Recognizing Blessings: Lessons from Shenandoah and the Journey of the Israelites

In my youth, television executives often scrambled to find content to fill their schedules. Many times, they turned to movies.

One evening, the 1965 film Shenandoah graced the TV screen. The beloved actor Jimmy Stewart portrayed Charlie Anderson, a stubborn farmer. Anderson tried to ignore the Civil War raging in the Shenandoah Valley, but the war’s harsh realities of conscription, plunder, and terrorism soon encroached upon his family.

The scene that lingers in my memory is around the dinner table, where the patriarch offered thanks, his prayer dripping with self-congratulation. He prayed:

“Lord, we cleared this land, we plowed it, sowed it, and harvested it. We cooked the harvest. It wouldn’t be here, we wouldn’t be eating it if we hadn’t done it all ourselves. We worked dog bone hard for every crumb and morsel, but we thank you just the same anyway, Lord, for this food we’re about to eat. Amen.”

Is it all ours? In my life, I’ve built a house, secured and maintained jobs in ministry, and crafted my résumé. Didn’t I accomplish something?

The Israelites swarmed the hills on the east side of the Jordan River, preparing to take the land promised to their patriarchs. But before the battle cry could break the serenity, Moses needed to teach them. These were children of the Red Sea survivors, most of whom were mere infants when Moses descended from Sinai with the law.

Before they entered and settled, Moses needed to settle something else with them. Beware, he warned. They faced a terrible enemy—their attitude.

“When the Lord your God brings you into the land he swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give you—a land with large, flourishing cities you did not build, houses filled with all kinds of good things you did not provide, wells you did not dig, and vineyards and olive groves you did not plant—then when you eat and are satisfied, be careful that you do not forget the Lord, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery.” (Deuteronomy 6:10–12, NIV)

Yet, in Canaan, they dismissed the old man’s wisdom. It was theirs.

They traded blessings for ownership.

But don’t we? We carve out five minutes on a Sunday morning, pray about how much God has blessed us, and give “a portion” back to God.

Then, we rise from padded pews in clothes we chose, get into cars we bought, and go to houses we own.

In our pride of ownership, have we forgotten blessing?

It’s a question that haunts us and shapes us. Recognizing blessing leads to humility. If we sense ownership, we can keep God at arm’s length, in the far corner of the universe, without any role in our lives.

So how do we keep the blessing in the things we use?

Days can erase the past. Where had they come from?

God had a plan. It was to reach into the soul, grab a memory, and force it to the front of the eyes. He used ceremony.

The feast of Passover began with the words, “We were slaves in Egypt, but God rescued us, fed us, and led us.” Passover was not a commemoration. It was a dedication to the grace of God. This grace continued to rescue, feed, and lead.

In the fall, they would build brush arbors on their houses and live in them for a week. The stark contrast between the past and present stabbed at their hearts and lives.

To kindle blessing, you remember your plight. Remember what you were without God’s blessing, and you will recognize who you are with God’s blessing. We spend too much time enjoying what we have and too little time recognizing what we have.

For years, I boarded a plane in Managua, Nicaragua, to come home. I had been there for a week helping poor children find something to eat. As part of a team of nurses and doctors, we helped the sick, treated diseases, and provided nourishment. Most lived in huts built with tin scavenged from junkyards. I walked streets flowing with sewer water and stench.

On the plane, I pondered a single question: Why was I born to parents who loved me? Why was I allowed to live in a land of sanitation, education, and excess? Why was I not in one of those filth-ridden barrios rather than in a comfortable Texas suburb?

My answer for each trip was the same. It is only because of God’s blessings.

The next time you feel smug, stop and ask yourself the same question.