There’s More Where That Came From: A Thanksgiving Reflection

Thanksgiving is more than a moment. It’s a movement of the heart toward the goodness of God. It stands as a defiant act of worship amidst the mixture of joy and pain that shape our years. For many, this year was a celebration. For others, it was a stretch. For most, it was both. And yet in all things, there remains this holy whisper: there’s more where that came from.

This was not just another Sunday. It was a sacred pause, a collective inhale of heaven’s air, and an exhale of praise. We gathered not just to count numbers but to honour names, not just to share stats but to reflect on stories. Numbers tell us how many, but stories tell us how much God has done. His faithfulness, once again, has exceeded our finest plans and our faintest prayers.

348 salvations. 68 children dedicated. 89 baptisms. Thousands reached online. 5,000 students impacted through the Linc Foundation. Over 370 volunteers faithfully serving week in and week out. Families fed through food buckets. Hilton Land for a future campus. Churches planted. Youth awakened. Dreams stirred. Faith stretched. God glorified.

“Isn’t everything you have and everything you are a sheer gift from God?” (1 Corinthians 4:7, MSG). This question echoed through the stories we celebrated. From the children raised in the halls of faith to the young man who said yes to Jesus in a visitor service and now leads in his local church—we are living in the overflow of heaven’s generosity.

But for many, this past year wasn’t easy. There was heartbreak. Delay. Confusion. Disappointment. Some are walking in with questions unanswered and tears unshed. And yet, the invitation remains the same: “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits” (Psalm 103:2). Thanksgiving isn’t denial of difficulty—it’s an anchor in truth. Gratitude doesn’t ignore pain; it redeems it.

What if your praise prepares the ground for your miracle? What if your ability to lift your eyes invites heaven’s hand to move? Gratitude creates room in our hearts for more of God. And heaven always has more to give. “You crown the year with Your bounty,” says David, “Your paths overflow with abundance” (Psalm 65:11). Even in the years we label as lean, God calls them crowned.

At Linc Church, we’re hungry for heaven. We celebrate presence. The harvest we saw this year is proof: God still takes the loaves and fish of our offering and multiplies them into miracles. Every volunteer. Every prayer. Every whispered yes. Every act of generosity. Every uncomfortable step of faith—it all mattered. He took our little and made it more than enough.

As we look to the future, we stand on fields we’ve sown with faith. Infrastructure has risen. Property has been developed. Campuses have been launched. But this isn’t just about buildings and budgets. It’s about legacy. It’s about children who will grow up, knowing the life inside of God’s house. It’s about nations being changed through local obedience. It’s about families, like yours and mine, encountering Jesus in parking lots, kitchens, school halls, and sanctuaries.

Because when God writes a story, He writes it big. And when we say, “yes,” we become engrained in the paragraphs of His promises. From Hilton to Salt Rock, from online platforms to rural playgrounds, God is building something holy, generational, and eternal.

He’s not just building a great church. He’s shaping a faithful people. A people who believe His promises, who remember His benefits, who serve with joy, and sow with generosity. A people who carry heaven’s hope into earth’s chaos. A people who know that even in the hard, God’s goodness is sure, His supply is sufficient, and His story is still being written.

This year taught us that God is not finished—He’s only just begun.

So let us be the ones who remember.
Let us be the ones who worship.
Let us be the ones who walk slowly into the new—not hurried, but holy.
Let us be the ones who thank God not for what’s comfortable but for what is possible.

Because beloved, there’s more where that came from.