Thanksgiving has always been about more than the food on the table. But it took a long deployment to Haiti for me to truly understand what "supper" can mean, and how a simple meal can whisper, without a single word, welcome home.

When I came back from that deployment, I didn't feel like the same person who had left. Haiti had a way of pressing itself into your bones—the heat, the dust, the weight of what you see and what you can't fix. You learn to eat quickly, sleep lightly, and tuck your feelings into the corners of your rucksack underneath a mosquito net. You move from one mission to the next, one long day to another, until "normal" becomes whatever is in front of you.

Then one day, the deployment ends. Dissonance stays with you even after wheels down.

The Smell of Home

I remember pulling into the driveway after that long stretch away, the sky already dimming, the kind of soft light that makes everything feel suspended between day and night. I turned off the engine and just sat there for a moment. The world was suddenly quiet—no generators humming, no radios crackling, no boots shuffling past my door. Just stillness.

And then I noticed it.

The aromas.

It slipped through the air like a familiar song: supper cooking. Warm, rich, layered with spices and memory. It wrapped around me before I ever stepped out of the car. It didn't smell like a restaurant or a chow line. It smelled like home—like someone had been thinking about me long enough for a pot to simmer, a roast to bake, or bread to rise. 

Love had been on the stove for hours before my car ever turned onto that street.

When I opened the door, the sound of clinking dishes and soft voices met me. Not a crowd, not a performance—just the gentle, everyday music of a meal being prepared. 

That moment captured what my heart had been craving for months: a place where I didn't have to be "on," didn't have to scan for threats, didn't have to explain where I'd been or what I'd seen. 

A place where the chair pulled out at the table was already my answer: You belong. We've been waiting for you.

That's what Thanksgiving is to me.

More Than a Meal

We talk a lot about the turkey, the sides, the desserts—and those are wonderful. But underneath the recipes and traditions is something deeper, almost sacred. Supper, especially on a day like Thanksgiving, is more than food. It's the pause in our lives, the communal deep breath, the circle drawn around our weariness, our joy, and our grief.

We gather where the daylight fades and the kitchen light glows like a lighthouse. The clatter of plates, the murmur of overlapping conversations, the quick bursts of laughter—it all stirs the quiet like a hymn. 

Around that table, we pass more than dishes. We pass stories half-finished, jokes we've told a hundred times, and moments of silence that don't feel empty or awkward. Instead, they feel safe.

On Thanksgiving, no one has to be whole to be welcomed. The tired, the joyful, the grieving, the overwhelmed—all of us are invited to sit, to breathe, to simply be. We don't come to the table as perfect versions of ourselves. We come as we are: worn at the edges, maybe carrying memories we're not ready to talk about, maybe holding a sadness we can't quite name. And still, the table makes room.

Food Speaks to Us, and for Us

Food has a way of translating what our hearts struggle to say.

The steam rising from a bowl of hot buttered mashed potatoes feels like a quiet prayer. The way someone remembers your favorite side dish says, "I see you." The way a recipe is passed down—"this was your grandmother's way of stirring love into a pot that never runs empty"—reminds us that we are part of a story bigger than our own timeline. 

At Thanksgiving, we don't measure by portions, we measure by presence. Who made it to the table this year. Who is missing. Who we carry with us in memory.

For those who have been deployed, or who are far from home for any reason, this day can stir deep emotions. You might find yourself thinking of dinners eaten out of MRE plastic bags, quick bites grabbed between responsibilities, or holidays marked more by duty than by rest. You might remember the faces of people you shared those meals with—some who made it home, some who didn't. In that mix of gratitude and ache, Thanksgiving becomes both a gift and a reminder.

A gift, because the simple act of sitting down at a table where you are safe, known, and loved is no small thing. A reminder, because you know how fragile and precious that safety really is.

Welcome Home, Without Words

As I walked to the door that night after my Haiti deployment, I realized something profound: no one had to say "Welcome home" out loud for me to hear it. The porch light was on. The house glowed warm against the evening. The smell of supper wrapped around me like an embrace. Before a single word was spoken, I knew—deep in my bones—that I was home, that I was wanted, that there was a place at the table with my name on it.

This Thanksgiving, that's what I hold close.

Not the perfect centerpiece. Not whether the turkey is Instagram-worthy. But the simple, holy truth is that food can be communion: a way we come together, remember who we are to each other, and let love be something you can see, smell, and taste.

May your table be a place where no one has to be whole to be welcomed.

May your supper forgive the day and invite the night in gently. And may the people you love know, without a single word needing to be spoken, exactly what "Welcome home" means to you.

Supper's Ready

A poem by Mike Williams

We gather where the daylight fades,
soft clatter of plates and gentle voices
stir the quiet like a hymn.
Supper is not just the food we share—
it is the pause, the breathing out,
the circle drawn around our weariness.

Here, hands pass more than bread.
They pass stories half-finished,
laughter rescued from long days,
and silence that doesn't feel alone.
A chair pulled out means you belong,
even if your heart arrives late.

Steam rises from bowls like prayer,
seasoned with memory—
someone's grandmother's way of stirring love
into a pot that never runs empty.
We do not measure by portions,
but by presence.

At this humble hour
no one must be whole to be welcomed.
The tired, the joyful, the grieving, the shy—
all find their place without asking.
Supper forgives the day
and invites the night in gently.

For here, under this soft light,
every face is known,
every voice is heard,
and every heart—hungry or full—
is fed by more than food.