.'"

     "What blessings should people acknowledge?"

     He paused for a moment, thinking, then answered, "All of them, of course."  He asked me to follow him to the end of the corridor.  We moved to a large glass wall that offered a panoramic view of Earth.  I stared in awe, in wonder, seeing for the first time how small Earth was in contrast to God's vast creation.  Even the universe I had come to know appeared like a grain of sand on a never-ending beach.  The vastness, the splendor, the detail of all that God had created jolted my senses with a newfound perspective, a viewpoint that made even the greatest miracle on earth appear to be a simple, childlike act.

     The angel tapped me. "Look closely at the Earth's radiance."

     I followed his instruction, and noticed a disparity in brightness.  Some areas of the surface emitted great light, others were murky and dim, even others, dark, a flicker here or there.

     "Do you notice the imbalance?"  The angel asked.

     "I do.  What does the lighting represent?"

     "Blessings.  The brighter the light, the greater the blessing in that area."

     I observed continents familiar to me were awash in light, bright, vivid, dazzling.  Other continents appeared shadowy, points of light cast about with no structured logic, a considerable distance between beams.  As I contemplated the great disparity, the angel nudged me, said it was time to make our way back.  Walking down the corridor he expounded on the light.

     "If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead, and a place to sleep, you're richer than 75% of the world's population. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, spare change in a dish, you're among the top 8% of the wealthiest people in the world."

     I listened quietly, absorbing the truth of his words.  He continued.

     "If you woke up this morning in a land with adequate healthcare, pharmacies, a way to battle your infirmities, you're more blessed than four billion people worldwide.  If you've never experienced the fear of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pangs of starvation, you're ahead of 700 million people in the world.  If you can attend church without the fear of harassment, arrest, torture or death, you're more blessed than three billion people on earth."

     He grew quiet as we approached the entrance to the building.  He stood for a minute pondering, then asked two questions.  "Why is it that people rarely think about their blessings when they're surrounded by all that light?"  I had no answer.  He followed with his second question. "Do you know how to read?"

     "Of course, I know how to read," I said.

     "How about writing, do you know how to write?"

     "Absolutely."

     "Then write down this experience. Remind yourself and all those who can read and write to learn to give thanks.  Over two billion people on the earth live in areas where they have not been afforded the opportunity to learn how to read or write."

     I was stunned by his statement.  Then confused by his next.

     "Thankfulness leads to wholeness, the perfection of blessing that most never consider or receive."

     He guided me into a small room leading to the exit.  Before me was a large screen and one chair.  He instructed me to sit down.  He dimmed the lights.  The word "History" appeared on the screen, then faded.  A line appeared, splitting the screen in two halves. More words appeared. In the left panel, "What Was," the right panel, "What Was Planned."  Then a scene of history played in the left half, the "What Was" portion.

     Ten lepers stood at a distance as a man approached.  Their limbs were deformed, their skin hideous, revolting.  Shouts came from the ten. "Jesus, have mercy on us."  Jesus spoke, motioned with his hands, "Go show yourselves to the priest."

     The ten said nothing.  They turned and walked, headed for the town to find the priest.  Crowds along the dusty road dispersed.  People ran for cover, hiding behind trees, shrubs, sprinting for fields, everyone wanting to avoid contact with the dreadful, contagious disease.  The lepers pushed forward, their leprosy clearing the path of humanity.  Suddenly, one by one, the skin on their bodies changed, becoming new, the leprosy vanishing instantly.  Yet, the deformed limbs remained, covered now in perfect skin.

     The ten jumped for joy, celebrating, no longer outcasts.  They ran, hobbling toward the city, overcome by the miracle they had received.  One stopped, left the pack, returned to Jesus, fell to the ground in front of him, thanking him for his healing. 

     Jesus asked him a series of questions. "Didn't I heal ten men?  Where are the other nine?  Has no one returned to give God glory except this foreigner?"

     Jesus asked the man to stand, told him, "Your faith has made you whole."  As Jesus spoke, the man's deformed limbs became whole.  There was no hint, no physical sign that he had ever been stricken with leprosy.

     The left side of the screen went black as the right side lit up, the words "What Was Planned" reappearing.

     I watched the same scene being replayed, only this time all ten lepers returned, and all their limbs were made whole. The movie sped forward in high speed.  Raced through the years, slowing only to show the ten at various stages in life, happy, whole, fully restored, returned to a life of normalcy, living in the folds of blessing.  There was laughter and joy, children and grandchildren.  Lives that were made complete.  Then the movie suddenly reversed, jumped to the other side of the screen, the words "What Was" reappearing.  Now only one leper's limbs were whole.  The others were healed of their leprosy, but the wholeness of their limbs was not found.  Neither was the joy, the laughter, the children and grandchildren.  The healing felt incomplete.  Though cured of the disease, their lives were robbed of a greater blessing, a blessing planned, awaiting them, if only they had been thankful.

     The movie stopped.  Words appeared on the screen.

     Be grateful, in all things, greater blessing awaits, wholeness, the perfection of blessing unfolding in a life.