FAITH: Finding gratitude in an icy, heavy world

Winter has a way of telling the truth. 

It strips things down. It slows us. It exposes what is fragile, what is broken, and what we too often try to outrun the rest of the year. When roads glaze over with ice and daily routines grind to a halt, we are reminded—sometimes inconveniently, sometimes painfully—that we are not as in control as we like to believe. 

And yet, it is often in these very moments that gratitude matters most. 

Not the shallow, performative kind of gratitude that pretends everything is fine. Not the kind that ignores hardship or rushes people toward silver linings. But the deeper kind. The honest kind. The kind that says: This is hard—and still, I am thankful. 

This past week, as winter weather reshaped schedules, closed doors, and created real challenges for families across our community, I have watched something quietly beautiful unfold. I have seen neighbors checking on neighbors. Staff members adjusting expectations with grace. Volunteers asking how they can help. Essential workers showing up again and again, even when the conditions are far from ideal. 

None of this makes the cold less cold. None of this magically fixes what is broken, or clears pavement to make it safer. But it does reveal something sacred: we belong to one another. 

Gratitude, in its truest sense, is not a feeling. It is a posture. 

It is the decision to notice goodness without denying pain. 

Theologian Diana Butler Bass writes, “Gratitude is not about being thankful for what happens to us. It is about being thankful for who we are becoming.” That distinction matters. Because when times are hard, gratitude isn’t rooted in circumstances—it is rooted in character. It shapes who we are becoming together. 

The Scripture echoes this more than we sometimes realize. The Apostle Paul writes, “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). Not for all circumstances. But in them. That small preposition changes everything. 

Giving thanks in hard times does not sanctify suffering. It refuses to let suffering have the final word. 

Howard Thurman, theologian, once said, “Hope is a song in a weary throat.” I would add that gratitude is often a whisper in a tired soul. It does not shout. It does not demand attention. It simply persists.

I see this kind of gratitude in the homeowner who, despite living with a leaking roof, still asks how others are doing. I see it in the elder on a fixed income who offers coffee to a volunteer. I see it in the quiet resolve of people who keep loving their neighbors even when their own plates are full. 

This kind of gratitude does something powerful: it resists despair. 

It refuses the lie that darkness gets to define reality. 

It pushes back against cynicism, not with denial, but with determination. 

Writer Adrienne Maree Brown reminds us, “What we pay attention to grows.” Gratitude trains our attention. It teaches us to see the small lights that never make headlines: kindness, patience, perseverance, tenderness, solidarity. 

Winter teaches us to slow down. 

Gratitude teaches us to look around. 

And faith—at its best—teaches us to trust that love is ever-present. 

Not only conveniently in sanctuaries, but in snow-covered streets. Not only in silent prayers, but in casseroles left on doorsteps. Not only in well-articulated sermons, but in text messages that ask the question, “Are you okay?” 

Jesus did not promise a life without storms. But he consistently showed up in the middle of them. In boats being tossed by waves. In crowded homes. In broken systems. In weary bodies. Presence, more than explanation, was his way. It is the way. 

That is still true. 

So if this winter feels heavy, you are not alone. 

If gratitude feels hard to access, you are not failing. 

Start small. 

Be grateful for warmth. 

Be grateful for breath. 

Be grateful for someone who cares. 

Be grateful for the strength it took to get out of bed. 

These are not insignificant things. They are holy things.

And perhaps this is the quiet invitation winter offers us: to loosen our grip on what we cannot control, and deepen our gratitude for what we still have—each other. 

May we become people who practice gratitude not because life is easy, but because love is still possible. 

And in times like these, that may be the most faithful response of all.

Adam Johnson is a strategy consultant and ordained minister with two decades of experience in nonprofit leadership nationwide, currently the CEO of Habitat for Humanity of Jackson TN. He holds advanced degrees in nonprofit organization from the University of Memphis. Adam lives in Jackson with his wife, Kayla, and their daughter Josephine.