Savor Every Moment

A few months back, my wife and I cooked a meal together—one of the final recipes we’re completing for our upcoming cookbook. The kind of meal that takes time. Intention. Care.

We sat down, grateful.

And I devoured it.

Not because it wasn’t delicious—but because it was.

Almost before I realized it, the plate was empty. And I felt a gentle nudge in my spirit from The Father, not corrective, not shaming—just curious and kind:

“Why do you eat like this won’t last?”

I paused.

And suddenly, it wasn’t about food at all.

I remembered being a kid. Tougher seasons. Making sure I ate quickly enough to get seconds before my sisters. The subtle belief that good things might run out. That pleasure needed to be captured fast, before it disappeared.

I realized—I wasn’t just eating dinner quickly.
I was consuming from scarcity.

Even now. Even in abundance.

How often do we do this with life?

We rush through conversations.
We skim joy.
We hurry pleasure.
We cling to moments like they might be taken away.

Enjoy this while it lasts.

As if goodness is temporary.
As if beauty is borrowed.
As if peace is fragile.

That night, alongside this realization, I was also walking through coaching and leadership training around provision, money, and trust. And suddenly, the thread connected:

Scarcity doesn’t just show up in finances.
It shows up in our bodies.
In how we eat.
In how we rest.
In how we love.

Savoring is a spiritual practice.

To savor is to trust that goodness doesn’t need to be rushed.
That abundance isn’t about grabbing more—it’s about receiving fully.
That heaven doesn’t end.

When we savor, we’re saying with our bodies:

“I believe there will be more.”
“I believe this goodness is safe.”
“I believe I am allowed to enjoy.”

That night, I slowed down.
I tasted.
I breathed.

And I realized—this isn’t just about meals.

Am I savoring this season of life?
Am I savoring the work I’m creating?
Am I savoring my wife, time with our children, my friendships, the places my feet touch today?

Or am I moving through it all like joy has an expiration date?

What if abundance isn’t something we achieve—but something we allow?
What if pleasure is not a reward—but a language of heaven?
What if savoring is how the body learns it is safe to receive?

I’m learning to eat slowly now.
To pause mid-bite.
To let goodness linger.

Not because it might disappear—
but because it doesn’t have to.

If this resonates with you, Our Bodies as the Garden of Eden explores how abundance, trust, and pleasure are meant to live in the body—not someday, not later, not after we’ve earned it—but now.

May you savor today.
Every bite.
Every breath.
Every moment.

Infinite love and blessings,

Nicholas