Remembering past Thanksgivings. Appreciating present ones. The table is full. So are our hearts. So are our stories.
The noise of laughter and conversation fills the room. Plates clatter. Candles flicker. Someone tells a story that everyone’s already heard, and still, we all smile.
But beneath the noise, there’s something deeper. A quiet gratitude that words can’t quite hold. It’s in the way hands pass the bread. It’s in the silence between songs. It’s in the knowing—that grace has carried us this far. It’s remembering those who have no close friends or family to spend time with.
This is Thanksgiving.
Not the picture-perfect one. Not the one without tears or tension. The real one—where joy and sorrow share the same table.
We give thanks for what we see. And for what we cannot see. For presence. For peace. For the mystery of God near.
In Pause with Jesus, I wrote about slowing down long enough to notice His presence in the small things. A meal shared. A prayer whispered. A deep breath that reminds us we’re alive.
Today, that’s what I’m noticing. Not the schedule or the shine. But the sacred stillness that hums quietly in the middle of the feast.
Thanksgiving isn’t a single day. It’s a lifestyle of remembering—God’s goodness, our dependence, and how every moment, even this one, is a gift.
