It is on Thanksgiving where God comes truly to life. In the fattening of the belly and in the bloatedness from beer comes the traditions of the old, created from no known origin. For in Thanksgiving, there is a tradition created from acknowledging the hatred of one, and the fears of another. As natives and colonizers came to break bread, hate―devilry―still lived in the pit of their bellies, but they suffocated it in drink and food. 

And from the great hate on both sides, came one brief meal of goodwill—which yes—did revert again to disarray and chaos. But it is in that mix up of randomness, in that splashing of known and unknown, where hate fades and love grows, where God, though undefined by both, can boast a hearty chuckle and be thankful that his creations might momentarily ignore ignorance—be it for one meal—to see that God is buried within their hatred, their fear, their nothingness. 

And really, it is the knowing that within us all, it is the nothingness that truly lives. When everything is broken down to nothing, when we know truly that each of us is unknown and meaningless, when we see each other’s eyes sparkle with delight and delirium, only then is true meaning and true love found in each of the empty hearts of humankind.

Thanksgiving is to be empty, and to fill one another to the brim. Here God laughs. Here God lives.