My dad loved this picture, it hung in his dining room for years. He liked the simpleness of the man, the flannel work shirt, the furrowed brow, the work roughened hands and the simple meal. Dad liked to point out that as little as the man seemed to have he still took the time to be thankful.
I get your message, Dad.
Thanksgiving Day is almost done and I'm tired but I think it would be remiss of me to not come here and try to express my gratitude on this day, it's the least I can do, unlike the man in the picture, I have so much. But having more does not make my gratefulness a more splendid thing, gratitude is worth more when you have less because it is a pure thankfulness, it's not borne by worldly things or possessions, it is borne by grace.
It is a thankfulness for just being given one more day, one more meal, one more chance to do good, to do better, to do more, to become closer to God.
Thank you God, for another chance to hear the soft dawn birdsong as a pink blush steals over the lavender shadows of my garden wall, and thank you also for the cacophony of the grackles that rises from barren branches of winter trees at dusk.
Thank you for the softness of my granddaughter's curls as I bury my nose in the baby powder scent them, and the way my grandson ducks his head away when I try to do the same to him. "Ah, Grandma cut it out, I'm too big for that." But then he lays his head on my shoulder as I read to him and I'm able to rub my cheeks against his bristly burr cut and just for a little bit longer he's not too big.
Thank you for the look of pride in my husband's eyes when he tells others, "I don't know what I'd do without her." and the sincerity in my son's voice when he says, "I miss you."
Thank you for the ability to once again answer a friends plea, "I need you."
Thank you for giving me back me.
Mine is a thankfulness borne by my sobriety. Without it, I have nothing.
Happy Thanksgiving My Friends.
