The Time Traveler’s Gratitude: A Journey With a Wise Soul

The Time Traveler’s Gratitude: A Journey With a Wise Soul

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I was instructed to write this reflection for an individual soul you know who you are. I don’t know you personally, but I was sitting here quietly, doing meditation and seeking guidance from the Creator on a situation, and my pen began to whisper this message…

“Child, sit yo’ ungrateful tail down,” the wise soul said, appearing out of nowhere like a memory you didn’t ask for. They wore a robe made of stardust and sass, a turban that had seen centuries, and sandals that clearly walked on both water and nonsense. “You been out here whining like you forgot how many times the Creator done pulled your behind out the fire. Hmph. Acting like blessings come with receipts and expiration dates.”

I blinked. “Wait who are you?”

“Don’t worry 'bout all that. Just know I’m older than your ancestors' ancestors. I was there when the first man stubbed his toe on a rock and blamed the devil. Now, let’s take a trip. You ain’t gon’ learn anything stayin’ stuck in that pity party you been throwin’ with no balloons and too many complaints.”

Before I could object, the wise soul snapped their fingers, and BOOM! We were standing in a desert village. Camels strolled by like they had somewhere important to be. Dust rose in the heat, and a woman stood outside her tent weeping over her husband, who had been pronounced dead. The whole village gathered to mourn. Suddenly, the man sat up, blinked twice, and asked for some water and a lamb chop. Screaming, crying, praising, shouting  all at once.

“You see that?” the wise soul grinned. “He was gone gone. But Creator said, ‘Not today.’ Mercy resurrected that man like leftover chicken in a microwave. And folks still had the nerve to call it coincidence.”

Snap! We time-traveled again. This time, we were in an alleyway behind a nightclub in the 1980s. A man was overdosing. Alone. Dying. But wouldn’t you know it  a stray cat jumped on his chest, woke him up, and led a nurse on her smoke break right to him.

“That cat was on assignment,” the wise soul chuckled. “Even the animals out here obeying divine orders. Meanwhile, folks walking around acting like the breath in their lungs was self-manufactured. Baby, you ain’t that powerful.”

Then we visited the Great Migration, watching a family walk hundreds of miles with nothing but a suitcase full of hand-me-downs, cornbread crumbs, and hymns. Their shoes were talking to the pavement, but they never stopped singing.

“You know what that is?” asked the soul. “That’s grace with grit. That’s faith with dusty heels. That’s knowing even if you don’t see the blessing, it’s packing itself behind the curtain like a surprise party you forgot you planned.”

I tried to protest again. “But what about me? I’ve struggled. I’ve been overlooked. People used me, ghosted me, disrespected me. My prayers feel like voicemails the Creator never checks!”

The wise soul didn’t blink. Just raised a hand, and suddenly, we were floating over your life. Not the parts you post on social media, but the behind-the-scenes footage: that breakup you thought would kill you but ended up being the exit door for your peace to enter. That time you didn’t get the job, only to avoid a boss who throws staplers. The day you cried yourself to sleep, but woke up anyway spirit bruised, but breath intact.

“You ever seen a seed grow?” they asked. “It don’t sprout because the ground is sweet. It grows ‘cause it stays rooted even in dirt it didn’t ask for.”

I stood still. Humbled.

Then the wise soul pulled out a dusty old book  thick as a pot of Sunday gravy and filled with stories the world forgot. They flipped to one that read:

The Parable of the Grumbling Gourd

“There once was a gourd that sat on a vine and complained all day. ‘Why must I hang here in the sun? Why can’t I be a flower? Flowers get compliments!’ The sun smiled and said nothing. The rain wept with laughter. Then one day, a farmer came, plucked the gourd, carved it, and made a vessel that carried sweet water through a dry village. The gourd cried, ‘I had no idea I was meant for this!’ The sun finally spoke, ‘You was too busy whining to understand your purpose.’”

The soul closed the book with a snap. “Gratitude ain't about having everything perfect. It's about recognizing when things ain’t, but you still here, still chosen, still held.”

Time twisted again and now we were in a juke joint turned makeshift church in 1943. Folks in overalls and Sunday dresses were shouting, catching the Spirit so hard the floorboards begged for mercy. One lady ran clean out her wig, and an usher tried to catch it mid-air like a football interception.

“You think that’s chaos?” the wise soul laughed so hard their sandals clapped. “That’s thanksgiving! They were broke, hungry, and oppressed  but they praised like they had stock in heaven.”

“But sometimes,” I said softly, “it’s just so hard to be thankful.”

“And sometimes,” the soul replied, “you gotta borrow gratitude ‘til it grows inside you. Thank the Creator in advance. Thank ‘em for what you don’t even understand yet. For what didn’t break you. For what left you. For what never came. For the healing that’s still loading like a slow internet page.”

Then they dropped one more piece of folklore on me:

The Tale of Old Widow Essie

“Old Widow Essie lived by herself in a creaky shack with one chicken, a broken radio, and a whole lotta attitude. Every morning, she’d yell, ‘Thank ya, Lord!’ out her window, even when she had nothin’ but onion soup to eat. Her neighbor, an atheist, got tired of hearing it and decided to prank her. He bought her groceries and left ‘em on her porch with a note: ‘From the devil.’

She saw the food, shouted louder, ‘Thank ya, Lord! You made the devil pay for it!’”

The wise soul was cackling now, shaking their head. “You can’t make that kinda gratitude up. That’s holy comedy. That’s divine audacity.”

As the light began to fade and time called us home, the soul reached into their robe one last time and handed me a rock. Just a rock. Ordinary, smooth, warm from their hand.

“Hold this,” they said. “That’s the moment you almost gave up but didn’t. Keep it close. And whenever you feel ungrateful again, remember you made it through every single thing you didn’t think you would. And baby, if that ain’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

I stood in the present again, but something inside me had shifted. I saw my scars differently not as shame, but as testimonies. I saw my struggles like stretching before flight. I saw my life not as a series of unfortunate events but a string of divine appointments, even the ones that ran late.

So to you, dear soul reading this  the one who’s tired, bitter, forgotten how much you've been covered  may this reflection travel through time and find your heart cracked open just enough to let in some light.

And if gratitude still feels like a distant cousin who don’t visit no more, remember this:

Even the moon doesn’t shine on its own. It reflects the sun. And still, it lights the night.

You been reflecting glory all along. Even in your silence. Even in your sorrow. Even in your sass.

Now go ahead. Laugh. Cry. Say thank you with cracked lips and trembling hands.

Say it loud like you’re praising in a juke joint, even if you got no rhythm.

Say it from your belly like Old Widow Essie.

Say it with soul like Sister Mattie Mae.

Say it even if your shoes talk and your tears flow.

Because gratitude ain’t about what you got.

It’s about what you survived.

It’s about what’s been working behind the scenes while you were busy doubting.

I was instructed to write this reflection for an individual soul  you know who you are. I don’t know you personally, but I was sitting here quietly, doing meditation and seeking guidance from the Creator on a situation, and my pen began to whisper this message… a message of holy humor, ancient grace, and loud praise for quiet miracles.

May your eyes be opened. May your laughter return. May your memory stretch far enough to remember: You’ve always been carried.

  Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar