Thanksgiving Best Quotes

Thanksgiving is inseparable from true prayer; it is almost essentially connected with it. One who always prays is ever giving praise, whether in ease or pain, both for prosperity and for the greatest adversity. He blesses God for all things, looks on them as coming from Him, and receives them for His sake- not choosing nor refusing, liking or disliking,anything, but only as it is agreeable or disagreeable to His perfect will.

Consider a turkey that is fed every day. Every single feeding will firm up the bird’s belief that it is the general rule of life to be fed every day by friendly members of the human race “looking out for its best interests,” as a politician would say. On the afternoon of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something unexpected will happen to the turkey. It will incur a revision of belief.*

Of course you could do more - you can always do more, and you should do more - but still, the important things is to do what you can, whenever you can. You just do your best, and that's all you can do. Too many people use the excuse that they don't think they can do enough, so they decide they don't have to to do anything. There's never a good excuse for not doing anything - even if it's just to sign something, or send a small contribution, or invite a newly settled refugee family over for Thanksgiving.

I always think it's funny when Indians celebrate Thanksgiving. I mean, sure, the Indians and Pilgrims were best friends during the first Thanksgiving, but a few years later, the Pilgrims were shooting Indians. So I'm never quite sure why we eat turkey like everybody else.

We return to you, O earth, the things which you have given us willingly and most graciously; with our hearts, hands and minds, in the best way we know how.

This was the best Thanksgiving we’ve had since Mom died.” I pulled my head up to see his expression. He was smiling, but it was tinged with sadness. “I’m glad I was here to see it.

One of the best holidays ever initiated especially in USA is THANKSGIVING. Giving thanks is the sacrifice that honors the LORD and HE blesses those who does.

Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay." And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught. And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

When surrounded by the ashes of all that I once cherished, despite my best efforts I can find no room to be thankful. But standing there amidst endless ash I must remember that although the ashes surround me, God surrounds the ashes. And once that realization settles upon me, I am what I thought I could never be ... I am thankful for ashes.

Best of all is to preserve everything in a pure, still heart, and let there be for every pulse a thanksgiving, and for every breath a song.

Some days are better than others, but every day can be the best day of your life by giving thanks.

Out of curiosity, why would you have tried to destroy the world?” “Ever attempted to hunt down a parking space at Christmas? Buy a shirt in a store the day after Thanksgiving? Those two things alone will make you doubt the humanity of humans, and question if survival of the species is in anyone’s best interest. What are we fighting for, anyway? Better department store sales?

I always think it’s funny when Indians celebrate Thanksgiving. I mean, sure, the Indians and Pilgrims were best friends during that first Thanksgiving, but a few years later, the Pilgrims were shooting Indians. So I’m never quite sure why we eat turkey like everybody else. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “What do Indians have to be so thankful for?” “We should give thanks that they didn’t kill all of us.

Keep quiet and say one's prayers—certainly not merely the best, but the only things to do if one would be truly happy; but, ashamed of asking when I have received so much, the only form of prayer I would use would be a form of thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving - fall's finale. Best damn holiday of the year in my worldly estimation.

Nana’s oven-baked fried chicken cut off the bone (with plenty of ketchup) was a huge hit. So were Thanksgiving turkey bathed in gravy and Nana’s Passover brisket

 'But it's all too late...my virility's gone and marriage is impossible. My life has certainly been a failure. The best thing I can do,' sighed M. Folantin, 'is to go to bed and sleep.' And as he turned back the sheets and arranged his pillows, his soul offered up a thanksgiving in celebration of the tranquilising benefits of an obliging bed.

I’m an old man, now. I’ve been alone since my 17th birthday. I’d wanted to marry, have a bunch of kids, and maybe be a grandpa. The big family around the Thanksgiving table, laughing and pouring wine and cracking jokes and harmlessly teasing the missus—I wanted that. I wanted to do something good with my life—something right. I didn’t want what happened to Danny, my best childhood friend, to be the only mark I’d ever make in this world. But I thought it best not to fancy such hopes and dreams: a family, love. I’d been cursed by my best friend, and I thought it right not to inflict that curse on anyone who’d be foolish enough to love me.

The next day, eating a turkey sandwich with salt and mayonnaise, Rebecca decided Thanksgiving was the best holiday, although she had little to choose from: her family never celebrated Hanukkah but her father was militant about ignoring Christmas and insisted they spend December 25 eating Chinese takeout and going to the movies.

We thought about Thanksgiving, planned for Thanksgiving and talked of Thanksgiving for weeks beforehand, but the evening before the actual day was the best time of all. Then the house seethed with children and dogs, with friends and cooks, and with delightful smells of baking pie, turkey stuffing and coffee. Every time the doorbell rang we put on another pot of coffee and washed the cups and by the time we went to bed we were so nervous and flighty that when accidentally bumped or brushed against, we buzzed and lit up like pin-ball machines.

A bold silkworm has left the safety of the mulberry and parchment cradle. It inches its way toward my pinkie nail. The little chalk-colored fella is slightly hairy and fat—its rotund body reminds me of how my stomach feels every Thanksgiving. Forget the AGG and the Black Bear Diner, these suckers are really living their best lives, crunching on mulberry while being gently warmed under lights

Thankfulness is far more than the key that tenderly and rather gracefully unshackles me from all that binds me. Rather, it is in fact the sledgehammer that shatters the shackles. And that’s the best kind of key I can think of.

La vanidad echa a perder las mejores cualidades. El talento y la bondad nunca pasan inadvertidos y, aunque así fuera, la conciencia de tenerlos y hacer buen uso de ellos debería bastar. Las virtudes quedan ensalzadas por la modestia.

Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks,' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

Thanksgiving Jokes Q: Who is never hungry at Thanksgiving? A: The turkey because he is always stuffed! Q: What’s the best thing to put into an apple pie? A: Your teeth! Q: Why did the Pilgrims want to come to America in the spring? A: It was rumored that April showers bring Mayflowers

The con is in the DNA of this country, which was founded on the idea that it is good, important, and even noble to see an opportunity to profit and take whatever you can. The story is as old as the first Thanksgiving. Both the con man and his target want to take advantage of a situation; the difference between them is that the con man succeeds. The financial crisis of 2008 was an extended, flamboyant demonstration of the fact that one of the best bids a person can make for financial safety in America is to get really good at exploiting other people. This has always been true, but it is becoming all-encompassing. And it’s a bad lesson to learn the way millennials did--just as we were becoming adults.

Now then, now then,” came the Cabby’s voice, a good firm, hardy voice. “Keep cool everyone, that’s what I say. No bones broken, anyone? Good. Well there’s something to be thankful for straight away, and more than anyone could expect after falling all that way. Now, if we’ve fallen down some diggings—as it might be for a new station on the Underground—someone will come and get us out presently, see! And if we’re dead—which I don’t deny it might be—well, you got to remember that worse things ’appen at sea and a chap’s got to die sometime. And there ain’t nothing to be afraid of if a chap’s led a decent life. And if you ask me, I think the best thing we could do to pass the time would be to sing a ’ymn.” And he did. He struck up at once a harvest thanksgiving hymn, all about crops being “safely gathered in.” It was not very suitable to a place which felt as if nothing had ever grown there since the beginning of time, but it was the one he could remember best. He had a fine voice and the children joined in; it was very cheering. Uncle Andrew and the Witch did not join in.

