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There are moments in life when gratitude does not come easily.
Not because we don’t have blessings—
but because the weight of what we’re carrying sits so heavily on the heart.

I’m in one of those moments now.
My sister is getting ready to leave for basic training.

Part of me beams with pride when I think about her courage—her willingness to step into something challenging, something bigger than herself. She’s preparing to serve, to grow, to become stronger in ways most people will never have to imagine.

But another part of me aches.
There’s something tender about watching someone you love pack their life into a few bags. You start noticing little things—how her laughter fills the house, how her shoes scattered near the door have always annoyed you just a little, but now somehow feel comforting. You realize how deeply you’ll miss all the small, ordinary moments.

Change has a way of exposing the truth:
love always costs something.

And in times like this, when emotions tug at both pride and sorrow, the invitation from God feels both comforting and challenging:
Rejoice, and give thank.

At first, it feels like too much to ask.
How can I rejoice when part of me is grieving?
How do I give thanks when I’m wrestling with fear, uncertainty, and the quiet ache of letting go?

But gratitude isn’t pretending everything is fine.
It’s learning to see God’s fingerprints even in the things that hurt.

As I sit with my emotions, I start to notice the places where thanksgiving gently appears—not as a command, but as a lifeline.

I give thanks for my sister’s bravery, the kind that blooms from a place deep within her.
I give thanks for the love between us, a love strong enough to make goodbyes feel heavy.
I give thanks that God will be her Strength when I cannot be, her Shield when I cannot stand beside her.
I give thanks that the same God who walks with me through my worry will walk with her through her training, her fatigue, her growth, her victories.

And I give thanks for the quiet ways God steadies my own heart—
in reminders of His faithfulness,
in the peace that arrives in small waves,
in knowing that distance does not weaken love,
and change does not shake the presence of God.

Rejoicing in hard seasons is not a denial of pain;
it is an act of trust.
It is saying, “God, I see the difficulty—but I also see You.”
It is choosing to believe that He is working in the unseen, preparing us for what comes next, strengthening us in ways we do not yet understand.

Life may be stretching me right now,
but it is also teaching me.
Teaching me that gratitude is not an emotion—it is a posture.
Teaching me that joy is not the absence of struggle—it is the presence of God.
Teaching me that giving thanks does not require perfect circumstances—only an open heart.

So today, even with the ache of goodbye approaching,
even with the unknown wrapped around the future,
I choose to rejoice.
I choose to give thank.
I choose to trust that God holds my sister, and He holds me too.

And in that trust, I find a quiet strength—
the strength to keep moving,
to keep believing,
and to keep giving thanks, even here, even now.

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