A few years ago (it was 2018), I found myself standing in the middle of Hobby Lobby, fighting off what felt like the beginnings of another panic attack. The story was packed. So many people moving through the maze of fake flowers and vinyl wall quotes, and I remember thinking, I can’t breathe in here.
I had just come from Costco — as overwhelming as Hobby Lobby but in different ways. This was the era when giant, 82" TVs were first hitting the shelves, aisles were lined with enough bulk-packed snacks to feed a high school cafeteria for a year. The noise, and volume — the sheer magnitude of it all — started to grate on me. Megalophobia, maybe. I was only out doing errands for my wife, but I came home exhausted. Not physically, exactly. Just… worn. Threadbare.
That moment wasn’t unusual, unfortunately. At the time, I was juggling a demanding job, a family with five kids, a leadership assignment in my church, and a sense of personal ambition that didn’t always (still doesn’t) know when to quit. I had a “perfect schedule” I carried in my pocket — literally — hoping to implement it once life settled down. It was full of noble things: early mornings, scripture study, daily exercise, focused time with my wife and kids, service to my neighbors.
But it never quite materialized (still hasn’t). I was sleeping maybe five hours a night on a good night, running on fumes, and somehow still always behind.
That day, in the middle of the floral fluorescent chaos of Hobby Lobby, I didn’t need more productivity, a new planner, or a better strategy.
I needed peace.
In our church, our youth group has an annual theme. That year it was, “Learn of me, and listen to my words: walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me.”
There’s a kind of divine math in that passage:
learn + listen + walk = peace.
Honestly, I was doing okay at the first two. I was, for the most part, working on “learn” and “listen.” But the “walk in meekness” part? That’s where I struggled.
Most people equate meekness to weakness, but it turns out meekness isn’t about shrinking or giving up or backing down. It’s about recognizing you’re not in control of everything — and then choosing to walk forward anyway. Meekness is really the quiet strength to keep going without demanding that everything make sense first. It’s also the humility, I think, to let go of waht isn’t serving you and to pay closer attention to what is.
Interestingly, that’s where gratitude started to come back into focus for me — not as a buzzword or a holiday sentiment, but as a kind of internal discipline. A deliberate choice.
Gratitude has never magically lightened my workload or organized my calendar. I wish it could. But it does give me clarity — just enough to distinguish what matters from what doesn’t.
Gratitude has a way of reminding me that while I can’t always control the pace of my life, I do get to decide how present I am in it.
Thinking back, there have been so many moments — most of them simple, almost forgettable — that have helped me reorient. Like when one of my kids would run out to greet me in the garage the moment I pulled into the driveway, eager to open the door and start talking before I’d even turned off the car. Some days, I wanted a moment of silence first. A chance to decompress. But when I had eyes to see it, that chaos was sacred.
It was them. It was me. It was us.
Or a night staying up way too late with my wife after taking a friend and his wife out to thank them for years of service together. We laughed, reminisced, and ate way too much. I knew I’d pay for it with fatigue the next morning, but I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m. anyway and went out for a run.
Seven miles later, and with some quiet reflection on the previous night, I felt a little more like myself again. It was definitely not because I beat any personal records. In fact, the previous night’s dinner slowed me down a lot. But I was out moving my feet, thinking clearly, and breathing.
Just breathing.
Those are the kinds of things gratitude anchors me to. Not big epiphanies, but small recalibrations — the kind that whisper so softly they’re easy to miss: This is still good. This is still worth it.
It rarely arrives with fireworks or emotional highs. More often, it shows up in tired legs, tired arms, quiet prayers, and the quiet realization that even when life feels unsustainable, there are still people who love you. Still reasons to keep showing up.
I don’t stop to express gratitude very often. I complain. A lot. But I’m learning that gratitude is like keeping gas in my car. Gratitude won’t bring an end to the chaos, but it is one of those things that keeps me moving in the right direction. It keeps the chaos from consuming me. Gratitude reminds me to look for peace where it actually lives. It’s definitely not found in 82” TVs or more efficient systems, but in the patient glance from my wife sitting by me at the dinner table, the extra effort from a friend who never keeps score, the kids who still look for me when I walk through the door.
Like I said, I forget that a lot. But I’m learning to come back to it.
Full transparency: there’s still a part of me that sometimes wants to escape it all — build a cabin in Manderfield and opt out of the race altogether. But another part knows I’m supposed to be here. Here is where my people are. Here is where the service is needed. Here is where my family grows and where I keep becoming the person I want to be.
Even when it’s messy.
Even when it’s loud.
Even when I haven’t figured out how to implement the perfect schedule that’s now digitized on my phone, tucked away in a folder of notes I only glance at occasionally.
Gratitude won’t ever be a magic cure. But it is a way of seeing.
And most days, that’s enough.
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