And historians have now discovered an even earlier Thanksgiving than the 1621 Plymouth celebration that English-American historians made famous. Half a century before Plymouth, early American settlers celebrated Thanksgiving with the Timucua Indians in what is now Florida —the best evidence suggests that the settlers were Catholic rather than Protestant, and spoke Spanish rather than English. They dined on bean soup.

Hope is prayer’s second cousin, darkly dressed and hovering around the outside edge of the family photograph. If prayer is a plea to the Almighty for a precedented miracle—prayer’s memory is long—hope is a plea to nothing, to everything, to any possible refutation of the facts. It is tethered to the dreadful single-digit percentage, the medical equipment humming, the long sleepless night. Prayer can (or once could) deliver a miracle; hope can only give a body another week, maybe another month. Sometimes the dying can set goals and reach them: just let me see my son get married, my granddaughter turn ten, my family carve into the Thanksgiving turkey. Hope can outlast dress fittings, gift wrapping, and potato mashing, but it can’t deliver anything more. What hope does best is make plans. Sometimes those plans are to desperately avoid the worst.

Emotions aren’t a bug in the programming, something left over from your malfunctioning lizard brain or incomplete childhood. You do not have these weird, unwieldy emotions that happen mysteriously to you, and you simply need to tolerate them, like that crazy uncle you have to sit next to at Thanksgiving dinner. Your emotions aren’t a mistake; they are some of the best parts of you. Feelings aren’t a design flaw; they are divine in origin.

In all honesty, I should admit I have researched much of the scientific evidence refuting G-d’s existence, as a result of which I suspect I am a true believer in him the way I am in Santa. But I will unhesitatingly, and joyfully, O-Holy-Night his name between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, with the mutual understanding that as of Christmas Day, once the presents are opened, my relationship with him goes on hiatus until I camp out for best viewing of the Macy’s parade the following year.

When a man seats before his eyes the bronze face of his helmet and steps off from the line of departure, he divides himself, as he divides his ‘ticket,’ in two parts. One part he leaves behind. That part which takes delight in his children, which lifts his voice in the chorus, which clasps his wife to him in the sweet darkness of their bed. “That half of him, the best part, a man sets aside and leaves behind. He banishes from his heart all feelings of tenderness and mercy, all compassion and kindness, all thought or concept of the enemy as a man, a human being like himself. He marches into battle bearing only the second portion of himself, the baser measure, that half which knows slaughter and butchery and turns the blind eye to quarter. He could not fight at all if he did not do this.” The men listened, silent and solemn. Leonidas at that time was fifty-five years old. He had fought in more than two score battles, since he was twenty; wounds as ancient as thirty years stood forth, lurid upon his shoulders and calves, on his neck and across his steel-colored beard. “Then this man returns, alive, out of the slaughter. He hears his name called and comes forward to take his ticket. He reclaims that part of himself which he had earlier set aside. “This is a holy moment. A sacramental moment. A moment in which a man feels the gods as close as his own breath. “What unknowable mercy has spared us this day? What clemency of the divine has turned the enemy’s spear one handbreadth from our throat and driven it fatally into the breast of the beloved comrade at our side? Why are we still here above the earth, we who are no better, no braver, who reverenced heaven no more than these our brothers whom the gods have dispatched to hell? “When a man joins the two pieces of his ticket and sees them weld in union together, he feels that part of him, the part that knows love and mercy and compassion, come flooding back over him. This is what unstrings his knees. “What else can a man feel at that moment than the most grave and profound thanksgiving to the gods who, for reasons unknowable, have spared his life this day? Tomorrow their whim may alter. Next week, next year. But this day the sun still shines upon him, he feels its warmth upon his shoulders, he beholds about him the faces of his comrades whom he loves and he rejoices in their deliverance and his own.” Leonidas paused now, in the center of the space left open for him by the troops. “I have ordered pursuit of the foe ceased. I have commanded an end to the slaughter of these whom today we called our enemies. Let them return to their homes. Let them embrace their wives and children. Let them, like us, weep tears of salvation and burn thank-offerings to the gods. “Let no one of us forget or misapprehend the reason we fought other Greeks here today. Not to conquer or enslave them, our brothers, but to make them allies against a greater enemy. By persuasion, we hoped. By coercion, in the event. But no matter, they are our allies now and we will treat them as such from this moment. “The Persian!

Words pack power and these definitions are laden with values, often wildly idiosyncratic ones. Here’s an example, namely the ways I think about the word “competition”: (a) “competition”—your lab team races the Cambridge group to a discovery (exhilarating but embarrassing to admit to); (b) “competition”—playing pickup soccer (fine, as long as the best player shifts sides if the score becomes lopsided); (c) “competition”—your child’s teacher announces a prize for the best outlining-your-fingers Thanksgiving turkey drawing (silly and perhaps a red flag—if it keeps happening, maybe complain to the principal); (d) “competition”—whose deity is more worth killing for? (try to avoid).

Thanksgiving is an American holiday, but there’s nothing specifically American about it — we aren’t celebrating America, but American ideals. Its openness makes it available to anyone who feels like expressing thanks, and points beyond the crimes that made America possible, and the commercialization, kitsch, and jingoism that have been heaved onto the shoulders of the holiday. Thanksgiving is the meal we aspire for other meals to resemble. Of course most of us can’t (and wouldn’t want to) cook all day every day, and of course such food would be fatal if consumed with regularity, and how many of us really want to be surrounded by our extended families every single night? (It can be challenge enough to have to eat with myself.) But it’s nice to imagine all meals being so deliberate. Of the thousand-or-so meals we eat every year, Thanksgiving dinner is the one that we try most earnestly to get right. It holds the hope of being a good meal, whose ingredients, efforts, setting, and consuming are expressions of the best in us. More than any other meal, it is about good eating and good thinking.

A text comes from Wallace. An actual text too, not a message through the forum app. I gave him my number awhile back, before Halloween, but not because I wanted him to call me or anything. I wrote it on the edge of our conversation paper in homeroom and slid it over to him because sometimes I see something and think, Wallace would laugh at that, I should send him a picture of it, but the messaging app is terrible with pictures and texting is way better. So he texts me now, and it’s a picture. A regular sweet potato pie. Beneath the picture, he says, I really like sweet potato pie. I text back, Yeah, so do I. Then he sends me a picture of his face, frowning, and says, No, you don’t understand. Then another picture, closer, just his eyes. I REALLY like sweet potato pie. A series of pictures comes in several-second intervals. The first is a triangular slice of pie in Wallace’s hand. Then Wallace holding that slice up to his face—it’s soft enough to start collapsing between his fingers. The next one has him stuffing the slice into his mouth, and in the final one it’s all the way in, his cheeks are puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and he’s letting his eyes roll back like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. I purse my lips to keep my laugh in, but my parents are fine-tuned to the slightest hint of amusement from me, and they both look up. “What’s so funny, Eggs?” Dad says. “Nothing,” I reply. Nothing makes a joke less funny than someone wanting in on it, especially parents. Wow, I say to Wallace. You really like sweet potato pie. He sends one more picture, this one with him embracing the pie pan, gazing lovingly at it. We’re to be married in the spring. An actual laugh escapes me. I really hope Wallace is having a better Thanksgiving than I am. It seems like he is. I take a picture of myself pouting and send it to him, saying, Aw, the cutest of cute couples. ... Another picture from Wallace waits for me. In this one, an empty pie pan littered withcrumbs sits on the floor beside a large knife. Wallace kneels next to it with morecrumbs on his sweater, expression horrified. NOOOO WHAT HAVE I DONE MY LOVE OUR MARRIAGE ’TIS ALL FOR NAUGHT I text back: Oh no!! Not sweet potato bride! Another picture comes: Wallace sprawled on the floor beside the pie pan, one arm thrown over his eyes. Let me only be accused of loving her too much. Wallace is definitely having a better Thanksgiving than me.

