There comes a sacred silence the morning after Thanksgiving — a sort of national liturgical pause in which the faithful lie prostrate, not before the altar, but upon couches, groaning softly in the general direction of the television. The turkey has done its work, the pies have conquered, and even the dog looks sluggish from too many “accidental” droppings from the table.
It is, in every sense, a holy day of recuperation.
There is something quite spiritual about the post-Thanksgiving stillness. The dishes (which multiplied like loaves and fishes the night before) sit drying in uneven stacks. The fridge hums a hymn of abundance as it holds Tupperware towers of mystery leftovers. Somewhere, a half-eaten pumpkin pie is having existential thoughts about its purpose. And there we sit, in sweatpants, reflecting — perhaps a little ruefully — on the wages of gluttony and the eternal promise of stretchy waistbands.
But here’s the theological rub: even in this carb-induced haze, gratitude still hums quietly beneath it all. For the fullness of yesterday gives way to the gentleness of today. We realize that thanksgiving isn’t just an event — it’s a rhythm. A feast, yes, but also a rest. A pause that says, “Enough. More than enough.”
Deuteronomy reminds us to rejoice in the good land the Lord has given, and to give thanks for the harvest. But it also, rather sensibly, allows for sabbath—a divine invitation to slow down before the next round of sowing and reaping begins. Perhaps this Monday-after is a kind of secular sabbath—a day sanctified for digestion, reflection, and perhaps the faint hope of fitting into one’s trousers again by Wednesday.
As a priest, I’ve often thought that God must smile on this day. Not because we are productive or pious, but because, for a brief moment, we stop. We stop doing and start being — thankful, full (perhaps overly so), and quietly aware that love, laughter, and even turkey leftovers are graces undeserved.
So today, be kind to yourself. Rest those weary carving arms. Forgive yourself for the extra slice of pie that was, strictly speaking, unnecessary but deeply sacramental. Let the recliner be your pew, and let your prayer be a simple, heartfelt:
“Thank you, Lord, for everything — especially elastic.”
And tomorrow?
Well, tomorrow we can begin the long and holy pilgrimage to rediscovering the bottom of the vegetable crisper.
A Thanksgiving Monday Prayer for Rest and Gratitude
Gracious and ever-patient God,
on this quiet day after feasting,
we give You thanks for the fullness that remains—
in our hearts, our homes, and perhaps, our fridges.
You, who set the rhythm of work and rest,
teach us the holiness of pausing.
As our bodies recover from abundance,
let our spirits rest in Your goodness.
We thank You for family, for friends,
and for those curious moments of grace
that emerge somewhere between the gravy boat and the laughter.
We thank You for the joy of shared tables,
and for the stillness that follows—the peace of simply being.
Forgive us, Lord, for ever mistaking busyness for blessing.
Help us to receive Your gifts with gentleness and humour,
to delight in Your creation without needing to conquer the dessert tray.
And as we linger in this blessed, drowsy calm,
remind us that gratitude does not end when the dishes are done.
It continues—in the rest, in the quiet,
in the slow return to ordinary time.
In the name of Christ,
who taught us to give thanks in all things—
even for leftovers.
Amen.