Have you ever gone out of your way to do something kind for someone, only to be met with silence? Maybe you sent an encouraging message, picked out a thoughtful gift, or offered help when it was inconvenient, and… nothing. There was no thank you or acknowledgment—just a quiet, awkward void.
If you’ve felt that sting, you’re not alone.
In Luke 17, Jesus encounters ten individuals with leprosy. Isolated, rejected, and considered cursed, these men lived with constant physical pain and emotional devastation. By law, they had to call out “Unclean!” wherever they went—a public declaration of their unworthiness and a warning to keep others away. Their condition was more than a diagnosis. It was a sentence.
Then Jesus showed up.
Moved with compassion, He healed them all. Instantly, ten lives were restored. Ten futures rewritten. Ten men freed from shame. But astonishingly, only one returned to thank Him.
One.
Scripture highlights this moment not as a footnote, but as a focal point. The other nine—grateful, perhaps—but gone. It’s a mystery that lingers: why didn’t more return? How could such a life-changing miracle receive so little recognition?
For years, I wrestled with that question—until I heard a story that gave me clarity I hadn’t expected.
My husband, Sean, lost both of his parents to cancer at a young age. By age twelve, he and his older brother, Dave, were on their own. Dave stepped in as caregiver, mentor, and provider, and later became a successful home improvement contractor.
On Monday, Dave arrived at a job in an upscale neighborhood. While walking through the client’s home, a particular cabinet caught his eye. Inside were delicate porcelain figurines known as Lladrós, each crafted with exquisite detail. Dave immediately recognized them—his parents had collected them. When they passed, Lladrós were among the most meaningful keepsakes he and Sean held onto.
Dave asked the homeowner, looking at the display, “Do you collect these?”
The client nodded. “Yes. The Lladró Physician is my favorite. It has a special story.”
He continued, “I was a physician in Utah for many years. Out of all my patients, I can only recall being thanked once. This statue was a gift from a man whose wife I treated through her final days with cancer. She passed shortly after but her husband gave me this to thank me for doing everything I could.”
Then the physician turned the statue over and signed underneath the names Marc and Lily Traynor, Sean and Dave’s parents.
Dave was stunned. The physician was speechless. Two lives intersected again, unexpectedly, years later. Gratitude had most profoundly bridged time and loss.
When I heard that story, my heart returned to the passage in Luke. I saw the one leper differently. Maybe the nine didn’t return because they saw Jesus only as a healer—someone doing His “job.” But the one who came back? He saw more. He didn’t just receive healing—he received revelation. He recognized Jesus not only as a physician, but as the Savior. And so, he didn’t just thank Him—he worshiped Him.
That distinction matters.
Genuine gratitude doesn’t just acknowledge a gift—it responds to the Giver. It sees beyond the surface and leads to worship.
This story challenges me—how often do I stop to thank Jesus? Not just for the miracle, but for the mercy? Not just for the healing, but for the heart behind it?
Gratitude is more than good manners. It’s a reflection of what we truly see.
Let’s not be part of the ninety percent who keep walking today. Let’s be the one who turns back. Who pauses. Who sees. Who worships.
Because thankfulness isn’t just a response, it’s a way of life.