Thanksgiving in India means sharing the evening with Indian friends. They’ll make curry. I’ll make mashed potatoes. It means I rise in the morning, like any other morning, and choose to clothe myself with a heart of gratitude. I sit on the roof and whisper to God of all the ways I am awed by his goodness, the ways India has changed me. I have much for which to give thanks.
Clean water
Dusty feet
Companions in a journey
Women who’s hearts smile welcome in the slums
Children’s laughter
Crayons
Covered heads bowed in prayer
Rice and curry
Cooling breeze
Painted sunsets
A way prepared
Protected time
A home away from home
Bus rides
In all things provision of what is good
In some respects the day of Thanksgiving seems trivial from where my heart is standing. For so many months God has kept me a student of his goodness, shaping gratitude within my heart. Of course I will rise and give thanks today… and tomorrow, and the day after. I shouldn’t need a holiday to remind me. Yet, today my heart travels fondly towards home, to think of those I miss and love gathered together around well-prepared meals and stoked fires. And I pause especially long to wonder at God’s grace in each of our lives.
Happy Thanksgiving.
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