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Beloved in Christ,

As I sit here writing to you—wrapped in the warmth of my home, nursing a cold and a sore throat—I cannot help but think of those who will face tomorrow without warmth, without shelter, without food. This morning, I rose fully intending to head to the office, only to discover my car refused to start. So I worked from home instead.

For me, this car issue is a temporary inconvenience. But countless people in our wider community sit with permanent barriers—people who long to work but have no transportation; who long for stability but are met with systems that shut them out; who long for hope but encounter only hardship.

This year, I find myself in a season of lament. And yet—gratitude is woven through the lament like gold thread through rough cloth. I am deeply thankful that my family is healthy. I am grateful for the joy of seeing my nieces, whose laughter feels like medicine. I am thankful for my son, who is growing into a compassionate, thoughtful young person.

And I am thankful for the handful of lay leaders who lovingly hold me accountable, reminding me to care for myself even as I care for others.

But my heart also aches for the members of our congregation and our community who are struggling—those living with grief, loneliness, sickness, fear, or scarcity. My prayers stretch out on their behalf.

This Thanksgiving, I want to encourage you: celebrate what you have, rather than mourn what you wish you had.Give thanks for the abundance that is already in your life—whether that abundance comes as love, shelter, a single friend, a warm meal, or simply the breath in your lungs.

And as you give thanks, I invite you to pray for those whose tables will be empty. Pray for families separated by ICE and by the current administration’s policies. Pray for neighbors whose cupboards are bare. Pray for those who are unhoused, those who are unseen, those who fear tomorrow.

I also want to give thanks for you. Many of you have stepped up again and again to feed those who are hungry, to give from what you have, to show compassion without being asked. A handful of congregants often joke that I am always watching—and while that may sound a little “pastor-with-eyes-everywhere,” what I really see is your kindness, your generosity, and your willingness to show up for those who have less. Witnessing that humbles me every time.

Tomorrow, as many of you gather around your tables, I pray you pause long enough to take a deep breath, a deeper look, and perhaps a long embrace with those you love. Notice the warmth of the room, the sound of familiar voices, the blessing of belonging. These are sacred gifts—gifts we too often rush past.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with gratitude that grounds you, hope that sustains you, compassion that challenges you, and love that surrounds you.

 

With gratitude,

Rev. Gilbert Martinez él, he, him (Why do pronouns matter?)

Pastor