The Thanksgiving Lesson I Never Expected

Some memories stick with us because they made us view the world a bit differently, not because they were pleasant or simple.

I can very vividly remember one Thanksgiving from my early years. It started with a thoughtless moment, a scathing remark, and a rush of shame that made me want to vanish.

At the end of the day, though, I learned more about silent kindness and dignity from a small container that was tucked inside my backpack than from any sincere speech.

It took place at the home of my buddy Layla. It was both thrilling and daunting to receive an invitation to eat Thanksgiving meal with their family.

There was a lot of movement in their house—pots simmering on the stove, conversations bouncing about the room, and people entering and exiting the kitchen with ease.

I grabbed the gravy bowl at the table. A scoop sprayed on the table after my hand slightly slipped. Layla’s mother asked me, “Is this how your mother raised you?” before I could even offer an apology.

I wasn’t prepared for how hard the words hit.

I felt terribly out of place for a moment, and a blush of embarrassment came over me. For the remainder of dinner, I tried to be as silent and unnoticeable as I could.

She gave me a Tupperware container containing turkey, stuffing, and a foil-wrapped pie piece when it was time to depart, hours later.

She didn’t grin. Her tone remained unsoftened. She merely murmured, “Take this with you,” and shoved it into my hands.

Uncertain of its meaning, I tucked it into my backpack. I didn’t realize how important it was until I returned home.

Even on the most difficult days, my mother’s weary arms welcomed me with affection. With a mixture of relief and thankfulness, she opened the container, and we ate that dinner together late at night in our tiny kitchen.

Something changed inside of me at that very instant. I came to see that goodwill isn’t necessarily kind or refined. It doesn’t always come with kind remarks. Sometimes it comes ou

t awkwardly, almost unintentionally, from those who are unable to articulate it well. Layla’s mother never gave a gentle smile to lessen the hurt, never expressed regret for her remark, and never clarified her meaning.

She didn’t leave me without anything, though. Her rough-and-tumble gesture conveyed its own message: even if I don’t do it politely, you deserve to be fed and cared for.

I’ve been thinking about that Thanksgiving far into adulthood. It made me think twice before presuming I know someone’s intentions.

I stop when I see someone who comes out as brusque or aloof. I remind myself that not everyone is familiar with the methods to be kind.

Some people love in ways that are difficult to identify, in private, or in an awkward way.

I now make an additional plate every year when the holidays roll around. Occasionally, a neighbor receives it. It occasionally goes to a friend’s kid.

There are instances when it simply waits for the ideal opportunity on the counter.

I hold onto it for the sake of that supper long ago, for the child I used to be, and for anyone who might need to hear—even if it’s just in silence—that they are never a burden.

Someone is happy to have them at the table, and they are important.