The sun slips slow over the horizon—spills grace on rooftops and frost-dipped grasses and washes the world in honeyed hues. I sit in my morning place and invite Beauty in and I am wrecked every time in the acquiescence.
On Sunday, our pastor shared the history of Thanksgiving, and she told us the story of the five kernels. The pilgrims, who had suffered so much loss, would put five kernels of corn on their plates and use this to remind them to count their blessings. I’d never heard of this tradition, but apparently, some families still practice it today. Our pastor reminded how many of those early settlers died in this new land—so many that some proposed a day to honor those who had died. Instead, they chose a day of thanks.
(excerpt from President Abraham Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation, Oct. 3, 1863.)