It was the days before Thanksgiving, and the whole house felt a little louder, a little messier, and a lot more sacred.

The sink was full of dishes that did not match. The counter was crowded with recipe cards smudged by years of butter and memories. Someone misplaced the potato peeler again. The dog was praying in his own way under the table, waiting for something to fall.

In the middle of it all, God felt near.

Not in the quiet of a church sanctuary. Not in a perfect family photo. Right in the bumping elbows, the spilled milk, and the heated debate about whether stuffing belongs inside the bird or in its own pan.

It was the days before Thanksgiving, and our prayers sounded less formal and more like real life.

Lord, please let this turkey actually thaw in time.

Jesus, help us keep our words kind when the whole clan arrives.

Father, thank You for grocery store gift cards and store brand whipped cream.

We remembered that gratitude is less about the table setting and more about who sits around it.

The people who know our stories and our scars.

The ones who have heard us say things we regret and still show up with green bean casserole.

Between taste testing the pies and arguing about football, we paused and named blessings out loud. Not the big impressive ones.

The small ones that stack up quietly. Warm biscuits. Inside jokes. A sleepy child on your shoulder.

The way the house smells like butter and coffee at the same time.

It was the days before Thanksgiving, and we realized something beautiful.

The God who fed a crowd with a few loaves and fish is still filling tables today.

Not just with food, but with grace upon grace.

Pass the rolls. Pass the stories. Pass the thanks.