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Perhaps you are wondering as you read or listen: Why did she choose to bless the giving of thanks not thanksgiving? Oh because words… words can change everything. 

Thanksgiving. Just that one word calls so much to mind. 

Can you pause & reflect what Thanksgiving looks, smells, tastes, feels like? 

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Turkey, pies, pumpkins, pilgrim hats, plaid. So much plaid. Sweater weather. 

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Road trips to families & those we choose as family. How the tables are carefully set with an eager expectation to see all those who come to fill the empty seats. How the hearts fill with unexpected or perhaps all too familiar waves of grief at the seats that now remain empty. 

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Tiny infant fingers & toes; oh that new baby smell. Life comes to us this way. 

So frail yet so strong — all 7 lbs 2oz of hope & promise. 

Wrapped in love, held by grace… Treasured in wrinkled hands… 

So frail yet so strong — those hands have weathered 

the harsh decades of aging and speak of resilience, grit & tenderness. 

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The kind of crowded table that means bumping into each other’s elbows & into the edges of our emotions. Stretching beyond our practice of polite niceness to a well of compassion that gives us soft eyes for those with whom we can’t see eye-to-eye. A crowded table filled with awkward pauses, disruptions, interruptions, surprises, welcomed distractions, an abundance of food that tells an origin & yet ever-evolving family story blending spices, ingredients & handwritten recipe cards as the family tree stretches, grows, reaches toward new beginnings yet stays deeply rooted in history, in heritage. Where saying grace before the meal isn’t as important as extending grace to all, as those who fill the seats at table change throughout the decades. 

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And oh if only we could see the heavy things they (and we) are carrying. 

Some are gathered doing their best to find gratitude & joy, even a shimmer of light in the darkness of carrying the hidden, heavy weight of grief behind an attempt at a fatigued smile. Yet we’d be content enough to hear at face value “fine, I’m doing just fine. Getting by one day at a time.” Though the tracks of her tears are evident on her face and the sorrow as present & real as the empty seat next to her. Empty seats & a longing for what once was. 

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Single parents doing more than double just to get by, weeping behind closed doors or in the closet after their children have gone to bed. Still not sure how ends will meet & where the end of their self might begin. Finding kindness to hold onto in the box of stuffing, veggies, cranberry sauce & pie from the community food pantry. Creating a way to celebrate a new chapter of safe love & quietness without anger at the table. Empty seats but a no longer empty table & a longing for this to be enough.

For some the table is not crowded. A solitary seat for 1. Perhaps somewhere filled with other people yet no peace for the loneliness that fills the soul. Separated from loved one — by distance, by death, because you are no longer welcome at the table. And no matter how hard you try, even with the recipe, it’s still not grandma’s gravy. Empty seats & a longing for what could have been. 

For some the table is a half-abandoned cafeteria where stragglers come & go between call bells & 911 calls. Working the holiday in scrubs & gloves, clergy collars, first responder uniforms of all kinds. Because the work of death & dying, new life & fighting to stay alive doesn’t honor a date on the calendar, pause & give space for stillness. Empty seats & a longing for that feeling of home. 

So we have arrived to why. Why this is a blessing for the giving of thanks. 

Because it is a holy, sacred act. No matter at which table you find your seat. 

Blessed are you, are we, who practice attentiveness to tend our own hearts. Who look with gentleness & openness at how the tables turn, the place settings change, the seats become filled, empty, filled yet again. Blessed at you who sit at the table, who still hold sacred space: for the joy-filled voices announcing engagements & new life yet to come, for the wavering yet hope-filled voice sharing an uncertain medical diagnosis, for the grief-stricken voice of terminal illness & loss, for the boisterous banter from toddlers to teenagers as they learn how to make their way in the world & how to take up space at the table, for the righteous anger that longs to flip tables as a response to injustice, for the laughter-filled voice (yes even through tears) recalling a family’s legacy through story (yes even for the 1000th time). 

Blessed are we, in the giving of thanks. In the acknowledgment of our grief. Of naming what we’ve lost, what we long for. Of claiming (and reclaiming) where we find hope & joy when there seems to be only sterile silence & the ruins of despair. Blessed are we in the giving of thanks who seek out a way to find the light in the darkness, who find a way to count our blessings even when we count our tears. 

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Blessed are we, in the giving of thanks. Because it is a holy, sacred act. 

No matter at which table we find our seat. 

We find a way. To remember. To be reminded.

From our first cry as infants until our final earthly breath — we are wrapped in Love, held by Grace.