Walking Each Other Home

The other morning, in the early hours, I sat mesmerized by the way the early morning sun was doing its thing on the branches of the trees outside my window.

It had a golden hue to it. The few leaves that were still left on the sycamore tree basked in the sunlight and slowly swayed as if they were asking the light to see them even more. It was as if they were saying, Choose me, shine on me. And it was as if, when the sun chose them, they swayed more and lit up with a more golden hue.

As I stood there by my coffee machine, I thought about all of us weary people walking into this holiday of gratitude, of gatherings, of family get-togethers, of Friendsgivings. I thought of those with nowhere to go, those whose tables will have an empty chair—like my daughter Christina’s best friend, Caroline, who lost her beautiful mother, Laurel, this past week. I thought about those who would spend too much time in airports, traveling to and fro with kids, strollers, and backpacks. I thought about the 74 million Americans who voted for Harris-Walz and wondered how they and the 76 million who voted for Trump-Vance can find of way of gathering together. It’s a lot, so may we all walk lightly, slowly, gently.

So many of us are limping into this holiday, afraid of what might come up at the table, afraid of who might be at the table and whether we will be able to manage the conversations that spring forth. Truth be told, this has always been my favorite week of the year, so I do not want to limp into it. I want to embrace it. I’m excited about it. I always look forward to serving meals at my church and being in community with my faith and family. I look forward to the slower pace. And, as always, I’m grateful that my table will be full. It will be smaller this year, as my brother—a Thanksgiving staple—will not be there, but everyone else who usually comes will come. There is a diversity of political opinions at my table, a diversity of age, gender, and life experiences. But there is an even greater love of food, football, family, friendship, God, games, and country that unites us.

Several years ago, my friend Hoda Kotb sent me the Idina Menzel song called “At This Table” with a note saying, This is you. This is your table. I’d never heard the song before, and when I sat down to listen, tears sprung to my eyes. Initially, I didn’t have the words to express my gratitude to her for seeing me so deeply, for seeing behind the curtain, so to speak. In that moment, I felt shy, vulnerable to be seen so completely. It felt like she focused her light, like the sun, onto me and what I try to do in my home and with my life. The light got through my cracks and made me feel deep gratitude.

I share this song and this story because I believe this song is an anthem or a roadmap for all of us at this time. Because the truth is, we are all like the early morning sun. When we shine our light onto someone else through their cracks, they can come to life in a new way—they feel seen; they feel that much less alone. When we see the light in another, it allows them to sway with joy. When we invite people to our table, no matter the size of our table, we are saying: You are welcome here. I see you, and I want you here. I care for you.

In fact, I have an affirmation card that sits next to my coffee machine that I read first thing every morning. It says: See the light in others and treat them as if that’s all you see. Rain or shine, it always makes me smile.

In the spirit of gratitude, I want to thank our contributors to this week’s Thanksgiving edition of The Sunday Paper. I’m grateful to Phil Stutz for putting science behind the art of gratitude. I’m grateful for author Rachel Schwartzmann for also showing us how to embrace a calmer pace. And I’m grateful for actor Steve Guttenberg for sharing his piece on caregiving for his aging father and what it has taught him. I’m always thinking of those who are caregiving for those with Alzheimer’s, as well as those caring for loved ones with neurological diseases, special needs, and more. There are millions and millions of hard-working people for whom there is no rest. I’m thinking of them, in particular, this Thanksgiving.

This coming week, I hope we can all take a moment to feel and express gratitude for those around us. May we all see the light in others and in ourselves. To those who feel weary, may you allow the light to shine on you and give you energy. May each of you know and feel welcomed at the table where, as the song says, all is forgiven, where we are all accepted.

It goes on:

At this table, everybody matters.

At this table, everything is forgiven.

So come as you are.

The door is always open.

Think about that. Allow your shoulders to drop. Allow yourself to stop with your shallow breathing. Believe that you will be welcomed and that you have it in you to also lay down your swords and welcome others in.

May we all walk into this week, this season, knowing we all matter, that mercy has a seat, and that we are all deserving of God’s grace, God’s love, His light.

My friend George Mumford sent me a book this week by David Hawkins called In the World But Not of It: Transforming Everyday Experiences into a Spiritual Path. My friends, we are all on a spiritual path. It’s up to us to transform the everyday into something of meaning, something bigger than us.

So, happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Yes, everyone—not just some, but everyone. Remember, as Ram Dass once wrote, We are all simply walking each other home. I’d add, we are all here to gather at one big table. We are all here to listen, to see, to shine our lights, and to allow the light of another to shine on us.

May we each remember that home and gratitude lie within, and that it’s always up to us to walk ourselves and those we love home to the table of life.