Still Giving Thanks
This month isn’t just about your favorite pies and fixings — it’s about something so much more. It’s about slowing down long enough to remember what really matters. The people. The prayers. The moments that have shaped who we are.
As I’ve reflected on this season, I’m reminded that even in loss, I’m still giving thanks. Giving thanks for love that lasts beyond this life. For memories that hold steady through time. And for the way God continues to weave grace into every story — even the ones that ache a little.
Two women have been especially on my heart — my grandma Gwen, who I affectionately called Granny, and my dear friend Tondrea. Both are reminders that gratitude and grief can coexist, and that love never really leaves.
Granny: A Legacy of Faith and Love
My Granny was the mom of three boys — just like me. As my own sons grow, I often wish I could pick up the phone and ask her how she did it. She would know. She would understand.
The summer before she passed felt like a gift wrapped in advance. She wasn’t sick, but she carried a quiet urgency. She updated her living will and asked me to be her secondary decision-maker — a trust I’ll never forget. That same summer, we visited the ARK Encounter, where we marveled at God’s creation. At one point, we thought we’d lost her, only to find her laughing on the phone because the battery in her motorized wheelchair had died. That was Granny — able to laugh, even when plans didn’t go as expected.
That July, she made a choice that became one of the greatest gifts. Instead of traveling for the Fourth of July like she and my grandfather did regularly, she said, “I want to be here. I don’t know how many more birthdays I’ll get to celebrate with AJ.” She spent that weekend with us — at church, a family cookout, and AJ’s birthday celebration. None of us knew it would be her last, but I’m forever thankful for that memory.
Little did we know that just a few months later, in November, we would say goodbye to her. This year marks four years since she passed away.
Earlier this year, my grandfather moved out of the place that had been my grandparents’ home for as long as I can remember. I’ve been there many times since Granny passed, but this time felt different. Being there without either of them has been the hardest part — the quiet rooms, the empty chairs, the sense that their laughter and love still linger in the air. Now, we’re just days away from closing on the sale of their house. As much as that brings a sense of relief after ten months of cleaning, sorting, and letting go — for an 800-square-foot home, no less — it also brings a deep sense of finality.
Cleaning out their home felt like walking through the story of their lives together. Every corner held a memory, every closet told a story. Granny loved fashion — closets overflowing with shoes, suits, and hats, each one chosen with care. She never went to church without a hat, and some still had tags on them.
We donated many of her suits to women who love dressing up for church and found a congregation where ladies still proudly wear hats. Knowing her hats will be worn again — gracing Sunday mornings and filling pews with color and joy — makes me smile. It feels like a small but beautiful way her legacy lives on, not just in how she dressed, but in how she carried herself, with grace and faith.
One afternoon, while we were cleaning out the house, I tried on one of her hats — one I don’t actually remember ever seeing her wear. She had so many, and this one felt like a hidden treasure. We were standing in the basement, surrounded by boxes and memories, when I caught a glimpse of myself wearing it. My husband snapped a picture — a simple, unexpected moment that now means so much. It felt like a small, holy reminder that her love and faith are still covering me, even now.
But what I remember most about Granny wasn’t just her style — it was her heart. She and Pawpaw spent years serving side by side in their church, pouring themselves into children’s ministry. She believed it was so important for kids to know about the love of Jesus.
She also carried one of the most empathetic spirits I’ve ever known. Granny could hear about a soldier dying on the news and be brought to tears because she felt the pain of that family’s loss. That was who she was — someone whose heart broke for the hurting.
And she believed in me. Granny was always the one bragging about my grades or my accomplishments. When I became the first person in our family to win our family reunion scholarship, she was overjoyed — and for years afterward, she’d remind everyone that I was the first. She dreamed big dreams for me and never let me forget that I could do anything I set my mind to. In her eyes, maybe I’d even be working overseas someday, because she just knew I was capable of whatever I put my mind to.
Her faith was steady and practical. One of my favorite things she used to say was, “Holy Spirit, help me.” She said it when she was overwhelmed, stressed, or even when she lost something small. That simple phrase taught me that faith isn’t just for Sundays — it’s for the everyday.
And I’m certain that I — and my family — are still living under her prayers. Her love, her empathy, and her belief in me are stitched into the fabric of who I am.
A Friendship Born from Loss
I also find myself thinking of my dear friend, Tondrea. We met through shared heartbreak — pregnancy loss — after our pastor’s wife from a church we once attended connected us. What began as me sending her a simple message saying I’d love to connect and hear her story grew into a friendship that became one of God’s sweetest gifts.
