Parshas Vayeira: Gratitude Attitude

“And they said to him, “Where is Sarah, your wife?” and he said, “Here, in the tent.”  (Bereishis 18:9)

After the angels finished the feast served them, they were ready to make their announcement. But first they asked, “Where is Sarah, your wife?” Avraham answered, “She is in the tent.” The angel then announced, “By next year Sarah will have a son.”

Why did they first ask Sarah’s whereabouts? They weren’t requesting her presence, as she overheard the whole conversation. So what was the point of this question?  (Rabbi Mordechai Rhine)

I’ve heard many a reference to the benefits of having a gratitude journal. I decided to jump on the bandwagon and am beginning my own gratitude journal. With one twist. This isn’t a personal account. Rather, I’m placing the journal on my dining room table, wide open where all can see, and am leaving a pen available for inscriptions. (This is a minor miracle in itself, one I have gratitude for whenever I find a pen around.) The point of this public journal is for my progeny to be so overcome with feelings of gratitude toward their mother that they will feel compelled to pour out their emotions in writing for me to enjoy.

The Talmud says that when a guest arises to speak, he’s obligated to begin by acknowledging his host’s hospitality, perhaps mentioning specific benefits, like his host picked him up from the airport, etc.

Similarly, when the angel was ready to speak, he first had to acknowledge the source of the benevolent hospitality he’d received, inquiring, “Where is Sarah, your wife? I surmise that she is the chef, and the source of these generous helpings of delectable food.”

Avraham modestly confirms the angel’s comment, “Indeed, Sarah is in the tent. The entire meal is a credit to her.”

I envision journal entries such as:

Thank you, Mommy, for going to three stores to find the brand of socks that I like that don’t have the itchy line across the toes.

Thank you, Mommy, for taking so much time to pick all the peppers out of my salad, because even if the doctor won’t admit it, I know I’m allergic to peppers. 

Thank you, Mommy, for the endless loads of laundry you put up, and then for the last load you stuck in after midnight, because you realized my favorite shirt I wear every Monday was not yet clean.