Thanksgiving Day dawns bright and brimming with promise — promise, that is, of potatoes to mash, pies to burn just slightly, and at least one relative to question your life choices somewhere between the turkey and the trifle.
I have long suspected that the true miracle of Thanksgiving is not the harvest itself, but the survival of the host. Hosting Thanksgiving, you see, is a kind of spiritual discipline. It’s like a monastic retreat, only with more cranberries and considerably less silence.
By mid-morning, the kitchen becomes a battlefield where hope and gravy mingle freely. The potatoes, those innocent tubers of the soil, suddenly demand the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. The stuffing — so simple in theory — reveals itself as an alchemical mystery requiring intuition, humility, and a strong sense of smell. Somewhere along the way, the cat escapes with the turkey baster, and the children decide to test the smoke detector “for fun.”
Yet, somehow, in the midst of this holy chaos, gratitude sneaks in.
As I stir, slice, and pretend not to panic, I find myself remembering that Thanksgiving is not so much about perfection as it is about presence. It’s about the people gathered in our slightly-overheated dining rooms — the ones who tell the same stories every year, the ones who always bring too much salad, the ones who silently wash dishes while everyone else naps.
Today’s readings remind us that gratitude is an act of faith. Deuteronomy speaks of offering “the first fruits of the harvest” before God, a reminder that our abundance—however small, however frazzled—is meant to be shared. Psalm 100 tells us to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” which, as it turns out, sounds a lot like your aunt’s laughter over a wobbly pumpkin pie. And St. Paul, ever the realist, tells us that love is patient, kind, and (most relevantly) keeps no record of wrongs — especially when someone forgets to bring the dinner rolls.
So as the feast unfolds and the gravy boat makes its slow pilgrimage around the table, I give thanks — not for the flawless meal I imagined, but for the gloriously imperfect one I’ve been given.
For in every burnt crust and awkward conversation, there’s a whisper of grace. In every overfilled plate, a reminder that God’s abundance is always more than we can manage.
And when the last dish is dried, and the guests are gone, and I find myself alone with the turkey carcass and the faint hum of the refrigerator — I’ll smile, pour myself wee dram, and give thanks for the sacred, silly, splendid gift of it all.
A Thanksgiving Prayer
Gracious and generous God,
on this Thanksgiving Day we pause amid the bustle of kitchens and the clatter of dishes
to remember what truly feeds us.
You are the giver of all good things —
from the harvest of the earth to the laughter around our tables,
from the warmth of friendship to the quiet grace of a shared meal.
We thank you for the abundance that fills our lives —
not only in food, but in love, in memory, and in mercy.
Bless the hands that have prepared this feast,
the hearts that have gathered here,
and those whose places at the table we remember with affection and longing.
When we are tempted to measure our worth by what we produce or serve,
remind us that your love is not earned but given freely,
like sunlight after rain,
like bread broken and shared among friends.
Grant us the holy gift of gratitude —
not only for what we have,
but for who we have,
and for the unending grace that sustains us all.
And when the dishes are done,
the leftovers tucked away,
and the laughter lingers in the quiet,
may we find you still present —
in the peace that settles softly over the day,
and in the deep joy of being loved beyond measure.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord,
Amen.