Confiding Julie, the first to get breasts, was cynical by Thanksgiving. Since no one else looked like the class slut, she was given the position, and she soon capitulated. She bleached her hair with Sun In, and started to mess around with boys who played in garage rock bands. Marianne, because she had long legs and a stem neck, rushed from school to her pliés at the barre, her hair in a bun, her head held high, to arch and sweep and bow toward the mirror until night fell. Cara delivered her audition piece flat, but since she had a wheat-colored rope of braid that brushed her waist, she would be Titania in the school play. Emily, bluntnosed and loud, could outact Cara in her sleep; when she saw the cast list she turned silently to her best friend, who handed her a box of milk chocolate creams. Tall, strong, bony Evvy watched Elise try out her maddening dimple. She cornered her outside class to ask her if she thought she was cute. Elise said yes, and Evvy threw a pipette of acid, stolen from the biology lab, in her face. Dodie hated her tight black hair that wouldn’t grow. She crept up behind blond Karen in home ec class and hacked out a fistful with pinking shears. Even Karen understood that it wasn’t personal.

MORE FROM GOD’S WORD A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord determines his steps. Proverbs 16:9 HCSB For everything created by God is good, and nothing should be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving. 1 Timothy 4:4 HCSB Should we accept only good from God and not adversity? Job 2:10 HCSB He is the Lord. Let him do what he thinks is best. 1 Samuel 3:18 NCV Sheathe your sword! Should I not drink the cup that the Father has given Me? John 18:11 HCSB Can you understand the secrets of God? His limits are higher than the heavens; you cannot reach them! They are deeper than the grave; you cannot understand them! His limits are longer than the earth and wider than the sea. Job 11:7-9 NCV Human plans, no matter how wise or well advised, cannot stand against the LORD. Proverbs 21:30 NLT SHADES OF GRACE The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn’t have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It’s for you I created the universe. I love you. Frederick Buechner A PRAYER FOR TODAY Lord, when I am discouraged, give me hope. When I am impatient, give me peace. When I face circumstances that I cannot change, give me a spirit of acceptance. In all things great and small, let me trust in You, Dear Lord, knowing that You are the Giver of life and the Giver of all things good, today and forever. Amen

How to Perform Visualization To practice visualization, sit in a comfortable position and relax any muscle tension. Once you feel relaxed, begin to visualize a pleasant scene. Imagine every aspect of the scene, using all of your senses. For instance, if you visualize sitting on a beach watching the ocean waves lapping against the shore, imagine first what the scene looks like, then imagine how the sand feels on your bare feet. Take a deep breath and imagine how the clean ocean air smells and tastes. Next, listen for the sounds of the waves and seagulls. As you become more involved with your mental picture, your body will relax and you will be able to let go of your worrisome thoughts. It often helps to make positive, affirmative statements, such as “I feel calm and relaxed,” while practicing to block negative thoughts more effectively. You could picture also an image that represents the tension you feel when you begin, such as a kite that is stuck in a tree getting more and more tangled. As you become relaxed, imagine the string loosening and the kite becoming free and soaring in the sky. With practice, you will be able to use this technique to help yourself relax whenever you feel distressed. Lori spent last Thanksgiving at her best friend Haley’s house. Most of the members of Haley’s large, extended family were there. Everyone was talking at once, the children were running around, and Lori felt completely overwhelmed. It was so different from her quiet house. As she felt herself getting more agitated and anxious, she went upstairs to the bathroom and began to visualize herself at her family’s quiet cabin. She heard the wind rustling through the leaves and the chirping of birds. She smelled the soil and felt the coolness of the air. Soon, she felt calm and relaxed and was able to return downstairs.

Have no anxiety about anything,' Paul writes to the Philippians. In one sense it is like telling a woman with a bad head cold not to sniffle and sneeze so much or a lame man to stop dragging his feet. Or maybe it is more like telling a wino to lay off the booze or a compulsive gambler to stay away from the track. Is anxiety a disease or an addiction? Perhaps it is something of both. Partly, perhaps, because you can't help it, and partly because for some dark reason you choose not to help it, you torment yourself with detailed visions of the worst that can possibly happen. The nagging headache turns out to be a malignant brain tumor. When your teenage son fails to get off the plane you've gone to meet, you see his picture being tacked up in the post office among the missing and his disappearance never accounted for. As the latest mid-East crisis boils, you wait for the TV game show to be interrupted by a special bulletin to the effect that major cities all over the country are being evacuated in anticipation of a nuclear attack. If Woody Allen were to play your part on the screen, you would roll in the aisles with the rest of them, but you're not so much as cracking a smile at the screen inside your own head. Does the terrible fear of disaster conceal an even more terrible hankering for it? Do the accelerated pulse and the knot in the stomach mean that, beneath whatever their immediate cause, you are acting out some ancient and unresolved drama of childhood? Since the worst things that happen are apt to be the things you don't see coming, do you think there is a kind of magic whereby, if you only can see them coming, you will be able somehow to prevent them from happening? Who knows the answer? In addition to Novocain and indoor plumbing, one of the few advantages of living in the twentieth century is the existence of psychotherapists, and if you can locate a good one, maybe one day you will manage to dig up an answer that helps. But answer or no answer, the worst things will happen at last even so. 'All life is suffering' says the first and truest of the Buddha's Four Noble Truths, by which he means that sorrow, loss, death await us all and everybody we love. Yet "the Lord is at hand. Have no anxiety about anything," Paul writes, who was evidently in prison at the time and with good reason to be anxious about everything, 'but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.' He does not deny that the worst things will happen finally to all of us, as indeed he must have had a strong suspicion they were soon to happen to him. He does not try to minimize them. He does not try to explain them away as God's will or God's judgment or God's method of testing our spiritual fiber. He simply tells the Philippians that in spite of them—even in the thick of them—they are to keep in constant touch with the One who unimaginably transcends the worst things as he also unimaginably transcends the best. 'In everything,' Paul says, they are to keep on praying. Come Hell or high water, they are to keep on asking, keep on thanking, above all keep on making themselves known. He does not promise them that as a result they will be delivered from the worst things any more than Jesus himself was delivered from them. What he promises them instead is that 'the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will keep your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.' The worst things will surely happen no matter what—that is to be understood—but beyond all our power to understand, he writes, we will have peace both in heart and in mind. We are as sure to be in trouble as the sparks fly upward, but we will also be "in Christ," as he puts it. Ultimately not even sorrow, loss, death can get at us there. That is the sense in which he dares say without risk of occasioning ironic laughter, "Have no anxiety about anything." Or, as he puts it a few lines earlier, 'Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say, Rejoice!

