I Appreciate You | Lord

The sun hadn’t even cleared the jagged silhouette of the hills when Elias sat on his porch, a chipped ceramic mug of coffee warming his calloused hands. At seventy-two, his body was a roadmap of a life lived hard—scars from the timber mill, the stiff gait of a man who had walked through more valleys than mountaintops, and eyes that had seen both the blooming of love and the gray ash of loss.

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. I Appreciate You Lord

Thank you for the air. Thank you for the light. Thank you for the strength to stay awake. The sun hadn’t even cleared the jagged silhouette