Yesterday morning, the house was still carrying the soft glow of Christmas. Bits of ribbon and wrapping paper were tucked into the trash, the scent of pine still lingered from the tree in the corner, and the air held that quiet peace that comes when the bustle of the holiday has passed.

Grace, my daughter, was packing her bags to return home. She moved from room to room, gathering her gifts and belongings, the zipper of her suitcase breaking the silence every so often. As she walked down the hall, she passed my bedroom.

I was there, doing what I always do after I rise—straightening the sheets, smoothing the comforter, placing the pillows just so. I was halfway through fluffing the last pillow when I felt her gaze from the doorway.

“Do you do that every day?” she asked, leaning on the doorframe with an amused smile.

I turned slightly. “Do what every day?”

She gestured toward the bed. “Make your bed… and put all those pillows on there?” Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just curious, almost playful.

“Yes,” I replied simply, turning back to finish my work.

She stepped into the room, eyebrows raised. “Why? You’re the only one who sees your bed.”

I paused and looked at her. This was one of those moments when you realize that something ordinary to you is completely unusual to someone else.

“Oh dear,” I began with a smile, “I make my bed every morning because it’s a gift I get to open at the end of every day. A gift that not everyone has.”

Her expression softened, and I could see her thinking about my words. I went on, smoothing the last corner of the blanket.

“In the morning, when I ‘wrap’ my bed, I’m not just tidying up. I’m creating a little promise to myself—a promise of rest, comfort, and safety that waits for me when the day is done. And at night, when I ‘unwrap’ it, I get to enjoy the gift I’ve been anticipating all day. It reminds me that even in an imperfect world, I have this one small corner of peace.”

Grace didn’t say anything right away. She just stood there, her eyes moving from the bed to me, as if she were trying to see through my perspective.

The truth is, so many of life’s blessings go unnoticed because they’re ordinary, everyday things. We tell ourselves they’re small, insignificant, or “just part of life.” But when we stop measuring their worth by how big or impressive they are, and instead see them for what they truly are—gifts—they take on a whole new meaning.

I have known nights without a bed. I have known times when comfort was not guaranteed, when rest was not safe or easy to come by. Those memories make me cherish what I have now, even if to others it looks like nothing more than a neatly made bed with too many pillows.

So yes, every morning, I make my bed. I smooth it with gratitude. And every night, I pull back the blankets with the same sense of thankfulness. It’s not just a routine—it’s a reminder of provision, safety, and comfort.

At the end of our conversation, Grace smiled. She didn’t tease me again about the pillows. I think she understood.

And as I settled into my bed that night, I whispered a quiet thank you—not just for the bed itself, but for the chance to see the beauty in something so simple.

Because I am thankful for my bed. Every single day.