The folks at National Review Online asked me for my favorite Thanksgiving tradition and so now there it sits amongst the ruminations of people mostly more famous than me. It’s at the very bottom of the last page, like how they save the biggest rocket for the very end of the fireworks display. Or like how it works out when they organize things alphabetically and your last name is “Woodlief.” Anyway, here’s an excerpt:
“We read somewhere that the Pilgrims survived on a few kernels of corn and were thankful, so we settled on an exquisite Thanksgiving torture wherein we set bowls of steaming, buttered, gravy-addled food in front of our children who have been begging to be fed for hours, and make them name their blessings before they can eat. One blessing for each kernel surreptitiously placed on your plate while you were hovering about the stove threatening to die if you didn’t get a spoonful of mashed potatoes right now.”
You can read the rest here. Don’t forget to scroll down. And Happy Thanksgiving. Meaning you should give thanks, no matter how crummy things feel. Not because you have a lot more good things, and a lot less suffering, than most people in the world, but because the good things you have are a gift. Even if you acquired them by dint of your cleverness and labor and charm, those qualities are themselves a gift, and if you aren’t thankful for them, if you begin to think they sprang from you, from the very precious and uniquely predestined wonder of you, then they will become curses. Trust me.
Thus endeth the sermon. Enjoy the turkey.