On Giving Thanks

Confession: Our family does not go to church.

That’s not to say that we’ve never gone to church, it’s just that we aren’t regular church-goers. Heck, we aren’t even annual church-goers. To be completely honest, we’ve been to church together as a family once. It was Christmas Eve and my sister thought we should  “try it out” for something different to do. It was as though she were suggesting we prepare a roast beef for dinner as opposed to our usual glazed ham.

“Why not?” And since none of us had a good enough answer, we went.

Our church experience that evening was neither good nor bad, but with the lights and the stage, the cushioned chairs and the Christian rock band, it was nothing like the church we remembered.

We haven’t been back since.


I mean, I don’t think our visit to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City counts. Does it?

Fairly early in our marriage, I realized that my husband and I didn’t exactly share the same religious beliefs. I would say that I’m two-thirds spiritual and one-third Christian. My husband? I would call him agnostic, which is why I was a little surprised when not that long ago, I suggested we start saying grace at dinnertime, and he wholeheartedly agreed.

What I was proposing wasn’t necessarily religious. I’d been listening to this podcast with food writer Michael Pollan about conscious eating, and in it, he suggested that we take time to really think about where the food on our plates came from: Think about the farmer who grew that lettuce, the animal who provided the meat in your hamburger, the chicken who laid those eggs.

If I wanted our family to begin a practice of saying grace, this sounded like a good place to start, and it is how we initially introduced the idea to our kids. Still, the end goal wasn’t to raise children who were just more conscious of their plates, rather to raise children who were more conscious of their world.

I’ll admit, right from the start, my husband was better at remembering to say grace than I was. By the time I had prepared the meal, served it, and sat down, I was often on my second or third forkful when my husband would “a-hem” and begin, “I’m thankful for…”

Our girls quickly learned to give thanks for everything on the table. From slaughtered salmon to sacrificed broccoli, there was not a grain of rice nor a garnish of parsley that wasn’t included in the litany.

Still, if we wanted to encourage our children to move beyond just talking about their food (and we did), they were going to need some better modeling.

Giving thanks is an act of appreciation that needs to be practiced, but, according to Happiness Coach Andrea Reiser, “gratitude goes beyond good manners—it’s a mindset and a lifestyle.”

It was this mindset, this lifestyle, I wanted to foster.


Studies have shown that cultivating gratitude results in living a happier, more satisfied life. It can also increase self-esteem, optimism, hope, and empathy.

I’d witnessed this empathy recently when I chaperoned a field trip with my daughter’s fifth-grade class. They were headed to the Reno municipal court to learn about the legal system, but first, we’d taken the children to a nearby park to eat their bagged lunches. It was here that they encountered several of the area’s homeless sitting by the river and napping in the sunshine. Unbeknownst to their teacher, some of the boys in the class had decided to give their lunches to them.

“Had they asked me first, I would have told them no.” Their teacher said. “That’s probably why they didn’t ask me,” he chuckled.

On our way to the courthouse, I ended up walking behind these same boys. As they passed by the people to whom they’d donated their food, the men called out their thanks. “God bless you. God bless you.”

The boys waved, and walked a ways in silence before one of them remarked, “That made me feel really good and warm inside.”

“Yeah, it made me feel good… but also, kind of sad.”

“I know what you mean. I’m glad we gave them our food, but I’m sad that they don’t have anywhere to live.”

I wondered if those boys would think differently about their dinners that night, or about their warm beds when they went to sleep. I imagined they would.

Fundamentally, gratitude is about being aware of who or what makes positive aspects of our lives possible, and acknowledging that.” Children especially have a hard time recognizing these things. I hoped that through the act of saying grace, my children might hone their awareness.

Because in some way or another, we’re all blessed, and it serves us well when we recognize that.

We’d been giving our thanks to pigs and chickens and cows for months, when finally, one night, right before we ate, my oldest daughter said, “I’m thankful for people like my mom who care about education, and I’m thankful for the nice people who write books for other people to read.”

This, I thought. This is what I had hoped would come from a ritual of saying grace.