Praise Him and Thank Him Our prayers for you are always spilling over into thanksgivings. We can’t quit thanking God our Father and Jesus our Messiah for you! Colossians 1:3 MSG Sometimes, life can be complicated, demanding, and busy. When the demands of life leave us rushing from place to place with scarcely a moment to spare, we may fail to pause and say a word of thanks for all the good things we’ve received. But when we fail to count our blessings, we rob ourselves of the happiness, the peace, and the gratitude that should rightfully be ours. Today, even if you’re busily engaged in life, slow down long enough to start counting your blessings. You most certainly will not be able to count them all, but take a few moments to jot down as many blessings as you can. Then, give thanks to the Giver of all good things: God. His love for you is eternal, as are His gifts. And it’s never too soon—or too late—to offer Him thanks. The best way to show my gratitude to God is to accept everything, even my problems, with joy. Mother Teresa The act of thanksgiving is a demonstration of the fact that you are going to trust and believe God. Kay Arthur The game was to just find something about everything to be glad about—no matter what it was. You see, when you’re hunting for the glad things, you sort of forget the other kind. Eleanor H. Porter God is worthy of our praise and is pleased when we come before Him with thanksgiving. Shirley Dobson God has promised that if we harvest well with the tools of thanksgiving, there will be seeds for planting in the spring. Gloria Gaither MORE FROM GOD’S WORD Thanks be to God for His indescribable gift. 2 Corinthians 9:15 HCSB Therefore as you have received Christ Jesus the Lord, walk in Him, rooted and built up in Him and

OUR ACTIONS AND OUR BELIEFS As you have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in Him, rooted and built up in Him and established in the faith, as you have been taught, abounding in it with thanksgiving. Colossians 2:6-7 NKJV As Christians, we must do our best to make sure that our actions are accurate reflections of our beliefs. Our theology must be demonstrated, not only by our words but, more importantly, by our actions. In short, we should be practical believers, quick to act whenever we see an opportunity to serve God. We may proclaim our beliefs to our hearts’ content, but our proclamations will mean nothing—to others or to ourselves—unless we accompany our words with deeds that match. The sermons that we live are far more compelling than the ones we preach. So remember this: whether you like it or not, your life is an accurate reflection of your creed. If this fact gives you cause for concern, don’t bother talking about the changes that you intend to make—make them. And then, when your good deeds speak for themselves—as they most certainly will—don’t interrupt. Although God causes all things to work together for good for His children, He still holds us accountable for our behavior. Kay Arthur Either God’s Word keeps you from sin, or sin keeps you from God’s Word. Corrie ten Boom A TIMELY TIP How can you guard your steps? By walking with Jesus every day of your life.

Live simply, share your wealth with others.

March 5 Wearing our Crown Well Children’s children are a crown to the aged…—Proverbs 17:6 Oh, the sting of it! We spend our best years taking our children from cradle to college, making our mistakes and learning our lessons. Now that we are old and full of wisdom we are regarded as irrelevant by the (untried) generation that is raising our precious grand-children. Even though I vow that I will never do it again, sometimes the words just slip out: “When the kids (you kids) were little, we did so-and-so.” Most often my helpful hint or amusing anecdote is greeted with a glazed look and several seconds of polite silence that most definitely do not say, How fascinating. Tell me more. Yet Scripture affirms the value of one generation passing on its wisdom to the next. So what do we do? Fortunately the Bible not only teaches us the “what” of God’s principles, but also the how. In its pages we can learn how the process is done, and what we might be doing wrong. As of today, this is what I am learning: My attitude is more important than my words: A kind-hearted woman gains respect (Proverbs 11:16). When I speak, my words need to be kind and wise: Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according their needs (Ephesians 4:29a). Don’t sweat the small stuff. Take the long view. Think and say the best: If anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8b). Praying for my children and grand-children is one of the most important jobs I have. God is on the throne. He loves them (and me) and his plan is good. Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Do not be anxious about anything but in everything, by prayers and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God (Philippians 4:4a-6).

REFUSE TO WORRY! In this world there will always be something enticing you to worry. That is the nature of a fallen, fractured planet: Things are not as they should be. So the temptation to be anxious is constantly with you, trying to worm its way into your mind. The best defense is continual communication with Me, richly seasoned with thanksgiving. Awareness of My Presence fills your mind with Light and Peace, leaving no room for fear. This awareness lifts you up above your circumstances, enabling you to see problems from My perspective. Live close to Me! Together we can keep the wolves of worry at bay.

Dear Rocky, Here I am taking my pencil in my hand to say hello, hoping you are in the best of health, both physically and mentally. As for me, I am fine thanks to Almighty God. The weather in the valley is in the shits. It's been raining since Thanksgiving and here it is almost at the end of December and it's still raining. Instead of growing a prick, I think I'm going to grow a tail, like a tadpole. Ha, ha, ha!

Consider a turkey that is fed every day. Every single feeding will firm up the bird’s belief that it is the general rule of life to be fed every day by friendly members of the human race “looking out for its best interests,” as a politician would say. On the afternoon of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something unexpected will happen to the turkey. It will incur a revision of belief.

On November 22nd, 2018, my mother Vernita Lee passed away. I was conflicted about our relationship up until the very end. The truth is, it wasn't until I became successful that my mother started to show more interest in me. I wrestled with the question of how to take care of her - what did I owe the woman who gave me life, The bible says 'honor thy father and mother', but what did that actually mean? I decided one of the ways I could honor her would be to help care for her financially ... but there was never any real connection. I would say that the audience who watched me on television knew me better than my mother did. When her health began to decline a few years ago, I knew I needed to prepare myself for her transition. Just a few days before Thanksgiving my sister Patricia called to tell me she thought it was time. I flew to Milwaukee ... I tried to think of something to say, at one point I even picked up the manual left by the hospice care people. I read their advice thinking the whole time, how sad it was that I, Oprah Winfrey, who had spoken to thousands of people one on one should have to read a hospice manual to figure out what to say to my mother. When it was finally time to leave, something told me it would be the last time I'd ever see her but as I turned to go, the words I needed to say still wouldn't come. All I could muster was 'bye, I'll be seeing you' and I left for, ironically, a speaking engagement. On the flight home the next morning a little voice in my head whispered what I knew in my heart to be true: "you are going to regret this, you haven't finished the work". ... I turned around and went back to Milwaukee. I spent another day in that hot room and still no words came. That night I prayed for help. In the morning I meditated, and as I prepared to leave the bedroom I picked up my phone and noticed the song that was playing - Mahalia Jackson's 'Precious Lord'. If ever there was a sign, this was it. I had no idea how Mahalia Jackson appeared on my playlist. As I listened to the words, Precious Lord, take my hand Lead me on, let me stand. I am tired, I'm weak, I am worn Lead me on to the light, Take my hand, precious Lord And lead me home. I suddenly knew what to do. When I walked into my mothers room I asked if she wanted to hear the song. She nodded, and then I had another idea. I called my friend Wintley Phipps, a preacher and gospel artist, and asked him to sing Precious Lord to my dying mother. Over FaceTime from his kitchen table he sang the song a cappella and then prayed that our family would have no fear, just peace. I could see that my mother was moved. The song and the prayer had created a sort of opening for both of us. I began to talk to her about her life, her dreams, and me. Finally the words were there. I said, "It must have been hard for you, not having an education, not having a skill, not knowing what the future held. When you became pregnant, I'm sure a lot of people told you to get rid of that baby." She nodded. "But you didn't", I said. "And I want to thank you for keeping this baby". I paused, "I know that many times you didn't know what to do. You did the best you knew how to do and that's okay with me. That is okay with me. So you can leave now, knowing that it is well. It is well with my soul. It's been well for a long time." It was a sacred, beautiful moment, one of the proudest of my life. As an adult I'd learned to see my mother through a different lens; not as the mother who didn't care for me, protect me, love me or understand anything about me, but as a young girl still just a child herself; scared, alone, and unequipped to be a loving parent. I had forgiven my mother years earlier for not being the mother I needed, but she didn't know that. And in our last moments together I believe I was able to release her from the shame and the guilt of our past. I came back and I finished the work that needed to be done.

