I feel sad for Thanksgiving, passed over as it seems to be each year, lost somewhere between Halloween and Christmas, shuffled beneath the feet of trick or treaters, who like actors between scenes, change from ghost and goblin costumes to shopping attire in their mad rush to get back on stage for Black Friday.
My mother was one of those who relished each holiday, but she especially loved Thanksgiving. (I always said it was because I was born in November.) We would silently mock her when she wore what we referred to as her “pilgrim dress” for Thanksgiving Day. But at least she paid homage to this slighted holiday. She would insist on everyone sharing at least one thing for which they were grateful, and only after having done that were we allowed to pray before digging into the Thanksgiving meal.
If nothing else, Thanksgiving is about giving thanks.
Maybe that’s why it’s fallen on hard times of late. Giving thanks doesn’t “sell.” It’s not “entertaining.” And it certainly isn’t a “coming attraction.”
Imagine your minister inviting you to a prayer meeting at church, a gathering simply to give thanks and nothing else. Would you not feel just the least bit awkward, even nervous, at the prospect? Would you wonder if some sort of food and entertainment should be provided? “Just give thanks, that’s all?” you might whisper to a friend who raises her eyebrows at your question.
If giving thanks doesn’t smack of mundanity, eliciting a yawn, it jolts most people just enough to make them shift from one foot to the other. Maybe that’s why we say quick prayers, if we pray at all, before the meal on Thursday. We may ease the tension by saying we don’t want the food to get cold, but isn’t the real reason because giving thanks doesn’t come easily for most of us?
It’s humbling to give thanks, for in so doing, we are acknowledging that something or someone outside of ourselves did for us what we couldn’t or wouldn’t do.
Do you remember the story of Jesus encountering the ten lepers on the way to Jerusalem? He healed all of them. But, only one came back to give Jesus thanks.
Would you like to be one of the ten?
Try giving thanks. It’s simple. Just try pausing, not only before Thursday’s feast, but in the morning when you arise, and then again just before you go to bed. Then try doing the same thing the next day and the next.
Even if your day has fallen off the rails, even if you’ve had four winters already this year, even if you’ve felt alone and abandoned by friends and relatives alike, even if the cold winds of despair are whistling through the cracks in your front door as your read this, give thanks anyway.
Give thanks that you’ve been given another day.
Give thanks for the clothes on your back, for the shoes on your feet, for electricity, for running water— hot and cold.
Give thanks for someone, somewhere, who cares for you enough to check on you, or someone who at least has shown you a smidgen of love at some point in your life.
Give thanks even for bad days, for they can serve to remind you how beautiful the good days can feel.
Look around until you see a child smiling and listen until you hear an old person laughing, and give thanks.
Then give thanks for the everlasting hope that keeps the dogs of despair at bay.
And be assured, as you give thanks, God smiles on you.
He bends down to listen to us, you and me, with our sniveling, snotty little noses, messy with disappointments and sorrows.
Give thanks that he puts up with our puny efforts to masquerade in front of whoever is watching us as we trip over ourselves in another failed attempt to appear better than we really are, as if God would be impressed with us, like he would stand up and applaud our sanctimonious efforts, when all he ever wanted was for us to run back to him, fall down on our skinned knees and cry out with our raspy voices, “Thank you.”
So, try it Thursday.
Give thanks.