On this Thanksgiving, I am grateful that love exists, that there is this invisible connection among the creation that desires bounty and kindness and acceptance, that there is this force that is not easily broken, that withstands attempts at cheapening it.

This is what love looks like for me today: texts from old friends that remind us that when we met forty years ago, we had no idea we just might become friends for life; a scone and a chai delivered by my friend and pet sitter, which I received happily and in joy because the dog was over-the-moon ecstatic to see her. The guy with the pronounced limp walking his sweet Frenchie named Echo, a pet that he obvious adores with every wobbly step he takes.

I am sad not be with my family this Thanksgiving but I’m nursing an impressive cold and no one needs me to bring these germs to the dinner table. I am sad, but not depressed; Thanksgiving is one day, and I know an embarrassing amount of love in my life, and given that, I cannot be more than just a wee bit sad.

Many years ago when my grandparents were still living, they loved to go fishing, not only because back in those days they could easily catch their limit of rainbow trout but also because after standing in the cold creek water for an hour, their toenails softened up and they could give each other a rudimentary pedicure. That’s the kind of love that abides after fifty-plus years of marriage.

My sister has moved into an ADU in our backyard and she graciously – and maybe even happily – welcomes the dog and me to come for a visit so I can pet her cat and so that the dog can lick the trace amounts of food left in the cat’s dish. She also graciously acts surprised when my husband and I come over after dinner, and with all the sincerity of a nun, asks if we would like a bite of chocolate, which was the whole reason for our showing up but she acts as if it weren’t. That is love.

A video of a flash mob performing the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth will always get me crying. In it I see a love of music, a love of performance, a love of giving this utterly unexpected gift that costs not what penny and is only meant to be received as love should be.

There are so many loves – love of a person, love of a pet; love of the creation and of the Creator, love of a country, even love of self, when taken in measure. To be loved is the greatest gift, and that sounds so terribly trite that I should give up writing this very moment, but I’ll still claim it. Though sick, I am loved. Though alone, I am loved. For me, a bad cold and some loneliness are temporary things but love, as the apostle wrote, never ends.

On this Thanksgiving, I hope that you too are grateful for the love that surrounds your living. I hope that when you start to count your blessings you run out of fingers and toes. I hope that you are able to pass along some of that love, because when you do, who knows what might happen?