According to Brené Brown, “What separates privilege from entitlement is gratitude.” My children are certainly privileged—more than some, and less than others– but I don’t ever want them to grow up feeling entitled. Saying grace is one of the many ways we can combat that, but there are so many other benefits to living a conscious life.

We still don’t go to church, and we occasionally forget to say grace before we eat, but a few times each week, we remember to pause and reflect upon our blessings, and for that, I am thankful.

What are you grateful for today?




For Those Who Serve

It was Tuesday. I was at work and it was lunch. There were several students in my classroom: one taking a vocabulary quiz that she’d been absent for, another finishing an assignment that she needed extra time on, and a third asking me to help her format her paper to MLA specifications.

My turkey-noodle soup was finished warming up in the microwave, and just as I was about to sit back down at my desk, the door to my classroom opened again. This time, it was not one of my current students, but a former student, one who had graduated the year before. He was wearing Dress Blues and I squealed when I saw him.

It felt like Christmas seeing this young man stand before me in full regalia for the Marine Corps.  This was a boy whom I had taught for two years—once as a junior, and again as a senior. He had put a rubber snake on my chair once just to see my reaction, but it wasn’t nearly as good as the reaction he got from me on this day.

I knew that he had planned on joining the military after graduation, and I knew that after the military he wanted to become a State Trooper, but teachers hear a lot about dreams. Some dreams don’t go as planned, some dreams change, and some dreamer’s lives end too soon.

Mostly when I run into graduates they are handing me a Cinnamon Dulce Latte at Starbucks or they are ringing me up at Safeway, talking to me about college. They don’t wear the giant grin I saw on his face. They’ve got miles to go before they sleep. 

As I looked around at the students working in my classroom, I thought about how this young man had been seated at one of those desks just last year, and in five months time he had been catapulted into adulthood. He didn’t make the slow and arduous transition that comes with earning a college degree. He didn’t look exhausted or uncertain. His smile beamed as bright as the gold buttons of his coat.

I’ve yet to run into a former student at their profession. I have not had one write me a prescription or write me a ticket. I have had other students come back to see me in their Army combat gear, but somehow…this time it felt different.

Maybe it was coincidence but my nephew had just left for Parris Island for his basic training for the Marines the day before. I knew how upset my step-mother was; the fear of him enlisting had tormented her for months, but I didn’t share in her woe. I prayed for his safety, but when I thought of his future and of the choice he had made, I felt nothing but pride. The same pride thrummed through me now.

As a teacher, we talk the college talk to our students, but we know that not all students are cut out for college. Even less, perhaps, are cut out to live the military life. And in a world with so many possibilities, I wonder if fewer and fewer will choose it. Whenever I see a man or a woman who has, I am thankful. Thankful of the sacrifices they have made. Thankful of the service that they provide to the citizens of this country, most of whom are complete strangers. It seems a selfless act of valor that I myself could never make.

My own father was in the Navy. Growing up, my favorite stories were those he told from his time of service. There is an old polaroid taken of my father while he was out at sea. He is sitting on his bunk with a far-away look in his eyes. You can see his last name on the breast pocket of his shirt. He wasn’t looking at the camera. I like to imagine he was thinking about home, about the woman he would later ask to marry him. It was a part of his life that was lived long before me that harbors the mystique and intrigue of an adventure novel, but only because he lived to tell.

My husband’s grandfather fought in World War II. When he recently passed, my husband collected treasures from his basement: an old phonograph that his grandfather had recorded to send to his own mother (my husband’s great-grandmother), The Bluejackets’ Manual from 1940, musty military books and sepia photographs.


These are our heroes.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped to shake the hand of a stranger I saw while I was on my run. He had patches from Vietnam on his coat and an American Flag on his hat. Veterans Day had passed, but I needed to say those two words.

I will never know what it is like to stand in combat boots. I hope I never know what it feels like to fire a gun. I pray that I will never spend months away from my home and my family. But for all those who do: Thank you and Thank you and Thank you.