Gratitude is best refined through the fires of adversity.

I recently read about a man who kept a Thanksgiving journal for his wife. What a great idea. So starting that day, I kept a Thanksgiving journal for Margaret. I paid attention to the things my wife was doing that touched my heart. I also recorded the attributes, characteristics, and qualities I appreciated in her, writing them down secretly every day. By the end of that year, I’d filled an entire journal. When the following Thanksgiving rolled around, I surprised her by giving her the journal. It made her cry, and she told me it was the best gift she’d ever received. What was most interesting is that the whole process affected me even more than it did her. Creating the journal prompted me to look for all the positive things I could find in my wife, which directed my focus away from anything negative. It was a great win for both of us.

March 4 Morning REFUSE TO WORRY! In this world there will always be something enticing you to worry. That is the nature of a fallen, fractured planet: Things are not as they should be. So the temptation to be anxious is constantly with you, trying to worm its way into your mind. The best defense is continual communication with Me, richly seasoned with thanksgiving. Awareness of My Presence fills your mind with Light and Peace, leaving no room for fear. This awareness lifts you up above your circumstances, enabling you to see problems from My perspective. Live close to Me! Together we can keep the wolves of worry at bay.

God is the greatest of all. The best teacher you can ever have.

P—Praise: Thanksgiving is one of the most important aspects of prayer. It’s not just a means of warming up (or buttering up). It’s not just a preamble before getting down to what we really came to say. Gratitude to God for who He is and what He’s already done should thread throughout every prayer because ultimately His name and His fame are the only reasons any of this matters. R—Repentance: God’s real desire, in addition to displaying His glory, is to claim your heart and the hearts of those you love. So prayer, while it’s certainly a place to deal with the objectives and details we want to see happening in our circumstances, is also about what’s happening on the inside, where real transformation occurs. Expect prayer to expose where you’re still resisting Him—not only resisting His commands but resisting the manifold blessings and benefits He gives to those who follow. Line your strategies with repentance: the courage to trust, and turn, and walk His way. A—Asking: Make your requests known. Be personal and specific. Write down details of your own issues and difficulties as they relate to the broader issue we discussed in that chapter, as well as how you perhaps see the enemy’s hand at work in them or where you suspect he might be aiming next. You’re not begging; you’ve been invited to ask, seek, and knock. God’s expecting you. He’s wanting you here. The best place to look is to Him. Y—Yes: “All of God’s promises,” the Bible says, “have been fulfilled in Christ with a resounding ‘Yes!’” (2 Cor. 1:20 nlt). You may not understand what all’s happening in your life right now, but any possible explanation pales in comparison to what you do know because of your faith in God’s goodness and assurances. So allow your prayer to be accentuated with His own words from Scripture, His promises to you that correspond to your need. (I’ll provide lots of options in each chapter to choose from.) There is nothing more powerful than praying God’s own Word. Praying like this, you can expect God to respond in accordance with His own sovereign, eternal will and His boundless love for you. Or as someone more clever than I has said . . . Prayer Releases All Your Eternal Resources I like that.

If it lays broken and discarded, I likely assumed it to be something to which I was entitled. If it remains pristine and cherished, I likely held it with a deep sense of thankfulness and abiding appreciation. And so we might ask which best describes those things that we possess, for the condition of those things describe the condition of our hearts as they have been shaped by the state of our attitude.

39 SYLVIA Victoria is dressed in a billowy flower-printed dress that I found in her closet. Something tight is out of the question because of her feeding tube and it would not have been flattering with the way she often slumps in the chair. I have a feeling the dress used to be more snug on her, but now it hangs loose on her bony frame. I also spent some time on her hair. I combed it out and put in the oil treatment again, and it looks lush and shiny. I thought about trying to tie it back, but I think it’s most flattering when it’s loose. Now I’m working on her makeup. I put a layer of pink lipstick on her crooked lips, and now I’m doing my best to cover the scar on her left cheek. I don’t think there’s anything I could do to conceal it entirely, but it looks a lot better than when I started. Victoria is allowing me to put on the makeup, but she looks utterly unenthusiastic. I can’t entirely blame her. As much as I chatter about how much fun this will be, I’m not looking forward to it either. Part of me wants to duck out and leave Victoria and Adam to have Thanksgiving alone as a married couple. But the more I read of her diary, I feel like that is not what Victoria wants. She doesn’t want to be alone with him. And I don’t want her to be alone with him either. “There.” I dab on the last of the concealer—I’ve used half the container and the scar is still very visible. “All done.” Victoria just stares at me. “You look beautiful.” I grab the mirror I found in the bathroom and hold it up to her face. “Take a look.” Victoria glances briefly at the mirror, then turns away. She never seems very happy when I show her a mirror. She either looks away or frowns at herself. Sometimes she touches the scar. I wish Adam had shelled out for her to get plastic surgery. I know he thinks she doesn’t notice, but he’s wrong. “I just…” I chew on my lip. “I want you to know that I’m not going to… I mean, Adam is your husband, not mine. I’m going to tell him tonight that I’m not going to…” For the first time since I came in here, Victoria’s eyes show a spark of interest. “It’s not right,” I say. “It was a mistake and I’m sorry. I’ll tell him tonight.” “Be…” She’s focusing so hard on what she wants to say that some drool comes out of the right side of her mouth, smearing her lipstick. “Be… care…” For once, I know exactly what she’s trying to say. Be careful. I leave Victoria to find some nail polish in the bathroom. That’s the last thing I need to complete her look for the evening. I want Victoria to look really beautiful tonight. Like her old self, as much as possible. It’s important to me. Maggie must have moved the nail polish when she was cleaning. I look in the usual place in the closet within the bathroom, but it’s not there anymore. I search through the other shelves, trying to find the bag of multicolor nail polish tubes. I find more makeup, but not polish. But one thing I do find surprises me. It’s a black bag of medications. I never was sure where Adam kept Victoria’s medications. He always just seems to have them ready to administer. I pick up a bottle from the black plastic bag and see the date of the most recent refill. It was less than a month ago.

First of all, remember that happiness is in the little things: it’s Thanksgiving with your family, it’s reading your favourite book on a park bench whilst enjoying the summer sun, it’s listening to a song that you’ve always loved even though you’ve heard it a million times, it’s the practice basketball game with your father, the coffee with your best friend, and the movie with the one you love. Happiness comes from the small things we do every day. Don’t take them for granted.

