This morning, I carefully mapped out my Thanksgiving meal schedule—coordinating all the dishes so that the ham doesn’t dry out, the apple crisp comes out hot, and the corn casserole doesn’t burn. I stared at the menu, and a sadness washed over me. This is way too much food for six people.

In Thanksgivings past, our home has played host to our families and to friends. The decibel levels were deafening with so many kids running around, but our hearts and our bellies were full. We woke up the next day with more than leftover food; the joy from being together lingered too.

But here we are in 2020, and things look different. Tomorrow’s meal attendance will include me, Ben, and our four boys around the table. While I look forward to the simplicity and slower pace, already I’m grieving for how different it will be. When we told our oldest son about our choice to keep our circle small, his face dropped and he lamented, “That is so sad!” 

Yes, son. It is sad. 

No matter our Thanksgiving plans, I think we all feel it. The collective weariness of a wonky world—of cherished traditions and important people kept at a distance—has caught up with all of us. The temptation is to give in, to give up, to hide or just skip the holidays, hoping that maybe we’ll not notice its absence.

But I think there is a better option—a few ways we can still find joy when the table looks different.

Name what is lost.

Ignored wounds fester. If we do not begin by recognizing and naming our losses in this season, those hurts will only gather. They will not disappear, but will slowly gather strength until the grief looms so large that our mental, emotional, and physical faculties are affected. It is better to name the losses as they come and pause to allow our hearts to pass through the sadness. (As my friend Molly Huffman once reminded me, “Through is always faster than around.”)

Recreate traditions and build new memories.

Whether you gather with people outside your household or not, perhaps this is a good year to reimagine the holidays. Decide which traditions are worth continuing (for us, a fancy table and making Ben’s grandma’s homemade noodles is among them), and then determine which ones you can set aside—at least for this year. (Bye, bye, cranberry salad…)

While our family isn’t gathering with extended relatives, my mom, sister, and I are going to swap the leftover we are bound to have. (Food is our family love language, and we all go overboard.) The plan is to load up Tupperware containers and do a porch drop-off, with our boys eagerly waving from the minivan. Sure, it won’t be the same, but I anticipate it being something. 

Reach out.

If faces are missing at your table, don’t let the day pass without trying to connect. Again, avoidance doesn’t serve us well. Instead, when we think “Oh, I miss so-and-so…” why not tell them? Pick up the phone, or send a text. We’d be hard pressed to find someone who doesn’t like to be missed or to be thought of.  

Maybe we even take it a bit further? Consider friends, neighbors, or people at our churches. Perhaps that’s where we drop off that slice of leftover pumpkin pie. Or like my friend Cynthia, arrange a digital game night to enjoy a little nonsense and laughter (we all could use a little more nonsense these days…).

Even if we cannot gather at the table, we can find creative ways to connect and to let others know their value in our lives. Often, the hardest part in relationships is taking that first step. But that movement has to go both ways—so why not let it start with us?

***

And at the end of the day, no matter how our tables look or who is there, may we remember that we are invited to a greater table—to one that transcends our weariness. May we come to that table with expectance, accepting the cup of a suffering Savior and the Bread of Presence knowing that the God who offers them both is near and never changes. He is with us in our weariness—even when others are not.

feature image by Katarzyna Grbowska via unsplash