On a chilly autumn night, my family sat together on a firm, wooden pew in our small New England church. At home, the giant turkey thawed in an ice-water bath in the kitchen sink. My mother’s and grandmother’s pies lined the counter. We’d driven 45 minutes to the Thanksgiving Eve service that night, a tradition for our family and our little Lutheran congregation.
The service began one of my favorite seasons of the church year. A colorful cornucopia rested on the altar, overflowing with gourds and flint corn and rust-hued flowers. Wedged between my two younger sisters, I settled in as the robust tones of the organ summoned us to worship.
And then the music swelled. The organist’s hands and feet drew the majestic melody forth as we stood, compelled by the music, and sang with gusto. Now thank we all our God with heart and hands and voices. Warm and snuggled beside my family, bathed in music of praise, my brown eyes welled with tears. Even as a child I realized: I have so much for which to be thankful.
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