P—Praise: Thanksgiving is one of the most important aspects of prayer. It’s not just a means of warming up (or buttering up). It’s not just a preamble before getting down to what we really came to say. Gratitude to God for who He is and what He’s already done should thread throughout every prayer because ultimately His name and His fame are the only reasons any of this matters. R—Repentance: God’s real desire, in addition to displaying His glory, is to claim your heart and the hearts of those you love. So prayer, while it’s certainly a place to deal with the objectives and details we want to see happening in our circumstances, is also about what’s happening on the inside, where real transformation occurs. Expect prayer to expose where you’re still resisting Him—not only resisting His commands but resisting the manifold blessings and benefits He gives to those who follow. Line your strategies with repentance: the courage to trust, and turn, and walk His way. A—Asking: Make your requests known. Be personal and specific. Write down details of your own issues and difficulties as they relate to the broader issue we discussed in that chapter, as well as how you perhaps see the enemy’s hand at work in them or where you suspect he might be aiming next. You’re not begging; you’ve been invited to ask, seek, and knock. God’s expecting you. He’s wanting you here. The best place to look is to Him. Y—Yes: “All of God’s promises,” the Bible says, “have been fulfilled in Christ with a resounding ‘Yes!’” (2 Cor. 1:20 nlt). You may not understand what all’s happening in your life right now, but any possible explanation pales in comparison to what you do know because of your faith in God’s goodness and assurances. So allow your prayer to be accentuated with His own words from Scripture, His promises to you that correspond to your need. (I’ll provide lots of options in each chapter to choose from.) There is nothing more powerful than praying God’s own Word.

Every time you go through a stressful time, (for me that would be a relapse with MS), you will come back either bitter or stronger. The choice is yours. If you allow stimuli into your life that get you down and are bitter about it, then guess what happens to your mind? You guessed it, you come back a little darker and jaded in your outlook. But let’s say that instead, you decide to put on Mandisa’s song “Overcomer” on your iphone as you get ready for the day. You sit and read a passage out of God’s Word and say a prayer of thanksgiving. Do you think there is any way you cannot start the day with sunshine in your soul? Don’t get me wrong, the relapse will still be there, but you will now have fed your spiritual muscles the spiritual protein they need to come back bigger and stronger for the next battle against your chronic illness. But just like building muscles, you will have to be consistent in your training. When you don’t feel like it—pray. When you don’t want to—read the Bible. And when you don’t feel like it—smile. Because the God who made the universe is on your side and you cannot fail.

I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.” “Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile. “Yeah?” “Shut the hell up about potatoes.” “But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.” “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while youeat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches. “I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive. I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?” He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.” Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.

It’s almost Thanksgiving,” she said. “You’re sure you want to stay here?” He shrugged. “Mel and Jack can’t leave—she has babies coming. Preacher and Paige are here—that’s family. If you want to go to Sam’s, I’ll do that with you. But I don’t want to go to L.A. yet.” “You aren’t keeping me a secret from the Valenzuelas, are you?” “God, no, I’ve told them all, every one of them. I even told them to look out—you’re bilingual and tricky. But I’m not ready to share you. In my mother’s Catholic household, it would be separate bedrooms because we’re not married. Even though I’m thirty-seven and she knows we’re living together—it’s her Catholic home. We could stay in a hotel, but I think we’ll visit later. Just give me a little more time. I’ve never been this happy in my life and all day long I look forward to when we’re finally alone together.” He played with the hair that fell to her shoulder. “I’m greedy. This is the best my life has ever been.” “What about Christmas?” she asked him. “What about it?” “Will your family be upset it we go to Dad’s for Christmas? Because my whole family plus Mel’s sister, brother-in-law and the kids will be there—and I want to be with them.” “Then that’s where we’ll be. We can join the Valenzuelas another time. You have to remember, mija—my family is so large that my parents don’t expect to have all the kids together with their own families every year. We’ll do Christmas with them another year.” Thanksgiving

For the briefest of moments, he paused with his hand on the brass knob of his door, eyes slipping closed to relive for one glorious moment the sweet taste of Cait’s lips. An almost holy reverence settled while his breath stilled in his chest, making him realize all over again that in a mere two days, his very best friend would become his very own wife and lover. The grin returned, so wide he was certain his jaw would ache by the end of the day. Thanksgiving Day, indeed! By

My heart wasn’t where Mike Seaver’s was—or the bulk of the male population’s. I never got a DUI because I didn’t drink. The only thing I ever smoked was a ham for Thanksgiving. Maybe I would have had more free time to get into trouble with girls if I wasn’t so busy killing rats to feed my snakes. All I wanted was to find one girl and be with her for life. July 25, 1987 I really wish that I will meet someone that is so special, and wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her and who will be excited for me about my career and will not be interested in Kirk Cameron the actor, star of Growing Pains. I’m looking for someone who could be my best friend. Someone who is not the least bit phony but who is just so honest and open about her feelings and who genuinely cares about mine and wants to share her feelings with me. Not too long after I wrote that journal entry, I met a girl on the set. She came in for a quick guest role, and we began seeing each other off set. I grew very fond of her and her family—especially her father, who later became very instrumental in answering my questions about God. Within a year, my immaturity had made a royal mess of that relationship and left that sweet girl heartbroken and confused. She was the last girl I went out with until the most breathtaking woman in the world entered my life.

But Papa Bear couldn’t have been more wrong. The Thanksgiving Legend was coming on strong. Not more than ten or twelve miles away, at that very moment of that very day, in a dark, murky forest, the ground was shaking. From crane fly to croc, swamp creatures were quaking. Something was coming. The creatures were frantic. Something enormous. Something gigantic. It was Bigpaw, of course. He was bigger by far than Paul Bunyan’s horse, with shoulders like boulders, ditto his knees, with paws big as dumpsters and arms thick as trees. Out of the forest he came and he went, each footfall leaving a monster-sized dent. But Papa just scoffed and puffed out his chest. “Just forget about monsters and all of the rest. Because, my dears, I beg to suggest, when it comes to holidays, your Papa knows best.

Hello, there, young'uns!" he said, squeezing the cubs in a big bear hug. "Are you ready for our great Thanksgiving feast?" "Yes, Gramps," said Sister. "But, you know, we should also think about all our Thanksgiving blessings." "I always do!" said Gramps, leading them inside and into the kitchen. "And the Thanksgiving blessing I think about most is Grizzly Gran, herself--the best cook in Bear Country!" "Now, Gramps," scolded Gran. "Stop your nonsense and help get the food on.

But Papa just scoffed and puffed out his chest. “Just forget about monsters and all of the rest. Because, my dears, I beg to suggest, when it comes to holidays, your Papa knows best. I’m a bear for holidays! I like ‘em all-- whether in winter, spring, summer, or fall! “And your Pa has perfect holiday habits. On Easter, I always make way for rabbits, and say a small poem for spring and rebirth. On Earth Day, of course, I cherish the Earth. “On Christmas Day, I think of others-- fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. On Arbor Day, I walk to the trees. “Hello, tree!” But Thanksgiving’s the best holiday, if you please-- the one that for me is really the winner. Why? Thanksgiving dinner!”

