I am originally from Florida. So Thanksgiving was always

Hear, O seekers of belonging, the words of Troy Gentile, who spoke with joy of home and family: “I am originally from Florida. So Thanksgiving was always something I really looked forward to, because I got to travel back home every year and see everyone all at once, around one big happy table.” Though spoken in the language of daily life, these words carry within them the wisdom of the ages—for they remind us that the deepest treasures of feast days are not in the food nor the ritual, but in the return home, in the embrace of loved ones, in the shared laughter that gathers around the big happy table.

Mark well this vision. The feast of Thanksgiving is more than roasted turkey, more than autumn harvest, more than ritual observance. It is a summons—a call to return, to gather from distant roads and scattered lives, to sit once more with those who shaped us, those who know our names without asking. To Gentile, it was the joy of leaving behind the busyness of the world and journeying back to the hearth where roots run deep. This longing is ancient, for mankind has always sought the circle of family as a place of safety, warmth, and renewal.

Consider Odysseus, who wandered the seas for twenty years, tested by storms, monsters, and temptations. His greatest longing was not for treasure nor glory, but for the simple joy of returning home, of sitting once more at his table beside Penelope, hearing the voices of kin. So too, Gentile’s yearly pilgrimage back to Florida echoes this same eternal truth: no matter how far we roam, the heart hungers for home, and the feast is not complete until the family is gathered whole.

The image of the one big happy table carries profound meaning. In it we see unity, the breaking down of divisions, the joining of generations. Children, parents, and elders sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing food and stories, laughter and memory. At that table, the differences of life—politics, distance, even past quarrels—are set aside, and the bond of kinship becomes stronger than all. The ancients called such a table sacred, for it bound together not only stomachs, but hearts.

And yet, reflect also on those who cannot return. There are families divided by war, migration, or sorrow, where empty chairs stand as silent witnesses. In World War II, countless soldiers longed for nothing more than to sit at their family’s Thanksgiving table, yet instead they ate rations far from home. Letters and photographs became their feast, reminders of what awaited them if they endured. Their longing testifies to the same truth: that the true power of the holiday lies not in the food itself, but in the presence of loved ones.

The lesson, O listeners, is this: treasure the moments of gathering. Do not take for granted the chance to sit with family and friends, for these times are fleeting, and each year’s feast may hold chairs that are empty the next. If life scatters you far from home, make the effort to return, or, if return is impossible, create a new table where love may flourish. For the essence of Thanksgiving is not bound to a place, but to the presence of hearts joined in gratitude.

Therefore, let your practice be this: when the feast day comes, rejoice in the meal, but rejoice even more in the faces around you. Speak your gratitude aloud, not only to heaven but to one another. Remember that the journey back to the ones you love is itself part of the feast. And when you rise from the table, carry its spirit with you, that wherever you go, you may build new circles of belonging, new tables of joy. For as Troy Gentile declared, the greatness of Thanksgiving is found not in the food nor the form, but in seeing “everyone all at once, around one big happy table.”

Thus let it be known: the truest feast is the feast of presence, the banquet of love. Guard it, cherish it, and return to it often, for in it lies the strength of family, the healing of hearts, and the joy that endures beyond all seasons.