Thanksgiving

WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I was permitted the great luxury of being one.

That may not sound extraordinary, but it is. My parents created for me an ever-expanding “kindergarten” (a child’s garden) where curiosity was not trimmed back like an unruly hedge but encouraged to climb the fence. They unfolded the world slowly, at a pace my small legs could keep. They did not rush me into adulthood as though childhood were an inconvenience to be endured.

My father was a master of imaginative suggestion. He could turn an ordinary afternoon into an expedition. A stick was never just a stick; it was a sword, a fishing pole, or occasionally (and inexplicably) a highly advanced piece of space equipment. My mother was a determined encourager. If applause could be bottled, she would have kept a case of it in the pantry next to the flour.

Together, they charted a course for my life without ever making it feel like a map was being drawn. They made everything fun—sometimes one ridiculous game after another. And I learned early: never underestimate the holy power of laughter. It builds muscles in the soul you will need later.

I hope their art is not lost to history. I tried to I tried to follow their example when I became a dad. I was an amateur, of course. (Children do not come with an instruction manual, and if they did, I suspect I would have assembled them backward.) But I was grateful—deeply grateful—for the lives entrusted to me. them the best I could as a Dad, but I was an amateur then, yet so thankful for the children I received.

Now, as a Pappa, I feel a renewed determination. Experience has sanded down some of my rough edges. I am more aware that small moments are not small at all.

My parents taught me how to interact with the world:Smell the flowers.Taste the vegetables—all of them—even the suspicious green ones. And yes, ice cream with sprinkles is a legitimate food group in times of celebration.

They gave me responsibility over “little” things: saying please and thank you—and meaning it. Those turned out not to be little at all. They were seeds of humility and gratitude that, over time, grew roots.

I remember feeling the earth with my hands, snow on my tongue, sun warming my face. I learned to walk barefoot. I discovered I could run. I also discovered that running sometimes led directly away from good advice. I did not always follow their guidance. I am human—flawed, occasionally stubborn, and periodically convinced I knew better.

Which is why they taught me about ultimate authority.

They did not leave my knowledge of God to chance. My grandmother made certain I knew Jesus. Faith was not presented as folklore, but as foundation. As I grew, they taught me to think—to weigh decisions, to choose wisely, to understand that freedom without wisdom is merely chaos dressed in confidence.

Children still need that today—critical thinking, anchored in truth. Without it, they are defenseless before whatever voice shouts the loudest. And we, as adults, must admit we have sometimes modeled distraction more than devotion. We have been busy doing, and less diligent about being.

Families. Marriages. A working knowledge of our Creator and His Word. These are not accessories to life; they are its structure.

Children learn what we teach them—intentionally or accidentally. So the question lingers: what are we teaching?

Children need play. Real play. Unstructured, laugh-filled, imagination-stretching time at home. They need to know who they are before the world tells them who they must outperform. Before they believe life is about being the best at something, they must learn to become the best version of themselves.

The truest competition is with yesterday’s self.

We are human beings, not human doings.

And now, as Pappa, I find myself praying specific prayers for my grandchildren. I want them to be kind. Gracious. Giving. Grateful adults. I want them to carry humility like a quiet strength.

Can such things be passed down?

I believe they can.

So here is a glimpse inside your Pappa:

I have learned to let people be wrong about me. About what I can do. About my life. I no longer feel the need to correct every misunderstanding. I stay peaceful and focused. I know who I am and whose I am. It may be the most misunderstood power move I know.

My parents taught me that.

Scripture reminds us that this life is, in a sense, a dream. One day we will awaken. And when we do, I hope the meditation of my heart, the words of my mouth, and the work of my hands are found acceptable.

I am deeply thankful for this life—the scraped knees, the heartaches, the snowflakes, the sprinkles, the lessons, and especially the laughter.

Let everything I say and do be a thank you.

Copyright 2022, Revised 2026; Gary Landerfelt, MyPericope.com