I miss both of my parents terribly every day, but especially as

"I miss both of my parents terribly every day, but especially as we approach Thanksgiving. We always came together as a family for that holiday, playing capture the flag and touch football and laughing a lot." In these heartfelt words, Mark Shriver reveals the deep bond between family, memory, and tradition. His longing is not simply for the presence of his parents, but for the warmth of the moments they created together—moments where the spirit of Thanksgiving was not confined to the table but spilled into play, laughter, and togetherness. His sorrow is the sorrow of many: that the passing of loved ones makes the holiday both a joy of remembrance and a pang of loss.

The origin of such emotions is as old as humanity itself. From ancient times, festivals of harvest were not only about food but about kinship, about gathering those closest to the heart in a circle of belonging. For Shriver, the joy of the holiday was not in the feast alone, but in the playful games—capture the flag, touch football—that transformed the day into something larger than eating. These simple games became sacred rituals, embodying the laughter and unity of a family joined not only in gratitude but in joy.

History shows us that this longing is universal. Consider the families during the Second World War, separated by oceans and war. Letters written home during the holidays often spoke not of the food missed, but of the small family traditions—singing songs together, walking in the autumn air, or telling stories by the fire. The absence of these rituals brought sharper pain than the absence of the feast itself. Just as Shriver remembers games in the yard and laughter with his parents, so too have countless others remembered the ordinary moments that became extraordinary when bound by love.

There is a lesson here about the essence of tradition. True tradition is not found in the dishes or decorations, but in the people who gather. The turkey may change, the recipes may shift, but the laughter in the yard and the voices around the table form the true heart of Thanksgiving. When those we love are gone, the traditions become both precious and painful, for they remind us of what was lost while preserving what was best in them. Shriver’s grief is therefore also gratitude—he aches because he had much to love, and his memories are proof of the richness of that inheritance.

His words also remind us of the heroic power of memory. Memory transforms absence into presence, and grief into thanksgiving. Though his parents are gone, their spirit still lives in the games once played and the laughter still echoing in his heart. This is why holidays sharpen the ache of loss—they draw us back to the places where our loved ones were most alive, forcing us to face their absence but also giving us the chance to honor their legacy.

The lesson for future generations is this: do not underestimate the power of small family rituals. It is not the grandeur of the feast that children remember, but the laughter, the games, the stories told between bites of pie. Build traditions that bind hearts together, for these will outlast possessions, wealth, and even death. Teach children that when the day comes that their loved ones are gone, the memories will remain, like embers glowing in the soul.

Practical action flows from this wisdom. In your own gatherings, make space not only for eating, but for playing, laughing, and creating memories together. If a loved one has passed, honor them by carrying on a small ritual they cherished—play the same game, tell the same story, cook the same dish. In this way, their presence continues, woven into the fabric of the holiday. Allow grief to mingle with gratitude, for together they give the heart both depth and strength.

Thus, Mark Shriver’s words stand as both lament and teaching: Thanksgiving is more than a meal—it is the memory of love, laughter, and the presence of family, living and departed. Let this truth guide us: to cherish the moments we have now, to honor the memories of those who came before, and to pass down the laughter, the games, and the love to those who will one day remember us in turn.