Thanksgiving Musings

On the surface, our little Thanksgivings don’t seem like much. It’s just us—me, Mark, and the three littles. We don’t attend bigger gatherings. (Our families are far away, and we’re a bit too introverted for ‘friendsgivings.’) We don’t make a gigantic feast. (Mark and I are working on health goals, and picky kiddos barely eat anything.) Sometimes we skip the turkey altogether. (I’m the only one who likes it anyway.) There’s nothing magical about our day—not in that dreamy Waltons-meets-Pinterest way. I cook a small (but big for us) meal of family favorites. Comparatively, it comes nowhere near the likeness of “typical Thanksgiving”, but it’s still a lot of work to execute.

It’s often challenging and lonely choosing to “make Thanksgiving happen” when I know it’s “just us.”
As I spent the morning in my kitchen, I caught myself attempting to measure the “value” of my efforts. I was struggling with what felt like a profound imbalance of effort vs. reward. I was neck deep in four recipes, and missing ingredients for three of them. My back hurt. I popped so many pain relievers I could hardly stay awake. The kids were hyper and under foot, clamoring for me to address all their usual needs, squabbles, and emotions. The Macy’s parade blasted more chaos into their chaos. It was overstimulating and exhausting and at one point I just thought… “Why do I do this to myself? How much does it really matter?”

Then I looked at the table and saw the candles. Zane had been begging all week to set them up, and he finally got his chance. He had them neatly scattered across the table runner, each waiting to represent someone’s gratitude before being crowned with a flame.

It dawned on me that somehow, these candles had become a beloved tradition for our family.

The first time we did candles on Thanksgiving it wasn’t really planned.

It was simply… an effort.

I had just had Mercy. I was nursing around the clock, recovering from the CVST/Lupus crisis, and perpetually exhausted. We were still new to the area and hadn’t made any friends… so very isolated. I didn’t have much to give physically, but I didn’t want the boys, then six and four, to miss out on Thanksgiving memories just because we couldn’t attend a traditional gathering.

Thanksgiving for this little crew seemed so impractical that year— but I scrambled to forge one. “What do I have? What can we do? Well… I can make a micro feast and I can make the table pretty and… oh… ok… i have a few candles! I can use these! We can light them as we say what we’re thankful for!”

It wasn’t much—just a tired mama’s feeble effort to give her kids something rather than nothing.

This week though, leading up to Thanksgiving, the thing at the top of my boys’ minds was ✨the candles.✨It was all they talked about. “We’re doing the candles, right mom?” “I can’t wait to do the candles!” “Can I set the candles up yet?” “Is it time to set the candles up?” “When can I do the candles?” It was such a big deal that when we realized this morning that we didn’t even have any on hand, Mark drove all over town to find some to make sure the tradition was kept. He was even prepared to make some himself if it had to be done. Why?

Because that simple effort had become a cherished tradition.

One that would be terribly missed!

Sometimes I feel bad that my kids have never experienced a big Thanksgiving gathering. They don’t know what it’s like to sit around a massive table surrounded by cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. All they know is Mama’s tiny version. I can’t compete with the “big Thanksgiving.” I do my best to give them what I can, but during this season of child-rearing—sometimes all of those efforts feel in vain.

This afternoon, we sat around the table, took turns expressing gratitude, and lit our candles one by one. We ate. Kids were kids. Rambunctious and hard to manage. They barely touched their plates. The whole meal was over in less than 10 minutes. The three kids scrambled off to play and Mark had to make a phone call, so I finished my meal at the table alone— knowing that when I was done a mountain of dishes waited for— drumroll please— yours truly.

Honestly, there was no grand Hallmark element to this day. We tried to take naps, but we were unsuccessful. We attempted to soothe a cranky toddler and failed miserably. We coached a couple of rowdy, hyper boys through their first monopoly game… (Yikes! 😅) Before we knew it was time for the uphill battle of coaxing unwilling children through bedtime routines.

On the surface, sometimes the efforts truly seem in vain. Sometimes they feel too small, too chaotic, too exhausting to matter.

But… then there are these candles.

When the table was cleared and the dishes were done, (Thanks Mark! 😘) the candles stood in a cluster on the counter with cold, sooty wicks, reminding me that our little Thanksgivings do matter. When it’s all said and done, it’s not about all of the effort translating into some elusive ideal, or status quo version of Thanksgiving. It’s not about how many people show up and whether all the iconic dishes make it to the table. It’s really just about simple consistent offerings of love and service. Year by year, week to week, day to day. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, and carving out space for gratitude in the middle of life’s messiness. It’s about teaching our children, through example, that thankfulness isn’t something reserved for ideal circumstances. It’s something we cultivate, even in the simplest, every day, nitty-gritty, real-life moments.

The candles, with their little flames of gratitude, remind me that traditions don’t have to be grand to be meaningful, and that love is woven into the effort to create moments of joy and thankfulness, no matter the season.

These are our Thanksgivings—imperfect, unpolished, and… ours. And for that, I am thankful.