Savoring One Season at a Time—Give Thanks First
When it feels like the world has already rushed into Christmas, I’m trying to savor Thanksgiving and the season of gratitude before we turn the page.
“A time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.”— Ecclesiastes 3:1
Trust me, I love the Christmas season, too. ALOT. I did get married at Christmas. Who doesn’t love the first sound of Christmas music or the glow of lights on a fir tree? There’s something about the nostalgia of it all that stirs memory and wonder. But I’ve come to prefer Christmas—and each new season—to arrive slowly. Grief and loss have taught me that.
There’s no need to rush. Let Thanksgiving have its turn, and honor what comes first.
I add Advent light and Christmas spirit little by little, and then I let them linger for weeks. In many ways, preparing for Christmas feels like entering the story slowly—much like Mary and Joseph’s humble and holy journey to Bethlehem, where God’s promise was unfolding with each next step. I’m preparing a place in my heart, too. Maybe we’re meant to savor the journey, not rush it. The Holy Family moved at the pace of grace, not hurry, and I’m learning to do the same. Doesn’t the world attempt to stir our peace by hurrying to get it all done in a flash? The point is the birth of the Prince of Peace.
Christmas doesn’t end on December 25; Advent comes first, and it extends through Epiphany for some and all the way to Candlemas for others. I’m grateful for the rhythm of the liturgical year—how it invites us to live by a deeper story than the one the world chases, often bypassing the meaning altogether.
I’ve had seasons when I adorned the house early—out of need, or desire, or simply wanting more light. Maybe I feel a bit like that this year, too, which feels like a gift in the rebuilding of my life after loss. Yet I want to pause, exhale, and take it all in slowly. Maybe what really matters most is savoring the season we’re in, without rushing it and not judging ourselves or others for how we move through it. As the song Seasons by Hillsong reminds us, “Oh how nature acquaints us with the nature of patience.” Creation has a way of slowing us down, inviting us into God’s timing. Nothing holy grows in a hurry. Listen here.
Maybe what really matters most is savoring the season we’re in, without rushing it and not judging ourselves or others for how we move through it.
heather Lebano
Advent, for me, is a slow walk of waiting—waiting for Jesus, and letting that waiting reshape me. But before we begin that walk, we linger in Thanksgiving. Gratitude prepares the heart. May this be where Advent begins.
The slow process of placing each candle in the window, hanging each wreath, and setting each ornament on the tree is less about decking the halls and more about preparing room in my heart. Advent, for me, is a slow walk of making space for hope, for waiting, for the Birth of an Infant who came from the womb of a Mother whose yes made room for God to bring a Savior into the world.
This week, I am thinking about turkey, cranberry, stuffing, making comfortable guest spaces and the traditions we cherish in this house. It will be our third Thanksgiving without Jon. Planning a holiday menu without my husband while inviting others in still feels unnatural. I’m grateful for the enthusiasm my kids bring to recreating their favorite Thanksgiving dishes. I am grateful they love to welcome others in. Each recipe is a small way to remember their dad and their childhood, to honor what we had, and carry it forward.
Sometimes, as we plan these meals, I find myself remembering our last big Thanksgiving with my mom, dad, and Jon, all of us around one table, celebrating my parents’ 50th anniversary and the last holiday we were all gathered together.
I treasure that memory now, knowing it was the last time we were all together before so much changed in the years that followed—a memory held with both ache and gratitude. It’s hard to believe all three of them are gone.
As I began preparing for the upcoming busy season—houseguests, holiday shop events, order fulfillments, a quick trip, the regular daily tasks, and another round of PT for the new “unwelcome guest” of an injury that keeps slipping back into my days—I pulled out the Thanksgiving plates and washed them. I found myself thinking about how I want to walk through these seasons that are still so tender and hold so many memories and so much loss. If you’re carrying your own “unwelcome guest” into this season, whether it’s an injury, a diagnosis, a worry, or the quiet ache of missing someone, I hope you know you’re not alone.
While wiping down the china closet as I stacked the newly washed plates, that familiar mix of gratitude and ache rose up. The many times I’ve reached for these same plates (treasures Jon and I collected at end-of-season sales) we’d set as we gathered our family around the table still tugs at my heart. They carry history, tradition, and the ordinary beauty of the life we built. Sometimes paper plates were necessary and a treasure, too.
There is something hallowed about setting a table with dishes that carry so much history, tradition, and meaning. And there is something tender about knowing a few seats still hold the weight of who is missing. Returning to these traditions feels like an honor, and an even greater honor when loved ones say yes to our invitation—even when the journey to get here will be long.
I don’t take it lightly that people choose to gather here—especially after the quiet years when invitations were few during Jon’s illness and since his passing. Something healing happens when you make space for others at the table. Extending hospitality and gathering with others always feels like a gentle way to stitch together what sorrow has torn apart.
As I prepare my home for the guests who will sit around our table and rest their heads on our guest pillows, I’m holding close the practice of giving thanks first—not just because Thanksgiving comes first on the calendar, but because we ought to give thanks ahead of time for everything. (We have a sticker to remind us.) Gratitude has a way of steadying the heart. And I’m continuing to learn the beauty and grounding that comes from tending what’s right in front of me—especially in a season that carries both ache and abundance.
And on the heels of Thanksgiving comes Advent—ready or not. I am looking forward to it, just not hurrying toward it. Even when the season rolls in fast, I’m learning to let my heart move slowly, to make room for peace as we await the arrival of the Prince of Peace — the quiet thrill of hope our hearts long for.
May we prepare for what’s coming by tending what is right in front of us.
May we thank God ahead of time.
May we savor one season at a time.
If these words resonated, I’d love to keep sharing more with you. You can subscribe here to A Few Lovely Things for new reflections—and a few other thoughts I only send through my newsletter. Also if someone in your life needs a bit of encouragement today, or is moving through a slow season, or is challenged by unwelcomed guests in their life, too, feel free to share this with them.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Philippians 4:4-7
