Dear Friends:

I don’t remember the turkey. I don’t remember the stuffing, the pies, or the frantic parental kitchen shuffle. What I do remember is the Texas sun pretending to be shy, the air finally cool enough to justify a sweater, and the thrill of snuggling into it like we were starring in a holiday commercial—minus the matching pajamas and emotional stability.

Thanksgiving as a kid wasn’t about food. It was about freedom. We played outside like it was our job. Foster kids, neighbor kids, whoever was around—we kicked soccer balls that had seen better days, tackled each other in football games with no rules and no referees, and rode our bikes like we were escaping something (because sometimes, we were).

We didn’t run inside for snacks or water. Hunger didn’t register until the streetlights blinked on and someone hollered, “Time to come in!” That was the cue. Not the smell of dinner. Not the sound of grace being said. Just the glow of a streetlight telling us the fun was over.

Inside, we’d collapse on the living room floor discussing what to watch? Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, A Christmas Story, or The Brady Bunch. I remember watching that Brady Bunch Thanksgiving and thinking, “I want that.” A table full of food. A family that laughs. People who know your middle name and don’t use it against you.

But here’s the twist: my childhood Thanksgivings were beautiful. Not because they were perfect, but because they were real. We played until we were dizzy from the merry-go-round, swung until our legs ached, played tag and laughed until our stomachs hurt. We didn’t have much, but we had joy. And joy, it turns out, doesn’t need a centerpiece.

Now, as adults, we stress over the menu, the guest list, the emotional landmines of family dynamics. We forget that the best parts of Thanksgiving weren’t plated—they were played. The lesson? Maybe we need less cranberry sauce and more kickball. Less pressure, more presence.

Scripture says, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” (Proverbs 17:22)

So, this year, I’m prescribing laughter. I’m skipping the guilt, the comparison, the need to impress. I’m pulling out my sweater, heading outside, and gut-laughing like I was 10 all over again and I won’t stop until the streetlights come on.

“May your heart be full, your feet dirty, and your joy unfiltered.”

From Your Friend, Me