My sister, Barbara, has always lived naturally close to the veil. She receives frequent, personal revelation for herself and for her family that fore warns her of dangers and problems. She also glimpses the "other side" from time to time, through true dreams, and when troubles overwhelm her as they frequently seem to do.
     One of these times occurred in about the sixth month of a very difficult pregnancy. She was carrying her third child and threatening to miscarry. She held a low paying job, working under a constant cloud of disapproval, criticism and threats of job loss for the slightest errors—as did all the people in her office. Her doctor had strongly urged her to quit the job because her health was deteriorating so quickly. At the time, she was also the sole support of her family, unable to go for another job because of the need for insurance and, because of the pregnancy, unlikely of finding another job until she had delivered.
     Her husband, David, had gone back to school full time to pursue a degree in nursing and didn't work. Barbara had taken out a loan to get him started. They were barely making ends meet—with help from our family and the church. Her family lived in cramped student housing, something they could just barely afford.
     One day, David called her at work. He had been kicked out of the college, and was in a panic about what they would do next. Barbara hung up and everything closed in around her. She had taken the call from a co-worker’s desk. She said that she felt as if everything in her body shut down completely. Even her eyesight left her, and she was enveloped in darkness. She found her way back to her own desk by groping over the heads of the people around her.
     Reaching her desk, she sat down, put her head on her desk and began to pray for help. At that point, she said that the heavens opened and a great choir descended and surrounded her. They began to sing—Count Your Many Blessings!
     She recounted that from that point the images began rolling by her like a movie. First, her children, healthy, happy, came running to her with their arms open, loving her unconditionally. She saw her husband and his great love for her. She realized that they had sufficient food and shelter, that she lived in a time of peace in a protected place that was sheltered against ravaging storms. She saw her sisters and her brother, her parents and the church, everyone who would always be there for her and her family.
     The choir sang all four verses, then withdrew, and her eyesight returned, leaving her bursting with joy, peace and energy. She was sitting up now, tears rolling down her cheeks and a wide smile on her face. The office had come to a complete and silent standstill as they watched her, all unaware of the heavenly visitation. They were quite sure she had snapped. No one knew quite sure how to approach her.
     Barbara dove into her work, going at top speed, her tears about the survival of herself and her family completely gone.
     Barbara told me about this two years ago. She takes it all so naturally-like, "Oh, doesn’t everyone have these things happen?" She has been one of my greatest teachers.
     I knew times were hard for them back then, and I had taken groceries to her at various times, but I didn’t realize how bleak it had been for her. I was, of course, awestruck by her story, but I also found myself surprised and maybe a bit dismayed at the song—hearing that it was Count Your Many Blessings. I would have thought she needed comfort, hope and direct reassurance of a different sort.
     Having to accept it as presented, I decided to give some thought on the nature of gratitude. I quickly came to it that gratitude and happiness are basically the same word, that many of our greatest fears are centered on the exclusive attention we give to what we lack or what we might lose in the future. Whenever I find myself unsatisfied, I sometimes remember to assess how ungrateful I am at that particular moment. It works if I would do it more often.