What If We Stopped Asking And Started Thanking

I once heard a story about a man who was struggling. The advice he received was simple: stop asking and start thanking. He sat down to write a list of everything he was grateful for. Things started to shift for him. Not only did he feel better, his daughters found their shidduchim and his other troubles slowly but surely resolved.


Gratitude lists can be humbling. I’ve tried many times to write down the things I’m thankful for. Sometimes the words spill out easily, and other times I find myself staring at the page, struggling to come up with more than a handful.


But gratitude doesn’t have to be polished or perfect. It can hold both the small joys (coffee, hot showers, hugs from the kiddies) and the deepest gifts (health, resilience, faith, connection). And even then, like Ilu Finu reminds us, if our mouths were as full of song as the sea - water, we still couldn’t capture it all.


If you’ve never written your own, I encourage you to try. Here’s one of mine for inspiration (I wrote the list and used AI to help make it more poetic):



Thank You, Hashem,

for the body You’ve given me —

a mind that remembers, a heart that feels,

eyes that see, ears that hear,

a tongue that tastes, a nose that smells,

lungs that breathe and a heart that pumps,

healthy limbs that carry me,

Energy to keep going and strength to rise up again in the face of challenge.



Thank You for relief from pain,

for modern medicine, cures from ailments, and doctors with wisdom,

for moments without aches,

for the gift of healing.



Thank You for the soul within me —

compassion, empathy, resilience, fortitude,

the courage to be vulnerable,

The sense of self, esteem, and confidence I have,

the ability to dream, to create, to draw, to write,

to cook, to host, to decorate, to influence for the good.



Thank You for laughter and tears,

for the ability to feel joy, contentment, overflowing love,

for the power to learn from mistakes,

for the wisdom to know what is real,

for faith that pulls me through

and the hugs You send in the darkest times.



Thank You for Shabbos, for Yiddishkeit,

for connection, for hope,

for Olam Habaa to work toward,

for sunlight that wakes us, warms us, brightens us.



Thank You for the blessings of family —

for a husband, for children,

for pregnancies that brought them safely into this world,

for their health, their light, their laughter, their hugs,

for full-heart moments that take my breath away.

For my parents, my sisters (and brothers), my mother-in-law, other in-laws, family.

For friends, clients who trust me, neighbors/community,

for family who babysit and love my kids like their own,

for kindness from strangers,

for people who believe in me.



Thank You for shelter —

a house, a cozy bed, fluffy pillows,

fresh laundry, AC/heating that works,

a working washing machine/dryer, dishwasher,

a rainfall shower, a jetted jacuzzi.



Thank You for food and variety of tastes—

for pizza, ice cream, the smell of toasted bagels,

the smell of baking/baked goods,

for colors on my plate and variety of flavors,

for water when thirsty,

for feeling satiated and renewed energy from every bite of food.



Thank You for nature and the wide world —

for stunning oceans and coral reefs,

for snorkeling in clear waters,

for insane sunsets and twinkling stars,

for mountains, rivers, untouched snow,

for the sound of waves on the shore,

for wonders too many to count.

For travel I’ve gotten to do — Aruba, Bahamas, Bermuda, Cancun, Puerto Rico, San Diego,

for the calm the beach brings,

for the joy of swimming, the thrill of being on open water.



Thank You for moments —

birthdays, anniversaries, simchas,

first steps, first teeth, first celebrations.

For kisses/hugs from my kids, for music that stirs the soul,

for laughter that bubbles up,

for sleep/ability to feel rested when tired,

for caffeine when I must keep going.



Thank You for the miracle of birth,

for the chance to hold a newborn,

for the miracle and opportunity of life itself.



And still,

if my mouth were as full of song as the water in the sea,

my tongue as full of praise as its countless waves,

my lips as full of thanks as the wide skies,

my eyes as radiant as the sun and moon,

my hands as outstretched as eagles’ wings,

my feet as swift as deer —

I could not thank You enough

for even one moment of Your generosity.

When Sadness Feels Too Easy: A Tisha B'Av Reflection

Years ago, the mourning of Tisha B’Av felt distant. We sat on the floor and read about how the Beis Hamikdash was destroyed, of a city in flames and a people exiled. But we didn’t really know what we were missing. It was hard to cry for something abstract, so far removed from our modern lives.

But in recent years, the grief has become palpable. The losses are no longer just about what was, they’re here, now. Tisha B’Av doesn’t feel like a reenactment anymore. 

In recent times we've had so much more to mourn. And then there are years like this one, when the world feels like it’s splitting at the seams, and despair hangs in the air like smoke. Sadness is not something we have to summon. It’s already here, pressing against our chests, burning in our throats.

It’s in the headlines we try to avoid and the images we can’t unsee. In propaganda videos that show hostages with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks, emaciated bodies that look like they’ve been pulled from the rubble of another century. We thought we’d moved on from that kind of horror. But history has a way of folding in on itself, and the echoes of the Holocaust no longer feel so far away. They feel like a warning flaring in real time.

And then, beneath the weight of national sorrow, there’s the grief no one sees. The kind that doesn’t make the news but quietly unravels your world. We each carry something: some losses loud and life-shattering, others quieter but no less harsh.

For me, this year brought a loss of foundation-shaking grief. The kind you don’t bounce back from, you crawl through it. And then, when the dust hadn’t even settled, came another blow. Smaller, maybe. But grief doesn’t work that way. Pain doesn’t keep a scoreboard. And in the shadow of the first, the second was like salt in a wound that hadn’t even begun to close. Kind of like an aftershock that still steals your breath and leaves you gasping.

Grief on top of grief. National and personal. Collective and solitary. The sorrow of what was taken, and the hollow ache of what never had the chance to exist.

Tisha B’Av invites us to sit in that darkness. Not to tidy it up. Not to explain it away. Just to sit. To cry if we can, to feel if we dare. To stop pretending everything is okay.

Because some years, mourning doesn’t need rituals. It’s already stitched into our days, in the quiet moments, the empty spaces, the ache that doesn’t go away.

But maybe there’s something sacred in that. In not having to hold it together. In being given permission,  no, the obligation, to fall apart a little. To remember that the world is broken, and that we are too.

And that the brokenness matters.

Because at its core, every loss, every wound, every shattering—personal or national—is a ripple from the same fracture. The pain of being in galus, of living in a world where Hashem feels hidden, where the Shechina has withdrawn and we’re left searching.

When we cry, we’re not just crying over what happened, we’re crying over the distance. Over how far we are from wholeness, from healing, from redemption. From G-d.

We cry because we remember that we weren’t meant to live like this.

And we cry because deep down, we still hope we won’t have to...very soon.