Tad squeezed through the line of visitors in the White House corridor. He looked them over. Most were wounded soldiers, job seekers, and widows who had lost husbands in the Civil War. For a few hours every afternoon, Tad’s father, Abraham Lincoln, the president of the United States, would do his best to meet with them. Tad dashed to the staircase, blocking the path of a young woman with a baby. “Halt!” Tad ordered in his deepest voice. “Five cents to pass. The proceeds help wounded soldiers in the Union army.” The woman burst into tears. “What’s wrong?” Tad asked, startled. “Recently I was very ill,” she explained, wiping her eyes. “My husband left his army post to come visit me. He went back, but they arrested him for desertion anyway.” Her lips trembled. “He’s to be shot tomorrow.” Tad winced. “Oh, that’s dreadful sad, ma’am.” “I pray the president will pardon him.” “Oh, he will,” Tad said, his face brightening. “Pa’s a good man.” “There are so many people ahead of me,” the woman said anxiously. “I’m afraid I’ll be too late.” Suddenly there was a commotion on the stairway above. Tad looked around and noticed one of the president’s aides, his mouth tightly drawn, coming down toward him. “Your father wishes to see you,” the man said. “Immediately.” Tad turned back to the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked. “Elizabeth Miller.” Tad nodded and hurried up the stairs. As he rounded a corner he glanced over his shoulder. The hall was empty. By his father’s office, the table with the visitors’ calling cards stood unguarded. Tad quickly found Mrs. Miller’s and placed it at the top of the pile.

The next day, dressed in his best clothes, Tad sat with his mother for Thanksgiving dinner in the White House. “Before we enjoy this bountiful feast of ham, hen, and vegetables,” the president said, rising to speak to the guests, “we should take a moment to remember all those who are helping to hold this country together…including fruit-stand vendors.” Tad grinned. “I think it also fitting,” he continued, “being our first national Thanksgiving, that I read from my proclamation, the document that created this holiday.” Tad groaned and wriggled his feet. His mother touched his hand to still him. President Lincoln adjusted his glasses and began to read: “I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving.” He put down the proclamation and looked around the room. “Even in times of darkness and despair,” he said, “there are still many things for which to give thanks.” “There sure are!” Tad cried. The president smiled and sat down. He glanced over at Tad. “Looks like we’ll have a fine Thanksgiving, doesn’t it, Tadpole?” “Yes,” said Tad. “And Jack will, too!

Thanksgiving at Sea "Most of us will enjoy Thanksgiving Day ashore in the comfort of our home but some will be at sea, because they are working on some boat, barge or ship. Others will be out on the brine by design as passengers, now considered guests on cruise ships. What came to mind however, was my father who was a ship’s cook in the 1920’s, and the stories he shared with us. Best as I can tell, the year must have been somewhere around 1924 when his ship was in Shanghai, which is now China’s biggest city. Tied up at a rickety dock on the Huangpu River, he could see the famed waterfront promenade lined with the now famed colonial-style buildings. The time had come to butcher one of the penned goats, brought along for this expressed purpose. Being on a German freighter, Thanksgiving Day had no special meaning but stew made of goat meat was always a treat for the crew. Fast forward to the present… almost every single cruise ship at sea or in a foreign port, will celebrate Thanksgiving Day with a marvelous turkey dinner, plus joyful entertainment. Whether you celebrate the day with your significant other, or take along an entire gang of friends and family; Thanksgiving Day at sea will be far from the lonely day it once was. Holidays, including Thanksgiving are always especially festive at sea.

it her fault that the graveyard has the best dirt? She loves her plants! Just

Q: Why did the cranberries turn so red? A: They saw the salad dressing! Q: What was the Pilgrim’s favorite music? A: Plymouth rock! Q: What’s the best way to eat turkey on Thanksgiving? A: Gobble it. Q: What key do you use the most on Thanksgiving? A: A tur-key! Q: What did the turkey say when the Pilgrim grabbed him by the tail feathers? A: That’s the end of me! Q: What did the turkey say just before it was popped into the oven? A: I’m really stuffed.

Mom and Dad decided to drive out into the country to get some apple cider at Whipple’s Orchard. They asked if we wanted to come along. We said we’d rather stay home with Grandma. Then, as soon as they pulled out of the driveway, we begged Grandma to take us somewhere. “My turn! My turn! I want to visit her!” “Why, Liz, what a great choice! That’s Remember Allerton. She was your grandpa’s great-great-great-great-well, I forget exactly how many greats it was--aunt. She was one of the Pilgrims who came over on the Mayflower.” “Remember? What a weird name!” “That’s nothing! I know a dog named Sparkplug.” When you travel back in time, you have to put on the kind of clothes that people wore back then. If you don’t, they’ll think you’re really strange. “I have to wear three layers? I’ll bake!” “Trust me, Lenny. You’ll be happy to have them. No central heating, you know.” “Hey, I thought Pilgrims always wore black suits and big hats with buckles on them.” “Nope. They dressed like ordinary working people of their time--and they liked to wear colors, same as anybody else. Of course, on Sundays they put on their best suits and fancy collars.

Q: Why couldn’t the Pilgrims tell secrets on their farms? A: The corn had ears! Q: Why is the number ten scared on Thanksgiving? A: Because seven ate (eight) nine! Q: When does Dracula eat turkey? A: At Fangsgiving! Q: Name two things you can’t eat for breakfast on Thanksgiving. A: Lunch and dinner. Q: Why can turkeys eat only a few bites at Thanksgiving? A: Because they are so stuffed. Q: What is the best thing to put into a pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving? A: Your teeth! HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Arthur thought Francine would make a good turkey. “Never!” said Francine. “I want to be the narrator. Besides, I have the loudest voice.” No doubt about that. Francine would be the narrator. Arthur showed Muffy a drawing of the turkey costume. “Lots of feathers,” said Arthur. “It’s a very glamorous role.” “Yuk! Vomitrocious!” squealed Muffy. “I should be the Indian princess. I have real braids.” “Brain, I’ve saved the most intelligent part for you,” explained Arthur. “No way will I be the turkey,” answered the Brain. “I’ll be the Indian chief.” “Buster, you’re my best friend,” began Arthur. “The part is real easy. Only one line, and it’s the best in the play.” “I want to be Governor Bradford,” said Buster. Arthur was so desperate that he asked Binky Barnes. “The turkey is a strong and powerful animal,” argued Arthuer. “Yeah, without saying a word it can make you look like a fool in front of the entire school,” said Binky. The play was only six days away. Where would Arthur find a turkey?

Let’s talk turkey,” said Arthur over the PA system at school. “The best part in the Thanksgiving play is still open. If you’re interested, please come to the office at once.” No one came to the office. In fact, the principal left the office, laughing. Arthur put posters in the cafeteria. He placed ads in the school paper. Nothing worked. Arthur had other problems, too. Muffy complained about everything. “I should be narrator; my parents are paying for the cast party!” she whined. Francine would not take off her movie-star glasses. “They’re good luck,” she explained, but she was having a hard time seeing what she was doing. Buster couldn’t remember his lines. “In 1620,” he recited, “we sailed to America on the cauliflower.

In The End of Jobs, Taylor Pearson calls this The Turkey Problem, inspired by a clever analogy found in Nassim Taleb’s Black Swan. Taleb writes: “Consider a turkey that is fed every day. Every single feeding will firm up the bird's belief that it is the general rule of life to be fed every day by friendly members of the human race ‘looking out for its best interests,’ as a politician would say. On the afternoon of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something unexpected will happen to the turkey. It will incur a revision of belief.” Bye-bye Mr. Turkey. The turkey thinks he’s safe, until he realizes at the last minute that he’s not. We tend to believe that working at big corporations keeps us safe. But in reality, it’s the job of the HR department to make you feel that way, even if it’s not true. Every day you work at a large corporation, you’re building up silent risk. One day, you might realize you’re a turkey. Do you remember a company called Lehman Brothers? I know it’s a distant memory for some, but before 2008 it was the 4th largest investment bank in the United States. Then it went bankrupt. Bye-bye.

