We often treat blessings like highlight reels. If they do not make a big enough splash, we hesitate to count them, waiting instead for the kind of moment that feels worthy of celebration. A promotion, a new house, a miraculous healing: those are the long runs that make the crowd leap to their feet. But blessings do not always come that way. More often, they look like steady gains, ten yards at a time, hard-earned and almost unremarkable to anyone watching.

Football makes that truth plain. Every fan loves the big play: the receiver breaking away down the sideline, the running back slipping past defenders and streaking fifty yards for a touchdown. The stadium shakes, the band plays, the cameras replay the run from every angle. But those moments are rare. Most of the game is made up of smaller, quieter efforts: the grind of a few yards up the middle, the quarterback sneak on third-and-one, the receiver who stretches just enough to move the chains. The crowd may not cheer as loud for those moments, but the scoreboard still counts them the same. Six points is six points, no matter how you get to the end zone.

Life’s blessings work the same way. Sometimes they arrive in breathtaking sweeps: a door opens that you thought was permanently shut, a prayer is answered in a way you never expected, a season of waiting ends in sudden joy. Those are the fifty-yard runs, the stories we retell, the moments that leave us in awe.

But more often, blessings come inch by inch. They look like the smell of coffee brewing in the quiet of the morning, steadying you for the day ahead. They sound like your child’s laughter drifting through the hallway, reminding you that joy is still present even when life feels heavy. They feel like the hug of someone who will not let go too quickly, anchoring you when your world feels unsteady. These blessings do not always get replayed or remembered. Yet they matter. They are forward motion. They are grace, disguised as ordinary.

The danger comes when we only count the blessings that look like long runs. We miss the quiet mercies, the daily bread, the incremental steps that carry us closer to peace. We convince ourselves that joy is found only in the monumental when, in truth, it is just as present in the steady, faithful march of everyday life.

The God who gives us the thrill of a sudden breakthrough is the same God who walks us down the field, step by step. Both are His hand at work. Both reveal His presence. Both are worthy of gratitude.

And here is the heart of it: whether your blessing comes in one sweeping play or through a grind of inches, the scoreboard of grace reads the same. Six points is six points. The end zone is the same destination. Every yard matters.

I have learned this not just in life, but under the Friday night lights. As a football mom, I have cheered from the stands as my son broke free for the long run that made the crowd erupt, and I have watched just as proudly when he pushed forward a few yards at a time, sweating for every inch. Both moments counted the same on the scoreboard, but more than that, both were evidence of effort, growth, and perseverance. That is how I have come to see blessings, too. Some sweep in with glory, others crawl forward slowly, but every one of them moves us closer to the goal.

Because in the end, every yard counts. Every blessing matters.