Over the past year, I’ve found myself expressing gratitude in a new way — through writing. More specifically, through poems.
Most Sundays, after church, I write a short reflective poem in response to the sermon. I started doing this quietly, almost experimentally, as a way of thinking more deeply about the message that I heard. Not to summarise their points, but to capture the heartbeat of what was said — the moment of connection, the gentle conviction, the glimpse of God. But it then became a way of encouraging the preacher. I would send it off later that day, so that they might know how their message impressed itself upon me. But it’s become something I now do with a sense of intention. It’s my way of saying thank you — for the time, the prayer, the courage it takes to preach.
Late last year, I wrote another kind of poem — this time for our pastoral staff. I’d been reflecting on the qualities each person brings to the team: the steadiness, the insight, the warmth, the quiet resilience. I wanted to name those things, to honour them. So I wrote a poem that highlighted the strengths I see in them. One staff member said it made her want to cry. Another showed it to her parents. It reminded me how rarely we pause to say: I see what you bring, and I’m grateful.
And then, for my parents’ 70th wedding anniversary, I wrote something again. Not because I had the perfect words, but because I couldn’t let the moment pass without marking it. A poem, shaped around their story, became a way of saying thank you for the love that shaped our family and succeeding generations.
Writing has always been part of how I think. But this past year, it’s become a way I give thanks. A way I attend to the people around me — not with grand speeches, but with small offerings of language. Sometimes it’s a poem. Sometimes it’s a story. Sometimes just a line or a phrase. But behind each one is the same impulse:
I noticed. I remember. I’m grateful.
The Afterword 
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