Thanksgiving in the Dark.

This time of year? It’s so dark when I get up in the mornings.

There is no sun peeking through the cracks in the blinds as I stumble my way out of our bedroom, the first of thousands of steps for the day.

The dark, it has this tendency to make you want to shelter down, to gather in, to cover up and resist a new day. There may not be many of us, really, who are grateful for the new day in the shadows of the morning.

When I drive to work in the mornings, I head West towards the mountains. There’s a coffee in my hand, a badge in my pocket, and shadows still cling to the edges of the morning. To the corners of my heart.

I still have yet to be thankful for the day. 

There’s this tendency, isn’t there, to allow the everyday beauties, the everyday gifts, of life to become mundane.

Your child’s laugh drifts through the house and you don’t notice.

Your fridge is full but you can’t find a thing to eat.

Your shirt is stained with fingerprints and you grumble at the hands that made them. 

When we are given something over and over again, we begin to forget that it’s a gift. To forget to breathe thanks. To forget to be thankful for the giver, most of all.

Those mountains, those Flatirons in front of me? They’ll take your breath away if you can see through the shadows. And if you open your ears, AND your heart, you’ll hear their song too.

“Day and night they never stop saying:

‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty,

who was, and is, and is to come.'”



The first steps of the day.

The mountains out my window.

The darkness in the morning of a new day.

The laughter of a child.

Each and every one a gift.

Each and every one crying out “Holy, holy, holy.”

But Jesus answered,

“I tell you, if these become silent,

the stones will cry out!”

This life, this day, it demands a song.

You have a job to do. I have a job to do. And if we don’t? The stones, they’ll do it instead.

Don’t you see? Don’t you hear it?

The mountains, they’re crying out. Your health, it’s crying out. The morning, it’s crying out.

Every good, perfect, beautiful thing is crying out.


If we choose not to be thankful, the days around us still sing the goodness of God. The goodness of the giver. 

On Thursday, many of us gathered with family and friends around food laden tables.

We met that cold morning with joy, eagerly pushing back the darkness to celebrate the new day.

And that day, hundreds of thousands of voices happily joined the “Holy, Holy, Holy” chorus. Grateful for grace, grateful for food, grateful for each other. 

But what about today?

The turkey is gone, the family has left, and the days again demand more than family and football and gratitude. 

Are you still singing?

This morning, I got in my car and headed West towards the mountains. The glow of Thanksgiving has faded. The shadows of the morning again try to cling to my heart.

Today, I hear the song.

And I sing. 


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