The Power of Praise (and a Box of Tissues)

The Power of Praise (and a Box of Tissues)

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Let me tell you something praise is not just for the perfect, polished, and put-together. Praise is for the tried, the tired, the tapped out, and those of us who barely made it to the temple with our sanity intact. And if you don’t believe me, you clearly never met Sister Phoebe.

Now Sister Phoebe bless her heart walked into the temple one Sunday morning with a full box of tissues in one hand and a tambourine in the other. That's when I knew... it was going to be one of them services. You know the kind: where you don’t leave the same way you came in partly because somebody done shouted your wig off or laid hands on your shoulder so hard it turned into a massage.

As soon as I saw her, I slid six seats to the left. Not today, Sister Phoebe. I had no intentions of getting knocked out, passed out on, or mistaken for a slain-in-the-Spirit speed bump. But I admired her. Because even in all her holy dramatics and “rolling on the floor till the ushers run out of white sheets” type of praise, Sister Phoebe understood something deep:

Praise is a weapon. Gratitude is a posture. And being thankful is a survival tactic.

Now, some folks only praise when the rent is paid, when they get a promotion, or when somebody compliments their outfit. But real praise? Real praise shows up when you’re still in the fire, when nothing makes sense, when you're toe-to-toe with life’s nonsense and still manage to say, “Thank you anyway.”

Let me drop a little spiritual folklore on you.

The Folklore of the Silent Grove

Long ago, in a village hidden between rivers and mountains, there lived a young woman named Doma. She never sang. Never danced. Never even clapped her hands. Her voice was softer than wind and her face always wore the same expression: blank.

One day, the village was struck with drought. The crops died, the water dried up, and the people began to weep and wail. Except Doma.

She walked out to a barren field, stood under a scorched tree, and lifted her face. And then... she sang. A cracked, unsure melody that shook the dust. Her voice wasn’t sweet. It sounded like rusted hinges and old pain. But her song was honest. Full of trembling thanks. Full of, “Even if I die out here, I still thank you for the breath.”

They say the wind picked up that day. Rain came within the hour. Crops bloomed that hadn’t bloomed in decades. Why?

Because praise shifts the atmosphere.

Because gratitude invites the Divine to lean in closer.

Because when your mouth opens in thanks, your soul opens for a miracle.

Now listen I don’t care how seasoned or sanctified you are, there are days when praise ain’t easy. I’ve had days where all I could manage was a whisper: “Thank you for not letting me cuss everybody out today.” That’s still praise.

And humorously enough, the Creator doesn’t grade our praise like judges at a gospel talent show. He ain’t out here with scorecards like, “Ooo, that run was flat. Minus two blessings.” No. The Creator looks at the heart.

Man looks at the outward appearance your clothes, your car, your latest drama-filled social media post but the Creator peers straight into the heart. And when His eyes are upon you... oh, baby... you don’t even have to be in the room for your name to be called.

You could be somewhere eating cereal, unaware that doors are opening on your behalf in places you’ve never stepped foot in. That’s what happens when His eyes are upon you.

Let me tell you what I know deep in my bones:

When the eyes of the Creator are upon you, everything and everyone connected to your purpose must pause until you show up.

Yep, you read that right. Some blessings are sitting in traffic waiting for you to believe again. Some relationships are frozen at the gate until your healing arrives. Some opportunities are parked on the runway with blinking lights and engines revved but heaven’s air traffic control says, “Hold until she’s ready. He’s almost there. Don't take off without them.”

That’s why praise is not optional it’s essential.

Because praise is a declaration that you’re still showing up.

Praise says: “I trust You even in the silence. Even in the middle. Even in the ‘I don’t know.’”

And let me be a little sarcastic real quick:

Some folks only know how to praise when the choir is in key and the AC is set just right. Oh but let their latte be cold or the usher not smile hard enough, and suddenly they got an attitude. Praise? Cancelled.

But real ones know:

You praise in the unemployment line.

You praise after a heartbreak.

You praise when the gas tank is on E but your hope is still full.

You praise with a laugh, with a tear, with a runny nose and a wig that's slightly crooked because life tried to take you out this week.

That’s real praise. That’s holy. That’s raw.

That’s Sister Phoebe with the tissue box unbothered, undignified, and dancing like the rent’s already paid and the doctor’s report came back “we were wrong.”

The psalmist wrote in

Psalms 17:8,

“Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me under the shadow of your wings.”

That’s the power of being seen by the Creator.

That’s what happens when your praise puts you on heaven’s radar.

And don’t let nobody shame your gratitude. Some people will try to tell you you’re “doing too much” when you cry, shout, or praise loud. Let 'em talk. Half of them don’t know what it’s like to survive on just faith and borrowed strength.

Sometimes, praise is all we got.

And if I gotta praise with a limp, with puffy eyes, or next to Sister Phoebe doing full-blown holy karate kicks in the aisle, I’ll do it. Because we made it.

Not because we were strong. Not because we had it all together.

But we made it on His promises.

And as long as the eyes of the Creator are upon us guess what?

We’re still making it.

So grab your tissue box. Grab your tambourine.

Move six seats away if you have to.

But don’t you dare stop praising.