Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving mornings in my world always follow the same pattern. The smell of cinnamon and yeast hot from the oven. The trees, lost in mist on the opposite shore. The sun striking gold from that mist as it begins to clear the tops of the trees, then hot molten silver as it rises higher into the morning. Today the air is soft, almost warm, as I stand in the sunlight on the deck. A small flight of swallows dances and scatters around me and a large gull circles slowly overhead wondering if there is anything for him in the flurry below. The usual serenade of song birds and winter ducks touches the absolute quiet of the morning and the sunlight, finally burning through the last of the mist, bridges the dark water of the inlet from shore to shore in a shimmering path of light. Is it just me or does this morning seem to be a bit more precious than the one yesterday? Same trees, same sunlight, same birds, same morning mist, same steady unchanging rhythm of life. And yet, this morning, the rhythm is a bit sweeter, a bit more cherished.

For this place, I give thanks.
For this peace, I give thanks.
For the family and friends with whom I share it, I give thanks.
For those who secure this for me through their service and sacrifice, I give thanks.
For He who’s Grace has blessed me and this nation, I give thanks.