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A field of sunflowers reminded me that faithfulness isn't always standing tall. Sometimes it's simply continuing to turn toward the Son through every season of life.

It was 111 degrees outside. Walking into the heat made the air conditioning feel wonderful all over again. That simple moment reminded me how contrast has a way of awakening gratitude for gifts we stopped noticing.

Today, KJ and I played with bubbles. At two years old, he was absolutely captivated. He chased them with everything he had. He giggled as they floated just beyond his reach. He squealed every time one landed softly on the grass, only to stomp it with all the determination his little legs could muster. One bubble. Then another. Then another. Hundreds of them. To me, they were bubbles. To him, they were magic. And somewhere between his laughter and my watching, I realized somet

Every home has one. A window that quietly bears witness to the ordinary rhythms of life. Mine happens to be above the kitchen sink. It's not a place anyone lingers intentionally. It's where dishes are rinsed, vegetables are washed, and coffee cups are set down before another busy day begins. There is nothing remarkable about it—at least not at first glance. And yet, I think I've spent some of the most meaningful moments of my life standing there. I've watched spring arrive on

This afternoon, Tyson found his favorite patch of grass. The sun had finally reached that little corner of the yard, warming the earth just enough to make it irresistible. He lowered himself slowly, let out a contented sigh, and closed his eyes as though he had nowhere else in the world he needed to be. I stopped what I was doing and watched him. Really watched him. His muzzle is whiter now than it used to be. His steps are slower. The naps are longer. Somewhere along the way

There is a quiet difference between looking and noticing. We look at sunsets, but notice the way the evening light settles across the kitchen table. We look at gardens, but notice the first bloom we have been waiting weeks to see. We look at our children and grandchildren, but notice the way a tiny hand instinctively reaches for ours. Life has a way of becoming ordinary—not because it lacks beauty, but because familiarity can dull our attention. The art of noticing is the qui