Gratitude for the Given and the Ungiven

 

In the silence of this pre-sleep room, where the walls seem to absorb the last remnants of daylight, I am overtaken by the echo of a prayer that is not merely words, but a breath, a pulsation, a fateful rhythm. Lord, I thank Thee for all that Thou givest me, and for all that Thou dost not give. This phrase is not resignation, nor is it an escape; it is the exquisite architecture of an inner liberation, in which the ego finally bows its head before the infinite. I begin to write, my pen barely touching the paper, as if I fear disturbing the fragile equilibrium of this insight, which carries simultaneously the weight of my entire life thus far and the lightness of a newborn presence.

The psychoanalysis of my desire has always led me toward the abyss of lack—toward 그 primordial longing to possess, to fill the gaps, to turn the world into a mirror of my own deficits. But here, in this sacred space of faith, gratitude for that which is not given to me becomes the highest form of spiritual growth. This is the moment I realize that my "no's" were my greatest protections; that the meetings which never occurred were silent salvations from dissipation, and the closed doors were the only way to remain in the hall of my own soul. How often have we mourned what we did not receive, without suspecting that its very absence was sculpting the space in which we can now breathe? Lack is not emptiness; it is a form, the negative of a photograph that is yet to acquire its true colors in the darkroom of patience.

I remember the moments when I was certain I knew exactly what I needed—what loves should envelop me, what recognitions should crown my path, what visible victories should justify my existence. But Thy Will is deeper than my shallow desires; it is the undercurrent that has carried me to shores I had not even dared to imagine. Looking back, I see how every refusal of fate was a precise surgical gesture, removing the superfluous, the false, the foreign. We are like marble blocks that mistakenly believe the chipped-away pieces are a loss, while in truth, they are merely the masks hiding the face of the angel within. Gratitude for the unfulfilled is gratitude for the authenticity that has survived among the ruins of our illusions.

In this intimate dialogue with the Invisible, I feel my body relax; I feel the muscles, contracted by decades of "wanting" and "struggling," finally find rest in surrender—in the holy handing over. Everything Thou givest me is the bread of the day, the light breaking through the window, the ability to feel pain as evidence of life. But everything Thou dost not give is infinity itself. It is the space in which God remains God, and I remain His creation—not the master of circumstances, but a humble witness to a greater ordering. There is something metaphysical in refusal; it returns us to the center, to that point of zero where we possess nothing and therefore possess everything. Our psyche often strives for omnipotence, for control, but true healing comes when we accept that we are not the authors of the script, but simply actors called to play our role with as much love and presence as possible.

The silence of the room now feels like living matter. It is not an absence of sound, but a presence of meaning. I think of all the times when the silence of God seemed like indifference to me. How naive my heart was then! Now I understand that Divine silence is the deepest answer given to us, so that we may hear our own voice, purified from the egocentric screams of our needs. In this silence, the transformation of sorrow into grace takes place. When I give thanks for what has been taken from me, I am actually giving thanks for the freedom from attachment. I say: "Lord, Thy providence is my haven, even when I do not understand the maps by which Thou leadest me." This is a radical trust that transcends the logic of cause and effect and plunges into the ocean of Faith, where the water always holds us afloat, provided we stop fighting against the waves.

Thy Will. In these two words lies the entire cosmos of humility. They are the bridge between my limited "I" and the limitless "Thou." To say "Thy Will" means to renounce the right to judge your fate, to stop dividing days into "good" and "bad," "successful" and "failed." Instead, you begin to see them as threads in a majestic tapestry, where the dark colors are just as necessary for the depth of the picture as the light ones. Perhaps what we call "misfortune" is simply a celestial caress trying to divert us from a wrong path. Perhaps "loss" is simply the clearing of space for something our soul yearned for in past lives, but which our ego is incapable of recognizing in the present.

I look into my memory—it is full of fragments of unfulfilled dreams that now shine like precious stones. That love that left me broken years ago... Had it stayed, I would never have discovered the strength of my solitude, nor would this capacity to love without possession have been born. That career that collapsed at the very beginning... Had it flourished, I would likely have lost myself in the labyrinths of vanity and never found the way to this quiet writing under the lamp’s glow. Every absence is the presence of a new choice; every void is a call for a new creation. Psychoanalytically speaking, we define ourselves through our lacks, but spiritually speaking—we are saved through them.

I thank Thee for everything. For the bitterness of the tea that keeps me awake to the truth. For the cold that makes me seek the warmth of togetherness. For the illness that taught me the humility of the flesh. And above all—for those countless "no's" which were Thy most tender "yes's" for my eternal salvation. In this moment, I feel my heart expanding, becoming large enough to hold both joy and grief without pitting them against one another. They are the two wings of the same bird flying toward Thee. I become a prayer that does not beg, but simply abides. A prayer that does not seek a change in the external world, but a transfiguration of the inner gaze.

We often ask where God is when we suffer, without realizing that suffering is often His very way of embracing us most tightly, of tearing us away from the illusion that we are separate from Him. To accept His Will is not passivity; it is the most active act of the human spirit—the act of consent. To say "Yes" to all that is, means to enter the rhythm of Being itself. Then we cease to be victims of circumstances and become co-creators of grace. And in this experience, there is no room for fear, because if God gives to us and if God takes from us, then everything is for the sake of our becoming. Every breath we take is His gift; every exhale, our return to Him.

As the night progresses, I feel more whole than ever, precisely because I accept my incompleteness. The psychoanalytic subject is always split, always searching, always in deficiency. But the spiritual person finds peace exactly in this admission. I am nothing, and in that is my strength. I have nothing of my own, and therefore everything belongs to me. My will, when it merges with Thine, ceases to be tension and becomes a song. The poetry of the everyday is revealed in the details—in the way the light falls on the old dresser, in the scent of rain, in the quiet pulse in my wrist. Everything is sacred. Everything is in its place. Even the pain, even the longing, even 그 quiet, unspoken feeling of melancholy for a heaven we have forgotten, but which we sense in moments of deepest gratitude.

Lord, I thank Thee. For not letting me become what I wanted, so that I could become what Thou hast envisioned. For breaking my notions of happiness to give me Thy Peace. For teaching me to love not only the fruits of Thy garden, but also the winter of Thy silence. In this silence, true wisdom is born—it is not in knowledge, but in trust. It is not in answers, but in the ability to live with the questions without feeling threatened by their immensity.

Humility is the fine thread that connects earth to heaven. It is the renunciation of the illusion of control, the recognition that we are part of a grandiose design whose proportions we cannot grasp with our minds, but can feel with our hearts. Thy Will is the compass that always points home, even when the path leads through deserts. And in that desert, if we listen carefully, we will hear the murmur of hidden springs—those graces given only to those who have given up demanding.

I close my diary, but the prayer continues to vibrate within me. It is like a breath that does not cease. It is my declaration of love to Life, just as it is—imperfect, painful, brief, yet pierced by eternity. Thank Thee for all Thou givest me. Thank Thee for health and for sickness, for the meeting and for the parting, for the light and for the shadow. And for all Thou dost not give me—I thank Thee most of all for that. For in Thy refusals, I discovered Thy greatest care. In Thy absence, I discovered Thy deepest Presence. In Thy "no," I discovered Freedom.

Thy Will. Let it be my bread, my path, and my final breath. All else is but vanity, only the noise of the wind in the branches of time. And here, at the center of this confession, it is quiet. And it is bright. And it is entirely enough. My soul has finally come home, into the embrace of an understanding that transcends words, into a love that asks for nothing, because it already possesses the Source.