Think About a Thank You

For anyone not familiar with This I Believe, it’s one of my favorite NPR series and features “the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women from all walks of life.” When our local public radio syndicate, KUER, did a call for essays, I figured I’d throw my hat in the ring.

My essay came out a bit trifling, so I was not surprised when it wasn’t chosen for broadcast (not exactly company for Helen Keller and Eleanor Roosevelt). I was, however, disappointed to find (judging from the essays that were selected) that according to KUER, deeply held personal belief can only come from experiences involving tumors. As I am thankfully lacking in such experience, my essay will have to settle for Hey Nonny publication.

Here it is, in honor of Thanksgiving.


I believe in writing thank-you notes—not that the notes themselves have transcendent power, but that the process of sending them just might.

This belief crystallized after I was married, when my husband and I set out to write the thank you’s for our wedding gifts. It was a significant task; we’d had nine showers and sent more than 300 invitations. But we parsed out two hundred and fifty of our precious wedding-gift dollars, bought some stamps, and got to work. We were slow in getting the notes sent, some seemed perfunctory (what do you say, “Of all the crock pots we received, yours was our favorite”?), and yes, we thanked Aunt DeEtte for the green camp chairs that really came from cousin Dotty instead of for the two crystal goblets she actually sent.

But something more than completing the notes happened when I sat down to write. Scanning our modest student apartment I realized everything in it, from the desk where I sat to the lamp lighting my work, had been a gift. I began to really feel grateful to my parents’ cousins and my husband’s neighbors, and not just for items dutifully purchased from our Target registry. I appreciated the friendship, faith, and support rallied around my marriage, and I realized each gift represented a small investment in its success.

My father-in-law teased that about the time we finished writing our wedding notes we’d be moving on to baby gifts. While it was two-and-a-half years before baby Scotty came along, Grandpa’s prediction felt true. I confess that in those hazy home-from-the-hospital days between lactation consultations and poopy diaper tallies, it seemed an added strain to remember who brought which Onesie.

But when the fog cleared enough that I could write some thank-you notes, I was glad I remembered. It seemed important to tell Grandma Jean her blue sleeper matched Scotty’s eyes, and to tell the neighbors their dinner of roast beef and potatoes made me feel like I was eating love. And for the first time in weeks, I could really think about what had happened. I’d been sliced in half and out had come this baby. I thought about what it meant that my husband and I had helped bring him here, who I wanted to be for him, what I wanted to teach him. The gifts I was acknowledging reminded me that the awesome responsibility of meeting his needs was not mine alone, nor was the joy at his coming.

It is hard to remember I believe any of this when I try to persuade Scotty, now four, to color thank-you notes for his recent birthday gifts. He refuses anything but a red crayon and complains, “Coloring is not one of my talents.” But I will keep trying, because I want him to experience the almost magical combination of gratitude, generosity, and realization that can come with a sincere expression of thanks.