In their quest to expand our childish palates, our parents established the “No, thank you” portion rule that we followed when guests at other people’s homes. The guiding principle behind the rule was unfailing politeness. If an unfamiliar dish was passed to us, or worse, a familiar dish that bore no resemblance to the real thing, we were to take a very small portion to taste, without the drama of gagging, spitting or commenting. That was it. If the host passed the dish again, we were allowed to say, “No, thank you” and keep passing the dish to the left. Even when a host was insistent that we have “seconds,” we could stand our ground. “Oh, no, thank you.”

The good news is that I’ve put away my childish palate. The bad news is that I deleted the comma. In the theology of grammar, my plate is now full of no thank you portions. These portions are the bits and pieces of my life that I never wanted and didn’t ask God for, so if you don’t mind, thanks, but no thanks—really no thanks.

It’s tempting to take the easy way out and blame these so-called dark days for my thanklessness, but that wouldn’t be fair to the dark days. I discovered that unlike revenge which is said to be a dish best served cold, no thanks portions are best served cold, hot, warm, room temperature. It doesn't matter with this a steady diet that feeds my memory of all things gone awry, and my forgetfulness of God’s steadfast love and faithfulness.

It's time for a change in diet, one that feeds on words sweeter than honey, words of life and beauty, words that David wrote in Psalm 31:21, 22: “Blessed be the Lord, for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me when I was in a besieged city. I had said in my alarm, ‘I am cut off from your sight.’ But you heard the voice of my pleas for mercy when I cried to you for help.”

I practically choke on the no-thanks portion stuck in my heart. David was thanking God in the besieged city. Perhaps the real miracle isn’t the rescue from attacks, but the wondrous steadfast love of the Lord that shows up—not on the other side of the city or in a different place altogether—but right there in the alarm, in the pain and in the trouble, and transforms thanklessness into thankfulness.

Lately, I’ve been so focused on the no thank portions in my life, that I have forgotten another portion which David described in Psalm 16:5: “the Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot.” A cup that overflows as goodness and mercy follow me all the way to a feast, where the host welcomes me "no more a stranger or a guest, but like a child at home."

I'll have seconds on that. And thirds.