Dear Friends:

Let me start by saying: my daughter is vegan. Not the “I just don’t like meat” kind—the “turkey liberation activist” kind. She once gave me a full historical breakdown of Thanksgiving’s colonial sins while I was basting a bird. And to be fair… she wasn’t wrong.

As a family with Mexican and Indigenous roots, we know this holiday carries a heavy history: displacement, broken treaties, and a whole lot of pain that doesn’t fit neatly on a Hallmark card.

So yes, we honor that. We name it. We don’t pretend the pilgrims were just friendly dinner guests who brought side dishes. But we also recognize what Abraham Lincoln tried to do in 1863—declaring Thanksgiving a national holiday during the Civil War to help a divided country pause, reflect, and give thanks. That’s a tall order. And somehow, it stuck.

Now here we are, generations later, gathering around tables with mismatched chairs and mismatched beliefs. Some of us are praying over the meal, some are praying the stuffing is gluten-free, and some are just praying nobody brings up politics. And yet—we gather. We laugh. We eat. We unbutton our pants in holy surrender.

And then there’s my daughter. My vegan daughter, who eats from the same menu as my neighbor’s rabbit and lectures me about the emotional lives of yams. This is the same girl who grew up around meat eaters—who used to sneak hot dogs out of the fridge when no one was looking, like a tiny carnivorous ninja. Now that she’s grown, she likes to remind me that I raised her “in an environment of carnage and I should be ashamed of myself.” I told her I just called it dinner.

Still, she means well. She shows up to Thanksgiving with quinoa loaf and almond gravy, plants herself next to the turkey, and whispers a quiet apology to it like she’s at a memorial service. And somehow, I still claim her as mine.

Because here’s the irony: in a holiday born from hardship, we find joy. In a tradition rooted in conflict, we choose connection. And in a country still learning how to reconcile its past, we pass the mashed potatoes with grace.

Scripture says, “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) It doesn’t say give thanks for all circumstances—it says in them. That’s the difference. We don’t celebrate the pain. We acknowledge it. We learn from it. And then we gather anyway.

So, this Thanksgiving, whether your plate is full of turkey, tofu, or just quiet gratitude, may your heart be even fuller. May your laughter be loud, your judgments be soft, and your second slice of pie be justified. We honor the past not by ignoring it, but by living better in the present.

And if you hear someone sobbing softly in the corner, it’s probably my daughter—reading the ingredient list on the marshmallow bag. Pray for her. And pass the pie.

From your friend, Me