The cold hit me the moment my husband and I stepped out of the New York airport. My younger daughter, living there just for a year, waved from behind the barrier with a smile big enough to melt the chill.
The cold hit me the moment my husband and I stepped out of the New York airport. My younger daughter, living there just for a year, waved from behind the barrier with a smile big enough to melt the chill.
Meanwhile my frail father was in hospital, perhaps in his final few weeks or even days. Before I’d boarded, I’d called my mother to say I was on my way for this short trip. “Your father and I want you to go,” she said, her voice trembling. “We want you to live your life.” She was saying: Don’t stop living just because we can’t. Her words felt like both a blessing and a heartbreak.
A few hours later, we were plunged into a very different world: our first American Thanksgiving. Warm house, chatter everywhere, far too many cooks in the kitchen. We tucked into the meal, squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder. We loved the overlapping conversations, the debate about who would carve the turkey, the many delicious dishes.
Then came a family tradition my husband’s aunt had kept going for years: going round the table, each person naming something they were grateful for. Simple - and remarkably disarming. Gratitude spoken aloud sounds so different.
There’s a verse in the Qur’an, the book Muslims turn to for guidance, where God says, “And remember, when your Lord proclaimed: If you are grateful, I will surely give you more.” (14:7) Not more things - certainly not more for an already overflowing table - but more awareness, more presence, more ability to appreciate what - and who - is already here.
As the philosopher Martha Nussbaum writes: gratitude grows deepest where joy and vulnerability meet. Gratitude, I realised, isn’t only about saying “thank you.” It’s about honouring the people we love — especially when time feels fragile. Sitting there that day, with laughter around me and my mother’s words still echoing gently, I could truly feel that.
Perhaps real thanksgiving isn’t the meal at all, but those quiet moments when we pause long enough to notice what - and who - makes our lives whole.
Though I have to say, the sweet-potato pie was pretty good too.
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