I’ve been thinking a lot about this Thursday. When this week began, I was actually dreading the holiday for the first time in several years. I was lamenting that I don’t have family in the area, that it’ll be such a quiet holiday, and that it seems like every other person I know is doing something special or fun to celebrate. You got it: I was feeling sorry for myself.
But I realized that this is pretty silly, if you think about it. If I stop to evaluate things, I have so much to be thankful for. I have the day off. I have a mom who loves me more than anything. I have a place to sleep, to keep my stuff warm and dry. I have food to eat. Food I like to eat. I have a car to get me places. And even though they will be off celebrating with their families, I have good friends. Friends who think I matter. Who care about me. I’m healthy. I have a job that gives me enough money to pay for what I need. I have a God who loves me even when I am so unbelievably hard to love.
But still, in the dark corners of my heart a slight residue of sadness remains. Why am I not more thankful?
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