Thanksgiving morning is quiet in our house. There’s no rush, no noise, no clatter of dishes or laughter from the other room—just the gentle hum of the oven warming the air, the smell of bread baking filling the kitchen, and the sound of two hearts trying their best to be grateful, even when life looks different than we once imagined.
It used to ache, that silence. Holidays are supposed to be loud, full, bursting with people and tradition. But over time, I’ve come to realize that grace lives here too—in the stillness, in the simplicity, in the quiet moments that most people rush past.
This morning, I looked across the table at Tim, his coffee steaming between his hands, and I felt something that words hardly touch—a deep, quiet gratitude. Not for the way things could be, or used to be, but for this moment. For us. For the love that has endured every storm and still holds steady.
Thanksgiving looks different for everyone. For some, it’s a house full of family. For others—like us—it’s a quiet table for two. But what I’ve learned is that thankfulness doesn’t depend on the crowd around the table; it’s found in the heart that still chooses to see beauty, even in the smallest of things.
I’m thankful this morning for the peace that comes after so many hard years of chaos. For the way we’ve learned to find joy in simplicity. For the laughter that sometimes sneaks in between moments of exhaustion and fear. For the way Tim still smiles, still tries, still reaches for hope, even when the world feels small and heavy.
There are days when his battle with depression, anxiety, and PNES feels endless. The shaking, the exhaustion, the invisible fight that no one else can see—it takes so much strength just to keep showing up. And yet, he does. Every day.
That’s what I’m most thankful for. Not the picture-perfect holiday scenes we once thought we needed, but the quiet courage that fills the room even when it’s just the two of us. The faith that has kept us standing when life tried to knock us down. The grace that reminds me that even in the loneliness, we’re never truly alone.
God has been here through it all—through the fear, the tears, the waiting, the unknowns. He’s been sitting at this table with us, turning our small offerings of gratitude into something holy. And even on the days when joy feels far away, I can still feel His peace. It’s soft. It’s steady. It’s enough.
Holidays used to make me ache for what was missing—the full house, the laughter, the noise. But now, I see what’s present. The stillness. The quiet. The closeness. The love that has grown stronger not in celebration, but in perseverance.
So today, I will be thankful for the quiet. I will be thankful for the peace that sits beside us. I will be thankful for a God who sees us right where we are—two people sitting at a small table, holding on to hope and to each other.
I will thank Him for the unseen blessings:
For mornings when Tim feels well enough to laugh.
For afternoons when the anxiety stays silent.
For nights when the seizures stay away.
For grace that never runs out, even when our strength does.
And I will thank Him for love—real love—the kind that isn’t about perfect moments, but about presence. The kind that sits beside you when life gets hard and says, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maybe this isn’t the Thanksgiving we pictured years ago, but maybe it’s the one that matters most. Because here, at this little table, I see what gratitude really means. It’s not found in abundance—it’s found in awareness. It’s looking at what we have, instead of what we’ve lost. It’s seeing that God has been faithful through every season, even the lonely ones.
Today, I’ll light a candle on our table. Not for show, not for guests, but as a small reminder that light still exists in the quiet places. I’ll bow my head and whisper, “Thank You, Lord, for this life—exactly as it is.”
Because even though it’s just the two of us, we are surrounded by love that can’t be measured. We are held by grace that can’t be explained. And we are seen by a God who knows the ache of solitude and fills it with His presence.
So if your Thanksgiving looks a little like ours—quiet, simple, maybe even lonely—know this: there’s beauty here. There’s holiness in the hush. There’s peace in the stillness.
You don’t need a crowded table to give thanks. You just need a heart that remembers the One who still provides, still loves, still holds everything together.
So today, I am thankful for this—
For coffee and calm.
For resilience and rest.
For a love that’s weathered storms and still stands strong.
For a Savior who never leaves the table, even when no one else comes.
This Thanksgiving, I’m learning that gratitude isn’t loud—it’s lived. It’s not always found in celebration—it’s found in survival. It’s found in two people still choosing each other, still choosing faith, still choosing to say, “Thank You.”
And that, I think, is the most beautiful kind of Thanksgiving there is.
Happy Thanksgiving—from our quiet table to yours.
May you find peace in your solitude, joy in your small moments, and comfort in knowing that love still lives here—always.
No comments:
Post a Comment