When the Power Goes Out: Gratitude Without Superiority

This morning we lost power. We still do not have power and are getting a little colder. We’ll be fine. That’s not the point of this story.

Like many people do during storms, someone posted in a community group asking if others had lost electricity. Several folks chimed in: yes, they were out too. Others shared that they still had power. Then one person wrote:

“Praise God. I’m in Woodbine and we still have power. I thank God for loving us and protecting us.”

If you’re from Appalachia, you’ve heard this kind of thing your whole life. I certainly have. It usually comes from a good place. People are trying to express gratitude. They’re trying to name relief. They’re trying to hold onto something steady in the middle of uncertainty. But there’s something quietly troubling underneath it.

Without realizing it, statements like this link God’s love to personal circumstances. And once you do that, you’ve stepped onto dangerous ground. Because if God loved you enough to keep your lights on, what does that say about your neighbor who’s freezing and trying to stay warm under the quilts? Or the family down the road whose roof peeled off? Or the parents who lost a child when the tornado turned?

Did God love you more? Were their guardian angels asleep? On break? Out to lunch?

Most people don’t mean it this way. But the message still lands. It creates an image of God who selectively hands out protection based on a zip code. A God who blesses some and withholds love from others. A God whose favor looks suspiciously like luck. That version of God doesn’t bring comfort. It creates fear.

It leads people to quietly wonder, What did I do wrong? It teaches kids that tragedy is punishment. It leaves grieving families feeling judged rather than being held. And it feeds into that familiar phrase: everything happens for a reason. Sometimes even therapists say this to clients.

I wish we wouldn’t.

Because sometimes things don’t happen for a reason. Sometimes storms are just storms. Sometimes, drunk drivers are just careless people who veer off their path. Sometimes illness shows up uninvited. Sometimes tragedy is simply the collision of weather, biology, and chance. Trying to force meaning onto every loss doesn’t heal people. It often makes things worse.

There’s another piece here too… this runs against the deepest values of Appalachian culture.

The real Appalachian spirit is humble. It says: We look out for each other. It says: We don’t put ourselves above our neighbors. It says: If I have more today, I will help you, because tomorrow it might be you helping me.

Our grandparents didn’t brag about being spared. They brought casseroles. They hauled water or brought in their neighbors’ crops. They showed up with chainsaws and breakfast. They understood that surviving isn’t a moral achievement.

But when we publicly frame our safety as divine preference, we quietly elevate ourselves. We turn gratitude into comparison. So, what does healthy gratitude look like? It sounds more like this:

“I’m thankful we still have power, and I’m thinking about everyone who doesn’t.”
“We were spared this time. If you need anything, let us know.”
“I feel lucky today. Please reach out if you need a place to charge phones or store food.”
“Grateful for what we have and holding space for those who are hurting.”

Notice the difference? Gratitude without superiority. Faith without ranking. Thankfulness without implying judgment. We can thank God without suggesting God chose you over someone else. We can acknowledge relief while still honoring grief. We can recognize blessing without turning it into evidence of spiritual status.

Another thing… God shows up in neighbors, volunteers, and first responders. He shows up in people opening their homes, in strangers offering generators, and in the quiet acts of kindness that ripple outward long after the clouds move on.

So yes… be grateful. Just don’t climb higher while doing it. Because humility has always been one of Appalachia’s greatest strengths. And in times like this, we don’t need more explanations. We need more linemen.

Dr. Wesley