Guideposts Classics: Steve Allen on the Value of Gratitude
In this story from November 1981, the multi-talented television star reflects on the therapeutic effects of thankfulness.
To many people the phrase “giving thanks” conjures up visions of a family comfortably gathered at a holiday dinner table. But it reminds me of two especially meaningful incidents in my life–one when I was alone and ravenously hungry, the other a desperate drive down a mountain.
The time I was so hungry was when, at age 16, I had run away from home in Chicago and bummed around the country for a while. After a week, I had no more money; consequently I had no more food.
In Houston one morning I was walking along keeping my eye on the curb. I was hoping to find a coin in the gutter, which would mean buying a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk or even a candy bar and thus blunting the hunger pains.
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I must have looked pretty pathetic, because a passerby felt sorry for me and took me into a dim, musty chili joint. I stared eagerly at the giant coffee maker that gleamed and hissed against the wall, and at the rows of steaming frankfurters that lay in open trays behind the bar.
“Just a coffee for me,” said my host.
Not wanting to appear greedy, I asked for coffee and a hot dog. When the counterman placed the hot roll in my hand, I felt a thrill of animal satisfaction. It was almost as if I were able at once to absorb nourishment through the pores of my hand.
For a brief moment before eating. I stared at the honey-colored roll, the brilliant yellow mustard, the juicy, salty-looking meat. I can see it still.
Wolfing it down, I closed my eyes and leaned back against the bar, feeling the wooden railing firm against my tired back. The coffee curled warmly along the lining of my stomach. The frankfurter meat was of poor quality, but I have never enjoyed filet mignon more.
I forced myself to take smaller bites as I neared the end. When it was gone, I felt a deep and powerful wave of gratitude sweep over me.
I thanked my benefactor, of course. But my gratitude extended far beyond him. And though I don’t remember putting it into words, it was, in its own way, a strong and heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.
On the second occasion, I know I prayed. It began at a church camp up in the central California mountains. My young son Bill and I had come alone, as my wife Jayne had gone to a Los Angeles hospital for a checkup.
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“Don’t worry.” she laughed when I said I was sorry to be going without her. “It will be a chance for me to get a good rest. And,” she added, “if they let me out soon enough, I’ll come up and join you and Bill.”
We hadn’t been at the camp more than three days when my usual evening phone call to Jayne turned my world upside down.
Her voice was strained but brave as she explained that, according to her doctors, she had cancer. She had been told it was a particularly virulent type that did not leave her much time to live.
I don’t remember much else about that night except for going to our pastor, Don Moomaw of the Bel Air Presbyterian Church, and telling him that I had to leave camp immediately for the hospital.
I broke down in tears, and Don comforted and prayed with me. I stopped to see little Bill, who was already in bed. His face was puzzled as he sat up.
“Something important has come up, son,” I said. “I hate to miss these next few days here, but I have to go back to town now and help Mom with something.”