Gratitude to the Giver of Breath
There are mornings when I wake and feel the simple weight of being alive; the rise of my chest, the warmth in my hands, the quiet pulse that keeps time beneath my skin. Existence itself feels like a gift I did nothing to earn.
And a gift always has a giver.
To be grateful that I exist is to acknowledge that my life did not begin with me. Someone... or something... opened a door I could not have opened on my own. Someone allowed me to walk this road, to breathe this air, to take my place in the long, unfolding story of the world.
Gratitude, then, becomes more than a feeling. It becomes a bow of the head. A recognition of the unseen generosity that set my feet upon this path.
I did not summon myself into being. But I can choose to live in a way that honors the One who did.