Thanksgiving in the In-Between

I used to think holidays were simple.

You cooked the meal, gathered the people you loved, shared gratitude, passed the pie, maybe took a family picture if you were feeling ambitious. But life has a way of shattering “simple.”

Yesterday, I held Thanksgiving in a place I never expected to be: somewhere between love and grief, between harm and attachment, between what should have been and what actually was — and trying to find God in the middle of it.

My dad is incarcerated for sexually abusing my son. And my children still speak to him on the phone.

Those were two truths that lived in the same home, the same heart, the same holiday.

And somehow, God met me in that tension, too.

People imagine trauma as clean-cut. As if you could slice relationships into neat categories — good or bad, safe or unsafe, in or out.

But in real life, everything bled together.

Love didn’t cancel harm.

Harm didn’t erase love.

And faith didn’t magically erase the mess — it held me through it.

The holidays didn’t pause just because my family story broke in half.

But neither did God’s presence.

The Phone Calls

The kids still speak to him on occasion, and that alone carries enough emotion to power a whole storm.

It’s complicated.

It’s painful.

It’s protective.

It’s imperfect.

And God sees every angle we can’t.

Children hold deep connections, even after harm. Even after heartbreak. And sometimes the most stable thing you can give them is a careful, structured connection that honors their emotional reality — while you, the parent, carry the weight and complexity.

So yesterday, Thanksgiving wasn’t just about a mean. It became a balancing act of boundaries, safety, and grace.

Even though we didn’t take a call yesterday, I still had to navigate the emotions of what this relationship means, and how to protect my children’s hearts without denying their feelings.

I prayed for wisdom — the kind that comes moment by moment, not all at once.

And somehow, God kept giving just enough light for the next step.

The Mother-In-Law

And then there was my mother-in-law — who was wonderful. Truly wonderful.

Steady. Kind. Supportive.

And still, sometimes she triggers something in me — not because of anything she does, but because her steadiness and kindness highlighted what I no longer have. What I once did. And that makes her presence harder. Even if it’s welcome.

It isn’t her fault.

It isn’t mine.

It is just the emotional math of a heart that is still healing.

But even in this, I sensed God nudging gently:

“You can receive good things without fear. You can let yourself be supported without shame.”

Healing didn’t always look like joy.

Sometimes it looked like being around goodness without flinching, one holiday at a time.

The Empty Chair

There was no seat for my dad yesterday.

There wouldn’t be for many years.

But his absence was loud — not because I wanted him there, but because his choices had changed the shape of our family forever.

The grief, the love, the anger, the ache — all of it sat at the table with us.

And in the middle of that, God sat too.

Not fixing, not rushing, not demanding — just steady. A quiet presence that whispered: “I know this pain. I’m here in it with you.”

Grief and gratitude could sit side by side.

Sorrow and hope could share the same plate.

Faith didn’t erase grief — it anchors me while I carried it.

The Table We Set Anyway

So yesterday, I cooked the meal,

protected my children’s hearts,

welcomed the people who were safe,

breathed when the ache rose,

and trusted that God was holding the parts I couldn’t.

Because even in broken families, even in complicated stories, even in grief that sat at the table beside us —

there is still room for gratitude.

Not the loud, perfect kind,

but the quiet kind that whispered:

“God has carried us this far. He will carry us through this too.”

And maybe that was the miracle of yesterday:

that despite everything, we were still here,

still healing,

still held.