The Abundance of God

Gratitude has been gently teaching me how to slow down and notice how I come before God. Not hurried. Not led first by what feels unfinished or lacking. Instead, I’m learning to arrive with a thankful heart. When I pause long enough to do that, something shifts inside me. Gratitude reorders my attention. It lifts my eyes from what feels unresolved and reminds me of how faithfully God has carried me through every season, even the ones that felt uncertain at the time.

Lately, that gratitude has felt especially tangible as Joe and I opened our home for our first Friendsgiving. There was something deeply humbling about inviting people to gather around our table. The food, the home, the relationships, the ability to welcome others – none of it felt like something we produced on our own. It all felt like a gift we had been entrusted with. Hosting has become an expression of thanksgiving, a way of acknowledging out loud that what we have is something God has generously provided, and we wanted to share it.

As we gathered, I found myself reflecting on how gratitude naturally moves outward. It doesn’t stay quiet for long. It wants to be expressed, shared, and lived out. Some of the sweetest moments during Thanksgiving came from sitting together, hearing stories, laughing freely, and remembering God’s faithfulness in one another’s lives. Ordinary conversations become meaningful. Simple meals felt sacred. Faith was strengthened as gratitude was spoken aloud and hearts were reminded that none of us walk alone.

At the same time, this season reminded me that gratitude and longing often exist side by side. There was real joy in gathering with friends, sharing warm food and meaningful conversation. That joy was genuine and deeply appreciated. And yet, there was still be a quiet ache beneath it as Joe and I felt the absence of family members we wished could have been with us.

As I reflect on the season, one of the most meaningful expressions of gratitude was the opportunity Joe and I had to help feed those experiencing homelessness. Standing there, serving from what God has given us, felt like gratitude put into action. It was a reminder that abundance isn’t measured by excess, but by generosity. We were able to give because God has been faithful to provide. In those moments, thanksgiving felt less like a feeling and more like obedience – a recognition that what we have is meant to be shared.

That experience stayed with me. It reminded me that gratitude grows when it’s practiced, not just felt. Whether we’re opening our home, sharing a meal, or serving someone in need, gratitude becomes visible when it moves through our hands. It reshapes how we see others and how we see ourselves – less as owners, more as stewards of what we’ve been given.

I’m also noticed how gratitude has been reshaping my prayer life. Instead of beginning with requests, I’m learning to begin with thanks. I start by acknowledging who God is and remembering what He has already done. Blessing His name feels more natural when my heart is anchored in remembrance rather than urgency.

As this season unfolds, I am realizing more and more that gratitude is more than a response – it’s a doorway. It opens my heart to joy, even when sorrow is nearby. It deepens my awareness of God’s nearness, whether I’m alone in reflection, gathered with friends, or serving others from His abundance. Today, I want to keep entering with a thankful heart, trusting that God is present in both what we celebrate and what we quietly miss, and that His goodness continues to meet us right where we are.

What are some ways God has carried you through past seasons, especially ones that felt uncertain at the time? How has gratitude shown up in your life through people, conversations, or shared moments around a table? Who or what do you find yourself missing in this season, and how are those absences shaping your prayers? What has God entrusted to you—relationships, resources, opportunities – that might be an invitation to share His abundance with others? Please share in the comments.