Grace in the Ordinary

When was the last time you truly slowed down—not because you were tired, or forced to pause, but because the moment asked nothing more of you?

It had been many years since I allowed myself to step away from the constant movement of the world. I couldn’t remember the last time I simply breathed without guilt, without the weight of an inner voice urging me forward toward the next goal. Slowing down always felt like falling behind.

But as Father—God—began to shift my perspective, teaching me to quiet the noise and release the distractions of the world, something softened. I was reminded of a kind of magic that exists only in the present moment. The kind found in simplicity. In attention. In now.

Two days before the new year, my brother and sister-in-law surprised us with tickets to the Houston Zoo’s Christmas lights. Truthfully, I’m not someone who goes out often. I usually choose work over outings, movement over rest. But spontaneous moments like this have a way of gently pulling me back into life—into slowness.

That night felt like a gift.

It had been years since I’d walked through a zoo. Returning now, with my daughter beside me and my family close, felt like something coming full circle. For the past few years, I had lived largely in solitude, working quietly, building toward something I couldn’t yet fully name. And in that stillness, Father reminded me why I am building at all—not for urgency, not for achievement, but for moments like this. For connection. For presence. For love.

We walked without urgency. Lights glowed softly around us, not demanding attention, only offering it. Our steps found their own rhythm. Laughter drifted in and out. Time loosened its grip just enough for breath to return.

I hadn’t been there since I was a child. And yet, it didn’t feel like going back—it felt like remembering. Wonder doesn’t leave us as we grow older. It waits patiently for us to slow down long enough to notice it again. Walking beside my family, I felt it surface quietly—not as excitement or nostalgia, but as something steadier.

For a long time, survival had been my language. Strength mattered more than softness. Guarding myself felt wise. The world teaches us to measure our worth by productivity, visibility, endurance. Somewhere along the way, peace becomes unfamiliar.

But in that moment, it returned—reminding me that abundance is already within us. It isn’t about having more, or chasing millions. It’s about recognizing that each step we take in honor of Father, and in love toward our family, carries its own blessing. Heaven isn’t something we wait for. It can be found now, in the way we live, in the choices we make, in the presence we offer.

I hadn’t brought my camera into personal moments for a while. I wanted to be fully present, to let experiences exist without framing them. But that night felt different.

I was reminded of how quickly time moves—how easily moments slip past us if we don’t pause long enough to notice them. Being able to return to an image later isn’t about holding on; it’s about remembering. About honoring the life we’ve already lived. So often, anxiety pulls us toward the future, and in doing so, we forget how many blessings have already carried us here. Looking back through old photo albums, I’m always reminded of how sacred those fragments of time become. Not as content, not as proof—but as witnesses to the journey.

I could have used my phone, and often I do. But there is something different—something grounding—about working with a DSLR. Using flash. Slowing down. Accepting the higher stakes of intention. It asks more of me. It keeps me present. I have to consider light, composition, and perspective before I press the shutter. It becomes less about capturing and more about listening.

This was a time to enjoy the beautiful simplicity of a slow walk and the quiet realization that this—being here, together—is what so many of us are searching for without realizing it. Peace is an abundance that we should aspire for.

As the year turned, I realized I wasn’t bracing for what came next. I was standing inside gratitude. I thank my Lord and Father, Jesus Christ, for this moment—for the stillness after years of fighting, and for the reminder that worth is not found in importance, but in love, in presence, in walking slowly with those we’re given.

As a new year begins, may this be a gentle reminder:

Slow down.

Notice the light.

Stay with what matters.

Joy has not left it is waiting for us to build.