As a nation, we’d nearly had it.
Break up alongside political traces; enduring a pandemic of epic proportions; the USA was in determined want of a breather, a timeout.
Then we caught a break.
So whereas we crankily whisper the names of household not becoming a member of us round our Thanksgiving desk this week to guard us from the brand new coronavirus surge, let’s give thanks for that different type of familial love. Sacrifice.
And as soon as extra, Sneed’s decades-old gratitude checklist — cast in a 12 months like no different in my lifetime — offers thanks for…
A brand new starting and a brand new president.
Separating fools from folly and having the ability to VOTE for the distinction.
Time to reconnect lengthy distance with outdated associates who bear in mind us after we have been 13; particularly now that we’re 77.
Remembering the fantastic thing about misplaced lives.
Reflecting on a 52-year profession; and the alternatives not made; on life … and the alternatives made.
The blessing of an solely grandchild, Magnus of Minneapolis, who’s nearing 2, and whom I’ve solely seen twice this 12 months.
The bravery of my daughter-in-law, Becca, a terrific mother and infectious illness physician whose life saving on this pandemic leaves me in awe.
My beloved son, Patrick, a faithful dad and hero to his household.
The magic of sisters Pat, Jac and Jo, who will spend Thanksgiving with their youngsters close by, however not at their desk.
Good knees … for prayer, please.
No fever; no cough; no chills.
A father’s legacy; my backyard … and the protection it offered throughout this coronavirus summer time.
A courageous coronary heart.
Hope … particularly now.
A smile on a policeman’s face . . . even in a masks.
An ideal sentence. An awesome first paragraph.
Forgiveness . . . at all times.
Curiosity. Magical pondering. Daydreaming. Adjectives. Atonement.
The Higher Peninsula of Michigan.
Grasshoppers; crickets at evening; bees; all birds … even bats.
Poetry. All of it.
The reminiscence of my good canines Daisy, Marley, “Q” and Zeb, who died on days that ought to have by no means ended.
The years with Minou, the best possible cat ever, who left her perch on my pillow when the leaves started to fall 5 years in the past.
My pandemic pooch friends Pip and Two.
Mother’s mincemeat pie.
Day off. Occasions out.
Newspapers, at all times.
Reality. Candor. Tempered by an understanding coronary heart.
The reminiscence of the outdated Northern Pacific Railroad Bridge throughout the Missouri River in Mandan, North Dakota, which transported my railroad males forbears.
The ultimate kitchen scene within the movie “Moonstruck,” which at all times makes me howl.
A prairie childhood.
My mom and her title, June.
The spectacular picture of a Thanksgiving window on the now shuttered Nation Store in Winnetka, which now highlights my column.
Sunflowers pointing up.
Whistling at the hours of darkness; laughing till it hurts.
For this, I give thanks . . . at all times.
Lastly, these phrases from the Trappist monk Thomas Merton, who confronted despair in a robust prayer … hoping God would by no means go away him to face the unfaceable as so many Individuals have this 12 months:
“My Lord God. I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. … I cannot know for certain where it will end. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.”
Heads up, America.
We’ve simply been given a highway forward to journey collectively — and every of us should discover the best way.