The annual elementary school Thanksgiving feast is such prominent event from my childhood, and one I’m incredibly grateful that my own children have never experienced.
Like everything else during coronatide, Thanksgiving is a day filled with tough choices.
Our family likes to celebrate and decorate for just about every holiday.
A couple of Saturdays ago, my oldest son and I trekked into the heart of San Francisco for a visit to one of the most iconic Episcopal churches, Grace Cathedral.
Starting on November 1, we take turns writing one thing we are each thankful for in a black Sharpie marker on our pumpkin. This designated pumpkin sits in the center of our dinner table throughout the month of November. It always brings joy and quite a bit of laughter to hear what our boys are thinking about or to see what they quietly and sneakily write on the pumpkin.
This will be the first Christmas in my life I did not spend with my daughter.
Every time I’ve allowed God to prune, uproot, and replant me, my actual wildest dreams and secret hopes have flowered and fruited in ways that were beyond my imaginings.
I have taken a break from the myth of my own indispensability.
We want to give our children the world! So often what we end up giving them is continued complicity in the world’s model of desire and scarcity. Our faith teaches something better.
Mom cooked a huge Thanksgiving meal each year – and I never got why. Until, that is, we had to celebrate Thanksgiving without her.