The Thanksgiving blessing is now in my hands

Ah, Thanksgiving, with its glorious autumn hues.

I’ve noticed in recent years that within a few days of Thanksgiving’s arrival I begin to feel a stirring in my soul. That stirring portends feelings I’ve mostly kept dormant, or ignored, or even intentionally suppressed.

What I’m feeling is a hefty helping of thankfulness and gratitude. Those feelings have been shrouded, it would appear, by my own gargantuan ego, which asserts that I need thank no one but myself for my good fortune.

Rubbish!

With that admission, I actually begin to undergo a change — for a brief period, anyway — within my heart.

I love Thanksgiving because it’s so … transformational. Aside from Christmas, I’d rank it as my favorite holiday. I appreciate it for myriad reasons, particularly for the way in which it humbles me.

It was Dostoyevsky who said: “[Man], if he is not stupid, is monstrously ungrateful. Phenomenally ungrateful! In fact, I believe that the best definition of man is the ungrateful biped.”

I’m frozen in his cross hairs. On my best day I’m a puffed-up ingrate.

I don’t know about you, but I periodically need to be reminded of my blessings. Thanksgiving is a uniquely American way to do so.

For the past decade or so, as the oldest male (though, certainly, not the most dominant) in our immediate family, it’s been my responsibility to deliver the Thanksgiving blessing at our ever-expanding table. It’s a responsibility my family bestows upon its most-aged war horse.

I never take the assignment lightly.

By the way, the women of our clan are perfectly capable of lifting up mellifluous voices to the Lord — and frequently do — it’s just that this is how Thanksgiving chores were doled out by our kin decades ago. And we’re nothing if not traditionalists.

My sister, Judi, has been bequeathed the special Turkey Day gravy “gift” in the family, passed down from my great grandmother to my grandmother to my mother. Judi trots out the treasured recipe every fourth Thursday in November.

I confess that it’s an honor to give the Thanksgiving blessing. And I further confess that I’m no longer able to get through it without choking up. I’ve turned into a regular gush-bucket.

The family now views me as a slightly doddering sentimentalist. At least I’ve matured enough to no longer be in denial about my emotions. With eight grandkids, no self-respecting 70-year-old thinks he’s carved from granite, as he once did when he was 35.

This Thanksgiving is my 71st on Planet Earth. It promises to be my most meaningful.

The chairs around our Thanksgiving table have been rearranged over the years. Gone are my grandparents, my father, my father-in-law and my son. We miss them and are thankful for the time we had with them.

Over the past 16 years eight grandchildren have been added to our number, making our holiday gathering all the more meaningful.

Most of my Thanksgivings have been spent here in beautiful (and usually sunny) Newport-Mesa. I’ve also experienced Thanksgiving in snowy South Korea, the tropical waters of Maui’s Kahana Beach and beneath a cover of stately Georgia pines.

I’ve had to work on Thanksgiving, gone to church on Thanksgiving, attended football games on Thanksgiving, and eaten Army chow (always good, by the way!) on Thanksgiving.

This Thanksgiving, I resolve to take a moment before delivering the blessing. I’ll quietly thank God for what he’s done for this undeserving wretch. And, most assuredly, my prayer will end up changing me rather than him.

Now, ‘tis the season for being thankful. But, really, that should apply to every day of the week and every week of the year.

“Look around you,” writes Michael O’Brien in his book “Sophia House.” “Do we not live and move and have our being upon the face of a miracle? We have ceased to notice what a marvel it is.”

Sadly, we have.

Take a moment to reflect. The season teaches us that we have much to be grateful for.

Happy Thanksgiving!

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.