I Appreciate You Lord Apr 2026

Thank you for the air. Thank you for the light. Thank you for the strength to stay awake.

He remembered a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in a plastic chair in a sterile hospital hallway. He was broke, exhausted, and terrified. He had looked out a small window at a single, stubborn dandelion pushing through a crack in the asphalt of the parking lot. It was bright yellow against the gray. I Appreciate You Lord

Martha eventually recovered, though they never got the "big house" back. They moved into this small cabin on the edge of the woods. People called it a step down; Elias called it a homecoming. Thank you for the air

Years ago, Elias wouldn’t have said those words. Back then, appreciation felt like a luxury he couldn't afford. He had been a man of "more." More hours at the mill meant more money; more money meant a bigger house; a bigger house meant—he thought—more happiness. He spent his youth chasing a horizon that kept receding, fueled by a restless ambition that left him blind to the treasures already in his pockets. He remembered a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in a

He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of damp pine, and whispered the four words that had become his morning anchor: "I appreciate You, Lord." It wasn't a rehearsed prayer; it was a recognition.

"I appreciate the day, Lord," he said to the wind. "Every bit of it."

The shift didn't happen in a flash of lightning, but in the quiet aftermath of a storm. It was the year the mill closed, and his wife, Martha, fell ill. Suddenly, the "more" he had chased vanished, replaced by the stark reality of "enough."