Our weekly shopping trip to Lidl in Hawkinge is a simple errand—until you drive there from Lyminge. The route winds through Etchinghill and along Teddars Leas Road, a narrow country lane where only one car can pass at a time. Almost every journey involves pulling into a passing place to let someone by.

When that happens, my wife and I always watch to see what kind of acknowledgment we’ll get. Most drivers are gracious—some flash their lights enthusiastically or wave with gusto. Others offer a simple hand lift, or the laziest of gestures: a barely raised finger from the steering wheel. But every so often, someone zooms past without even a glance of thanks.

That lack of gratitude always stings. After all, it feels good to be appreciated, especially when we’ve gone out of our way for someone. It reminds me of a passage from the Gospel of Luke. Ten lepers were healed by Jesus—but only one, a foreigner and a Samaritan, returned to give thanks and praise to God.

Gratitude, it seems, is rarer than we think. Yet giving thanks—to God, to others—should be as natural as breathing. It’s an expression of humility and recognition that we’re not self-sufficient.

When Jesus met those ten lepers on the border of Samaria and Galilee, they cried out, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!” They didn’t demand healing; they asked for mercy. Their plea wasn’t just for restored bodies but for restored dignity and belonging.

I once met a small community of lepers in Nepal, cared for by a Christian charity. Their compassion reminded me that mercy still lives in quiet places. Perhaps next time we are helped by someone, or a driver stopping on a narrow lane—we might remember to show the same grace, and to simply say, “Thank you.”