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When the fields finally rest, gratitude becomes clearer. From Missouri farm tables to Serbian homes, one truth rises above culture and tradition: thanksgiving belongs to God alone—not to saints, symbols, or stories. This is a call to lay every other custom aside and lift your thanks to the only One who hears.

As a boy sitting by the fishing pond, I felt like time grew on trees. Now, as responsibilities pile up like storm clouds, I steer my days like a submarine through deep waters — careful, tense, never enough room to breathe. And when the pressure rises, wasting time becomes the sweet poison that promises relief while slowly hollowing the soul.

A quiet story of two boys on the same street reveals one of Scripture’s deepest truths: the difference between a covenant that measures the heart and a covenant that transforms it.

He came in the night—not seeking answers to argue, but a truth he could feel. Centuries later, his quiet search still mirrors our own: the longing to know God, not just know about Him. This reflection invites you to step into the same stillness, where faith is reborn and religion gives way to grace.

I sat in a creaking metal chair, wishing I could be like my friends—free of faith, free of guilt, free of my parents’ church. But the strange thing about running from truth is that it keeps pace with you. Even as I tried to escape, the whisper followed me: If Christ be not risen…