Andrea is coming to pick me up in about thirty minutes to head to her folks' house for Thanksgiving. I've got buttery yeast rolls from Aimee's mom's old family recipe, my cranberry sauce with port and dried cherries, and a batch of spicy molasses cookies sandwiched with vanilla mascarpone frosting. I also have the makings for dried shisito peppers, which I will make there. Andrea's mom, Jasmin, is making turkey and ham, and braised broccoli and an apple pie, Andrea is doing a potato and celery root mash and a hilarious Jell-O mold that contains orange sherbet and canned mandarin oranges and mini marshmallows, and her dad, Gene, is making his mother's candied yams and sausage corn bread stuffing. Benji is cooking and serving most of the day at the group home where he grew up, and will come join us for dessert, bringing his chocolate pecan pie with bourbon whipped cream.

My daughters-in-law, you know..." she shrugs her rounded shoulders resignedly. "They are such sweet girls, good mothers, kind to me..." "And such bad cooks!" we all say in unison, the refrain of every Leftovers Brunch in our history. "Tell us," Benji says, all of us relishing the litany and details of failed dishes. "Well, Gina, you know, she is Italian, so she brings sausages in peppers, which smells like feet. And she takes the beautiful sausages that Kurt makes at the butcher shop and cooks them until they are like hard little rocks. Ellie, she is afraid of getting fat, so she makes cheesecake with no-fat Greek yogurt and Egg Beaters and fake sugar that tastes mostly of petrol. Lisa wanted to do stuffing, and it was so dry that you could barely choke it down. I had to make a second batch of gravy in the middle of dinner because everyone was trying to soak it so that it didn't kill us." "But you made that beautiful turkey, and those dumplings are like pillows," Andrea says. "And your famous German potato salad," Eloise says. "And all of those desserts from the bakery," I say, dreaming of crispy, sweet pastries, oozing custard and homemade jam and dolloped with whipped cream. "A good meal in spite of the girls." Lois beams, knowing that we all really mean our compliments.

Total retail sales rose 0.7 percent in November, as holiday shopping began, and that came despite a sharp tumble in gasoline prices that reduced the dollar value of sales at gas stations by 0.8 percent. Analysts had expected a rise of only 0.4 percent. Read narrowly, the results show that some survey data suggesting weak post-Thanksgiving Black Friday sales was misleading at best; retail trade groups said at the time that they believed consumers spread their spending more evenly through November than they have in the past, and that appears to hold up.

I want to add that I’m pretty sure Mr. Archer just had the best Thanksgiving he’s had in more than six years, but I don’t.

We have received too much from God to allow ourselves opportunities for unbelief. We have received too many gifts and privileges to allow a grumbling, murmuring heart to disqualify us of our destiny. In contrast, the thankful heart sees the best part of every situation. It sees problems and weaknesses as opportunities, struggles as refining tools, and sinners as saints in progress." Francis Frangipane

But first, please tell me your name. I really would like to know it.” “Sophia.” She looked up at him at last. “But my friends call me Sophie.” Sylvan smiled, being careful not to show his fangs this time. “I hope to someday call you that but I think I’d better stick to Sophia for now.” She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I was nasty to you earlier. I know you’re not exactly to blame for what’s happened and you’re just doing what you do, making a genetic trade or whatever. It’s just that…my sister is my best friend and I can’t stand the thought of never seeing her again.” “You’ll still see her,” Sylvan objected. “Kindred brides are allowed to return to their home planet on most of the major holidays.” “Great, so I get to see her for Christmas and Thanksgiving? Two or three days out of the year? Thanks a lot!” Sophia leaned forward and looked at him. “Let me tell you something—Liv and I have never gone a whole day without speaking to each other in our lives. Even when we were babies my mom said we would cry and cry if you took one of us out of the room, away from the other one. And after our parents died, we got even closer. So please try to understand. I love her—she’s all I have left and I just can’t lose her like this.” Sylvan nodded gravely. “I can see your point. There is a similar bond between Baird and myself. We have the same father and we’ve saved each other’s lives many times in battle. I would be sad to only see him a few days of the year.” “So you get it.” She touched his knee lightly for emphasis and Sylvan felt his shaft harden in response. “How would you feel if I was threatening to take your brother and best friend away from you for basically the rest of his life?” she asked earnestly. “I wouldn’t like it.” Sylvan shifted uncomfortably, hoping she couldn’t see the evidence of her effect on him in his tight black uniform pants. “I guess the only way around your dilemma is for you to be claimed by a warrior yourself. Then you could see your sister every day on our ship.” “Oh…oh, no!

There is a knock at the door and Mom answers it. “Hi, Joe, how are you doing?” “Terrific, I hope you have enough room in your refrigerator for this big bird! The Blisses send their best wishes.” Joe, a very thin wiry man, came close to stumbling over the threshold as he juggled the big, cold, slippery bird through the living room ‘round to our kitchen and into the refrigerator. “Thanks Joe, Happy Thanksgiving to you and all your family. Can you stay for a cup of coffee and some warm cookies?” “No thanks, I’m pressed for time and have a few more stops to make. I’ll see you at Christmas time.” We always saw Joe Lynch every Thanksgiving and Christmas making his rounds with the gift Turkeys from the Blisses. One year we saw him in the grocery store and he asked my Mom, “How many pounds should the bird be this year?” Whether Thanksgiving or Christmas, the gift birds were always appreciated and would always be stuffed with Grandma’s secret recipe dressing passed down from her family in Argentina. One of the secret ingredients is Gulden’s mustard. It just wouldn’t be the holidays without that heavenly aroma teasing our senses for hours.

Astonishingly, there is in the smallness of me sufficient space for God to insert the fullness of Himself. And because that reality is massive beyond all comprehension, the best I can do is be thankful beyond all measure so that God can use me beyond all restriction.

If we follow Paul's example, then, we will never overlook the monumental importance of praying for others. Prayer will never descend to a level where it is nothing more than a retreat house in which we find strength for ourselves, whether through the celebration of praise or through a mystic communion with God or through the relief of casting our cares upon the Almighty. Prayer may embrace all these elements, and more, but if we learn to pray with Paul, we will learn to pray for others. We will see it is part of our job to approach God with thanksgiving for others and with intercession for others. In short, our praying will be shaped by our profound desire to seek what is best for the people of God.

When we don’t receive what we pray for or desire, it doesn’t mean that God isn’t acting on our behalf. Rather, he’s weaving his story. Paul tells us to “continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving” (Colossians 4:2). Thanksgiving helps us to be grace-centered, seeing all of life as a gift. It looks at how God’s past blessings impact our lives. Watchfulness alerts us to the unfolding drama in the present. It looks for God’s present working as it unfolds into future grace.[1] Watch for the story God is weaving in your life. Don’t leave the desert. Corrie ten Boom’s father often reminded her, “The best is yet to come.”[2] [

Remember what you told me on Thanksgiving? How your father isn’t worth your anger and revenge? Well, that’s the best revenge right there, Garrett. Living well and being happy is how we get over the shit in our past. I was raped, and it was awful, but I’m not going to waste my time or energy either, not on some pathetic, screwed-up guy who couldn’t take no for an answer, or his pathetic friends who thought he deserved to be rewarded for his actions.

Yourfriend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace. When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay". And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart; For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unclaimed. When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit. For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught. And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know the flood also. For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing ofpleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.