Thankfulness as a Seed: Transforming the First Thought of the Day

Daily in this time of my life, I’ve found it hard to wake up and remember some of the good. Not at least at the wake of it. When you’ve experienced such profound loss, your waking first thought is knowing you’ve lost someone—or in our case a pair… more than one core person in your life. It is sad to admit that the moments opening the day are filled with pity and sorrow. Grief has a way of arriving before the sunlight does. Before I even sit up, my heart remembers what happened. My mind goes straight to what’s missing. And it’s not that I want to live there—it’s just that loss can be loud. It can feel like it speaks first.

I wish there was a blueprint to grieve. My version, and my way, I have no clue is the right way… because as people say, let her grieve, let her cry, and cry your heart out… my perspective is: it’s so painful, so unbearable.

Perhaps I do need to purge, but for how long do I do this? I think I did this for so long already. And I could probably do this as the morning routine—purge with so much agony in my heart and soul every day—for the rest of my life.

That’s the part people don’t always understand. It’s not that I’m afraid of tears. It’s that I know I could drown in them if I let them become the only way I start the day.

Instead, I am trying to install a morning light. An opening with a lighter heart. An opening to remember the good of today and tomorrow—even in the smallest things. Not because I’m “over it.” Not because I’m pretending. Not because I’m trying to be strong for the sake of appearances. But because I’m learning that the first thought of the day matters. It sets the tone. It shapes the lens.

And right now, I need a lens that doesn’t only show me what I lost. I need a lens that also shows me what God is still doing.

Thankfulness is a seed I believe it in my heart: this shift is vital. I am reminded that even with the greatest loss, I am blessed. Thankfulness is not a denial of grief. It’s a seed planted beside it. A seed doesn’t look like much when you first hold it. It’s small. Quiet. Easy to overlook. But it contains a future. It contains growth. It contains life. That’s what gratitude does for me right now. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives my spirit something living to hold onto.

There’s a transformation that happens when you choose thankfulness on purpose. Grief says, “Look at what’s gone.” Thankfulness gently asks, “What is still here?” And sometimes what’s still here is simple: Another morning to try again A child’s voice in the house A warm cup in my hands A friend who checks in A memory that still makes me smile through tears The strength to get out of bed when I didn’t want to These aren’t “small” things. These are anchors. When we acknowledge blessings, we’re not minimizing loss. We’re honoring the fact that God still has His hand on my life.

A gateway to more blessings I’ve learned something: thankfulness is a gateway. When you start naming what’s good, you start noticing more of it. Not because life suddenly becomes perfect, but because your heart becomes more open. Your eyes become more aware. Your spirit becomes less clenched.

And I believe this is how blessings multiply—not always in money, not always in big miracles, but in the kind of peace that shows up when it shouldn’t.

Thankfulness invites peace. Thankfulness softens bitterness. Thankfulness makes room for hope. It’s like opening a window in a room that’s been closed for too long. The air doesn’t change everything instantly, but you can breathe again. Faith and healing, one morning at a time Faith doesn’t always look like shouting. Sometimes faith looks like whispering, “Thank You,” when your heart is still aching. Healing doesn’t always look like a dramatic turnaround. Sometimes healing looks like choosing one new thought in the morning: Today, I will not let sorrow be the only voice that speaks first. I’m not saying I won’t cry. I’m not saying I won’t miss them. I’m not saying the grief won’t hit me out of nowhere. I’m saying I’m learning to plant something else too. Because thankfulness grows. It grows into steadiness. It grows into perspective. It grows into strength.

And over time, it grows into a life that can hold both: deep love and deep loss… and still find a way to praise.

A simple practice If you’re in a season like mine, here’s what I’m trying—simple, humble, and real: Before I reach for my phone. Before I replay the pain. Before I let the day rush me… I name three blessings.

Not the “perfect life” blessings. The honest ones. And if all I can say is, “Thank You, God, for getting me through the night,” then that counts. Because that’s a seed. And seeds, with time, become gardens.

Closing I don’t have the blueprint. I’m still learning. But I do believe this:

Thankfulness is a starting point. It’s a doorway to healing and a gesture of our spiritual door that’s open and welcoming for more goodness to come. And it’s a quiet declaration that even here—especially here—God is still good, and the life he’s blessed us with is good and beautiful.