Think of our physical sustenance. It is truly heaven-sent. The

Host: The mountains glowed gold beneath the slow surrender of the evening sun. A small stream whispered nearby, its water clear and alive, threading through the wild grass like silver thought. The wind moved softly — through pine, through silence, through time — carrying the scent of earth, rain, and eternity.

On a weathered log, Jack sat — jacket undone, hands cupped around a tin mug of water he’d just scooped from the stream. His boots were dusty, his face roughened by both work and wonder. Across from him, Jeeny crouched in the grass, her fingers tracing small wildflowers, their petals trembling with the slightest breath of wind.

Host: The world felt still, but not dead. It was that sacred kind of quiet — the kind that hums beneath the skin, reminding you that silence itself is a conversation.

Jeeny: (softly) “Russell M. Nelson once said, ‘Think of our physical sustenance. It is truly heaven-sent. The necessities of air, food, and water all come to us as gifts from a loving Heavenly Father.’”

(she looks up at the sky, her voice hushed) “When was the last time you thanked air for being there?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Can’t say I’ve written it a thank-you note lately.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. We only call it a miracle when it’s missing.”

Host: A soft breeze brushed her hair across her face, and she laughed — not out of amusement, but awareness. The air itself seemed to join her laughter, light and unseen.

Jack: “You think that’s what he meant? That we’ve forgotten how to see the obvious as divine?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We chase the extraordinary, but the sacred hides in the ordinary. In the way air fills your lungs without asking for permission. In the way rain knows when to fall.”

Jack: (looking at his mug) “Or how water finds its way to everything that needs it.”

Jeeny: “Grace always does.”

Host: The light shifted — a deeper orange now, touching everything with warmth. The stream glittered. A hawk circled overhead, silent, precise. The mountain breathed its ancient rhythm.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think prayer was about words. But now… I think it’s about awareness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Gratitude isn’t spoken — it’s lived. Every breath you take consciously is a prayer. Every meal eaten with humility is communion.”

Jack: “And every drop of water is a reminder we’re cared for — even when we don’t deserve it.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of pine and the distant murmur of thunder — a storm gathering far off, unseen but known.

Jeeny: “Nelson called them ‘heaven-sent,’ these things that sustain us. And maybe that’s why we’re asked to protect them — not as resources, but as relationships.”

Jack: “Relationships?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Between creation and creator. Between the giver and the gift. Between us and what gives us life.”

Jack: “And we’ve been terrible at maintaining them.”

Jeeny: “We treat what’s holy as if it’s disposable.”

Host: A small silence followed, heavy with truth. Even the wind seemed to pause in agreement.

Jack: “You ever wonder what gratitude sounds like to the universe?”

Jeeny: “Like stillness. Like the moment you finally stop taking more than you need.”

Jack: “That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “That’s worship.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, the last of its light shimmering across their faces. The stream’s surface turned gold, then silver again. The air cooled, but it wasn’t cold — it was awake, alive, generous.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How the most basic things are the ones that feel eternal. Air. Water. Bread. All of them sustain life, but none of them boast about it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because true giving is quiet. The earth doesn’t demand gratitude; it just keeps offering.”

Jack: “And we keep taking, calling it survival.”

Jeeny: “But survival without reverence isn’t living — it’s consumption.”

Host: He leaned down, dipping his hand into the stream again. The water caught the light, flowing between his fingers, impossible to hold but impossible to forget.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. We spend our lives chasing wealth, knowledge, comfort… but if air stopped for sixty seconds, none of that would matter.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every breath is a miracle we forget to notice.”

Jack: “So gratitude’s not just a feeling — it’s perspective.”

Jeeny: “It’s the alignment of soul with source.”

Host: The thunder murmured again, closer this time, rolling low and deep across the valley. It wasn’t threatening — it was a reminder. A voice older than thought.

Jeeny: “Do you think people would live differently if they remembered that air and water are sacred?”

Jack: “We’d build differently. Speak differently. Eat differently. Maybe even love differently.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the whole point. Gratitude isn’t just saying thank you to God — it’s treating His gifts as holy.”

Jack: “And that means treating life itself as holy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because everything that sustains us — everything that keeps us breathing — is heaven’s whisper saying, you still belong here.”

Host: The first drops of rain fell, gentle, warm, baptizing the ground. The mountains darkened, the scent of wet soil rising like incense.

Jeeny lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed, letting the rain touch her skin. Jack watched her — then did the same. Two souls in a cathedral made not of stone, but of air, earth, and water.

Host: The rain fell steady now, and their laughter mingled with it — soft, unplanned, full of gratitude that needed no words.

Host: And as the scene slowed, Russell M. Nelson’s words settled over the mountains like evening prayer:

Host: That life’s sustenance is not manufactured — it is bestowed.

That air, food, and water are not conveniences,
but covenants of care,
renewed each day by the mercy of creation.

Host: That to breathe is to receive grace,
to drink is to remember,
to eat is to give thanks.

And that gratitude
is not a ritual of speech,
but the art of seeing heaven
in what we mistake for ordinary.

Host: The storm deepened,
the stream swelled,
and under the wide, listening sky —
Jack and Jeeny sat quietly,
breathing, drinking, feeling,
alive in the oldest miracle of all.