It's like being at the kids' table at Thanksgiving - you can put

Hear, O seekers of remembrance, the words of John Hughes, the great storyteller of youth, who spoke with both humor and depth: “It’s like being at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving—you can put your elbows on it, you don’t have to talk politics… no matter how old I get, there’s always a part of me that’s sitting there.” These words, wrapped in simplicity, are yet a mirror of the soul, for they reveal the eternal child that dwells within each of us, a spirit that time cannot wither, nor age erase.

Mark well the image of the kids’ table. It is not only a piece of furniture but a symbol of freedom. At that table, manners are lighter, burdens are fewer, and the talk is not of division or power, but of play, of laughter, of the simple joy of being together. Hughes speaks not only of a holiday custom but of the innocence of childhood, a time when the world is not yet heavy with politics, debts, and disputes. To say “there’s always a part of me that’s sitting there” is to confess that no matter how long the road of life, the child within remains alive, whispering reminders of joy, wonder, and lightheartedness.

Think on this truth: many cultures have preserved the remembrance of childhood as a sacred flame. In ancient Greece, philosophers spoke of the paideia, the shaping of a soul through play, stories, and learning, knowing that a person’s essence is rooted in their earliest days. Even the Stoics, who prized discipline, declared that to lose the childlike spirit of curiosity was to lose the heart of wisdom. Thus, Hughes’s Thanksgiving table is more than nostalgia—it is a reminder of what is essential, that we carry our beginnings within us always.

Consider the story of Anne Frank, who in the midst of great darkness, wrote in her diary with the freshness of a young heart. Though confined and pursued, she still spoke of dreams, of laughter, of the beauty of the sky. Even in hiding, she kept alive the spirit of the kids’ table—the realm of innocence and hope that refuses to be crushed by the weight of the world. Her words, like Hughes’s, remind us that to preserve the child within is to preserve resilience, courage, and the ability to see light even in shadow.

Hughes, who spent his life writing stories of youth—The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles—knew that people never truly leave that table. The dramas of adolescence, the longing for freedom, the hunger for belonging—these remain part of us even in adulthood. His films, like his quote, are hymns to the enduring child in every adult, the reminder that no matter the wrinkles upon our faces, the heart still remembers what it was like to laugh with elbows on the table, unburdened by the weight of the world.

The lesson, O listeners, is this: do not despise the child within you. Do not silence it with pride or bury it beneath the rubble of responsibility. For it is the child who reminds you to laugh, to wonder, to forgive quickly, to see the world not only as a battlefield of politics and power but as a place of stories, play, and love. When life grows heavy, return in spirit to the kids’ table, for there you will remember the lightness that makes endurance possible.

Therefore, let your practice be simple yet profound: cherish the playful moments, keep company with those who help you laugh, and do not be ashamed of joy. When the world demands bitterness, offer wonder instead. When age tells you to grow stern, allow yourself the mercy of laughter. For as Hughes said, no matter how old you get, there is always a part of you still sitting there—and it is that part which keeps you truly alive.

Thus, let it be known: the kids’ table at Thanksgiving is not only for children, but for all souls who remember that joy is the food of life. Keep your seat there, even as years pass, and you will find that though the body ages, the heart remains forever young.