Remembering that the real meaning of Thanksgiving is gratitude

Hearken, O children of wisdom, to the words of Joshua Rosenthal, who declared: “Remembering that the real meaning of Thanksgiving is gratitude and not food will bring the focus back there.” These words pierce through the clamor of feasts and abundance, calling us back to the foundation of the holy day. For though the table groans with turkey, pies, and countless dishes, the feast itself is but a vessel. The true essence is not in the food, but in gratitude—the thanksgiving of the heart, which sanctifies both feast and famine alike.

Mark this truth: the earliest Thanksgiving was not born of excess, but of survival. In the year 1621, the Pilgrims, weary from harsh winters and heavy losses, gathered with the Wampanoag people in a fragile peace. Their harvest was meager by modern standards, yet they paused to give thanks—not for wealth, but for life itself, for the provision that sustained them another season, and for the hands that helped them endure. The feast was not an indulgence but a prayer made visible, a meal transformed by humility and gratitude into something sacred.

Consider also the people of Ukraine during the Holodomor, when famine ravaged the land in the 1930s. Families had little to eat, yet some still gathered in quiet circles, whispering thanks for the smallest crusts of bread. Their gratitude was not for plenty, but for survival, for the flickering flame of life that refused to be extinguished. Here we see Rosenthal’s wisdom: when the focus is on food alone, abundance blinds us. But when the focus is on gratitude, even the smallest portion becomes a feast.

Rosenthal’s words are a warning as well as a reminder. For in our age of plenty, we risk forgetting the heart of the celebration. The table becomes the center, not the spirit; the meal becomes the meaning, not the memory of blessings. We measure the day by how much we eat rather than by how deeply we give thanks. But when we remember his words—when we re-center our hearts—we see that the food is but the servant, and the gratitude is the master.

Let us not despise the food, for it is good and it is joyful to eat. But let us sanctify it with remembrance. When we taste the bread, let us give thanks for the farmer, the earth, the rain, and the unseen hand of Providence. When we see the turkey, let us give thanks for the life given, for the family gathered, for the chance to share. For as Rosenthal teaches, food without gratitude is emptiness, but food with gratitude is blessing.

The lesson, O listeners, is clear: cultivate gratitude as a daily discipline, not a yearly ritual. Begin each morning with thanksgiving for breath, for sun, for the gift of another day. Teach your children that gratitude is not for the feast alone, but for the unseen mercies of life. And when you gather on the holiday, let your words of thanks be louder than your forks, your prayers more abundant than your dishes.

Therefore, let your practice be this: before the meal begins, pause in silence or in speech. Name aloud the blessings you have received. Give thanks not only for the food, but for love, for life, for hope, for endurance. In this way, you will return the feast to its ancient purpose, and you will walk in the path of wisdom. For as Joshua Rosenthal proclaimed, when we remember that Thanksgiving is gratitude and not food, the soul feasts in abundance that no table alone can hold.

So let it be known: the truest Thanksgiving is not set upon the table but upon the heart. Guard it well, live it daily, and you shall never hunger for meaning, even if the food runs dry. Gratitude itself will become your feast, and in it you will find unending joy.