For years, we encouraged each other from afar before finally meeting in person. Even through distance, she radiated kindness and strength. It wasn’t unusual for her to call or text right at the exact moment I was on her mind. No matter what she had going on or was walking through, she reached out anyway. That’s just the type of person she was — thoughtful, selfless, and tuned in to others’ hearts.
Over time, our friendship — and our husbands’ friendship — really grew together. We’d often group chat and laugh as couples, talking about life, family, and faith. It wasn’t just a friendship between the two of us; it was something that felt like family. Genuine, effortless, and rooted in love.
Every time we were together — just a few times over the years — she never wanted to meet without cooking for us. That was her love language. You could taste the love she poured into every meal. I’ll never forget being her sous chef one of the times they visited — helping her prep a delicious meatloaf dinner. I’ll never forget that day cooking together — moving between the dining room table where we prepped the food and the kitchen where it was cooking, talking and laughing as we went. There was such joy in that simple, ordinary moment — food and friendship intertwined in the most meaningful way.
When Marcus, Tondrea, and Jeremiah James (JJ) stayed with us, she often said she could feel so much peace in our home — and definitely not because it was quiet (a house with three boys is rarely that!). But she’d laugh and say that being there felt like being home. She could rest. She could be herself. She felt comfortable and covered there — and that meant more to me than she probably ever knew.
What we never shared with her and Marcus is that we felt the same way at their house. When we visited, it was the kind of place where you could grab a blanket, get comfy on the couch, and settle in. No expectations — just be yourself, unwind, and hang out. Their home had that same peaceful, welcoming spirit that made you want to stay awhile.
I’ll never forget the day I found out she had passed away. It didn’t seem real. I was in shock, standing there with that deep ache in my chest that grief brings. Later that afternoon, I went to my grandparents’ house to meet with a contractor about some repairs. He handed me one of his business cards — and right there, printed on it, was the company’s motto: “All for His Glory.”
It stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t even realized I’d chosen that company at random — or so I thought. But seeing those words felt like a message from heaven, a reminder of who Tondrea was. She lived her life for God’s glory. Through her kindness, her faith, her joy, and even in her pain, she pointed others back to Him.
That moment reminded me that even in loss, God is near — still speaking, still comforting, and still weaving purpose through the pain.
Tondrea leaves behind a husband of 14 years and a beautiful 4-year-old son — soon to be 5 — who was her pride and joy. Losing her has been a sobering reminder that life truly is a vapor. None of us know how much time we have, and it’s too easy to let work or busyness steal the moments that matter most. Her life makes me want to slow down, be present, and love people well — while I still can.
Seeing Marcus walk through this has been tough as a friend — knowing the depth of their love, their laughter, their faith, and how much they truly cherished each other. Please keep Marcus and their son, JJ, in your prayers in the days to come.
Today we’ll gather to celebrate Tondrea’s life. At her visitation, they played Goodness of God by CeCe Winans, and as those words filled the room — “All my life You have been faithful. All my life You have been so, so good. Your goodness is running after me…” — I couldn’t hold back my tears. Because even in the grief, those words rang true. God’s goodness really has followed me, and I can see it in every memory, every friendship, every bit of love that still lingers long after goodbye.
Our lives crossed for just a few years, but her love, her laughter, and her kindness left a mark that will last a lifetime.
Gratitude for Every Gift
This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for my Granny, for Tondrea, and for everyone who has filled my life with love. They’ve taught me that gratitude isn’t just for what we have — it’s for who we have, and even for who we’ve had.
Whether it’s family that raised us, friends who became family, or loved ones we’ve had to say goodbye to too soon, every person is a gift. Work will always wait; people won’t. I don’t want to take one conversation, one laugh, or one shared meal for granted. Because love — when rooted in faith — never ends.
I’m also deeply grateful for the family and friends who continue to walk beside me — for the people who show up in big and small ways, who check in, pray, encourage, and remind me that God’s love is often most visible through the people He places in our lives. Their presence is one of the sweetest reflections of His goodness.
That’s what it means to be still giving thanks — to see His faithfulness even through the heartache. To know that gratitude doesn’t erase the pain, but it does remind us that God’s goodness has never left.
P.S. I pray this Thanksgiving you take time to create new memories with those you love — and to remember with gratitude the family and friends whose love still surrounds you, even from heaven. May we carry the spirit of Thanksgiving beyond November — checking in on those who are grieving, cherishing the people still with us, and finding small ways to honor those who’ve gone before us all year long.
