
It is no surprise that when Paul seeks to summarize the scope of the unregenerate man’s sinful nature that he says, “Neither were they grateful” (Rom 1:21). That failure remains an ongoing enemy of the Spirit even when we’ve been born again. We are insufficiently grateful for His grace in redeeming us. We are also often all too blind to the many more “ordinary” gifts that He gives both the just and the unjust. He gives us all rain, and sunshine. He gives us all our daily bread, and the butter we spread on it.
And He gives us ice cream. We are woefully weak in our gratitude for ice cream. First, the bad news. It is addicting. It is not conducive to lean, healthy bodies. It can be messy. Some ice cream is not as amazing as other ice cream. That pretty much covers the bad news.
The good news is that it can cool us down on a hot day. It can actually save us calories. Stick with me here. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come to the end of a restaurant meal and studied up on the dessert menu. I’m as tempted by fruit pies, tiramisu and chocolate cake as the next guy. But I almost always pass, thinking, “The ice cream we have at home will be better, fewer calories and cheaper.”
The best news, however, is that it is delicious. Creamy, rich, often paired with chunks of other goodies- pralines, caramel, strawberries. Whether it’s a DQ Blizzard, a Marble Stone Almond Joy or a mixed bowl of my three favorite United Dairy flavors with a cake cone broken up on top, it’s all good. Because it’s so good.
I suspect a huge part of our lack of gratitude is grounded in ice cream’s ubiquity. It’s not hard to find. The grocery store has a whole row dedicated to it. Gas stations and fast food joints offer it up. And if you live in the right areas, there are even trucks that come to you with it, music blaring from a speaker on the roof so you don’t miss out. It hasn’t always been this way. Refrigeration is what made it possible for us to find ice cream most everywhere. King Louis XIV, in all his splendor, didn’t have ice cream at his disposal. Caviar, champagne, exotic peacocks beautifying the gardens of Versailles. But not ice cream.
I come from ice cream Mecca. The first banana split was served in Latrobe, PA, just over the ridge from my childhood home. Another 40 minutes away is Pittsburgh, birthplace of the Klondike Bar. My teenage hangout, my “Arnold’s Drive In” if you will, was a beautiful blue Victorian home dolled up as an ice cream parlor with candy-striped chairs and servers in candy striped dresses and bloomers.
But my own experience doesn’t set me above anyone else. Ice cream is a decidedly democratic treat. I, after all, scream for ice cream; you scream for ice cream; we all scream for ice cream. God is good. Ice cream is one way we know this.







