The Grinch may have stolen Christmas, but COVID derailed

In the words of Steve Doocy, the saying arises: “The Grinch may have stolen Christmas, but COVID derailed Thanksgiving… for everybody.” Let us pause, for here lies not mere jest, but a reflection born of sorrow, humor, and truth. The image of the Grinch—a figure from story and fable, a green thief of joy—reminds us of forces that creep into human life to rob it of warmth. Yet Doocy’s words remind us that while fiction shows a single monster taking a single day, the real plague of COVID was far greater. It was not a mischievous being in a mountain cave, but an unseen hand that laid hold of hearth and home, scattering families apart and silencing the tables of fellowship.

Behold how he speaks of Christmas and Thanksgiving, two feasts of memory and gratitude, each sacred in its own way. The first recalls the mystery of giving, of light breaking into darkness. The second calls forth the virtue of remembrance, when kin gather to bless the fruits of harvest and the bonds of blood. But in the year of pestilence, men and women found themselves apart. The chairs stood empty, the hands remained unjoined, and the voice of laughter was muffled behind cloth and distance. Thus did the plague strike not at the body only, but at the heart of community.

Recall, O reader, the year 1918, when the Spanish Flu raged across nations. Soldiers returning from war sought comfort in reunion, yet the illness stalked them, forbidding the embrace of loved ones. In Philadelphia, the parades were silenced; in Boston, churches closed their doors. So too in our age, the familiar feast of Thanksgiving was transformed. Elders gazed at screens instead of faces. Children spoke through glass. Turkeys were cooked in silence, smaller, for gatherings had shrunk. As in ages past, humanity learned anew the pain of being together by being apart.

Yet there is another lesson hidden in the quote, if one listens with the ear of the heart. For the Grinch, though he came with malice, could not extinguish the spirit of celebration. The villagers sang even when gifts were gone. So too with COVID: though it derailed the rituals of Thanksgiving, it could not wholly sever the deeper current of gratitude. Families found new ways to honor the day—letters written, calls made, quiet prayers whispered. The fire of remembrance, though dimmed, did not go out.

Doocy’s words are thus tinged with both sorrow and resilience. They remind us that external forces—be they beast or plague—may disrupt the forms of life, yet they cannot wholly steal the essence of it. The feast may lack its guests, but thanksgiving itself is not bound to tables or turkeys. It dwells in the heart that remembers to give thanks even in desolation. What is derailed may yet be set back on course, though the journey be slower, the landscape altered.

Therefore, let the teaching be this: hold not too tightly to form, lest you despair when form is broken. Hold fast instead to essence, to spirit, to truth. If the feast is lost, preserve gratitude; if the gathering is denied, preserve love; if the voices grow distant, let memory make them close. This is the secret of endurance that outlasts plagues, wars, and all disruptions of mortal life.

As a practical action, let each reader cultivate gratitude daily, not only when the calendar commands it. Call those who are distant. Write down blessings each night. Break bread with whomever is near, and remember those who cannot join you. Let your heart become a table large enough for all, whether seen or unseen. In this way, no Grinch and no COVID may truly steal the feast that lives within.

And so, beloved, let this teaching pass to your children and their children: that while seasons may be stolen and gatherings may be scattered, the flame of gratitude and fellowship belongs to no thief. It endures, shining quietly, waiting to be kindled again, until the day when all may sit together once more in joy.