There was a time when enthusiasm came easily for me.
It showed up in packed bags and countdown calendars. In the promise of mountains and cabins and quiet mornings by a window, watching snow soften the world. It lived in the sound of rain on a tin roof, knowing it was doing good work—washing, nourishing, restoring. It showed up at the lake on hot summer days, where joy felt uncomplicated and immediate.
I don’t take those trips anymore. Some things have changed. The cabin is gone. My body doesn’t move the way it once did. Life has narrowed in certain ways, even as it’s deepened in others. And while I’m grateful for where I am now, I notice something about myself.
I’m still enthusiastic before the good moments.
I’m less so after—when Monday returns and life settles back into its familiar grooves.
Maybe you know that feeling.
Most of us can name what excites us. A vacation. A gathering. A season that feels lighter. And we can just as easily name what doesn’t—the routine, the chores, the work that repeats itself without much reward. The quiet weariness of responsibility. The sameness that greets us when the special moments pass.
It’s hard to match the enthusiasm we feel for what delights us with the ordinariness of everyday life.
And yet, everyday life is where we actually live.
That’s what makes a verse like “Whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord” (Colossians 3:23, NKJV) feel both beautiful and challenging. Because it doesn’t limit enthusiasm to the enjoyable parts. It stretches it across everything. The small. The dull. The unnoticed.
I don’t think that verse is asking us to pretend we love every task. I think it’s inviting us to bring our whole heart—not because the task is exciting, but because of who we’re doing it with and for.
And that’s where something began to shift for me.
Wholeheartedness comes from sincerity. And sincerity grows best in the soil of gratitude. Not forced gratitude. Not the kind that pastes a smile over fatigue. But the quiet, honest kind that remembers who God is, even when the moment itself feels unremarkable.
When gratitude is rooted in God rather than circumstances, enthusiasm stops depending on scenery.
The more I reflect on the character of the One I serve—the steadiness of His presence, the patience of His care, the generosity woven through even ordinary days—the more my heart softens toward the tasks in front of me. Not because they’ve changed, but because my perspective has.
Scripture reminds us that every opportunity, even the unglamorous ones, is held within God’s purposes. And when that truth settles in, routine becomes less of a burden and more of a place where faith quietly practices trust.
That doesn’t mean it’s always easy.
There are days when gratitude feels thin. When enthusiasm feels out of reach. I know those days well. And on those days especially, I’ve learned that the answer isn’t trying harder, it’s remembering deeper. Returning to who God has been. Letting His faithfulness refresh my understanding again.
Because enthusiasm doesn’t always arrive as excitement.
Sometimes it shows up as willingness.
Sometimes as steadiness.
Sometimes as choosing to offer the moment, mundane as it is, to God anyway.
And slowly, almost without noticing, gratitude grows. Sincerity follows. And even the dullest days begin to hold a quiet kind of meaning.
If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.
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Star for the Journey 
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