Thanksgiving Joy
I was thinking of writing something. The old writer inside me — that wild, caged animal — started clawing at the bars again. I try to keep him sedated, tame, predictable. But he’s got fire in his lungs and ink in his blood, and when he wants out, he wants out now. Some days I worry he’ll chew his own leg off just to escape the trap I keep him in… because I know the world isn’t always hungry for twenty thousand words of why I felt something or why I wrote something or why the Spirit gripped me the way He did.
It’s the curse of the writer. And somehow… the blessing.
Because while I was wrestling that creature back down into its cage, the muse dropped something in front of me — someone posting about Thanksgiving. And I thought, “You numbskull. You haven’t even said one word about Thanksgiving.” And suddenly I felt it — the ache, the sweetness, the sting, the joy. Thanksgiving always tastes like joy baked into sorrow… like laughter sitting across the table from loss.
Last year, Grandma Carolyn was with us. This year, she’s shouting on streets paved with gold. Last year, Vinnie was still fighting through the long nights of chemotherapy. This year, he’s fighting still — stronger than ever, tougher than ever. And here I am, alone in a house with two big dogs and one unpredictable cat, unable to make it to the meetings I thought I’d attend, unable to board these creatures or trust someone to feed them. Life didn’t stick to the script.
But I’m thankful. Oh, I’m thankful.
My congregation… they broke something loose in me this October. Pastor Appreciation. I’ve been through five of them, and I never know how to take a compliment. But this time, it wasn’t just cards and cake. It was tears. It was trembling voices. And by the time I got up to preach, I had to ask, “Who were you guys talking about? Surely it wasn’t me?” And they laughed, but they meant every word.
I don’t know if they understand how thankful I am.
Back in 2016, when I was trying to finish my exhorters, the bottom fell out of my world. Vinnie was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma. Chemotherapy. Memphis. St. Jude. And I couldn’t leave him alone in a strange city to go take tests and interviews and jump through ecclesiastical hoops. So I didn’t. And when I thought I could just pick up a month later, they said, “No. You’ll have to wait a year.” Then through a wild mix-up, that year became two. And yet the Church of God — the CAMS program — the people God sent into my path… they carried me. They steadied me. They said, “We’ll help you.” And they did.
Chris Smithee stepped into my life like a man sent for one exact purpose. He didn’t have to. He was busy beyond words — running CAMS, MIP, Exhorters, helping dozens of ministers. But he took me in. Guided me. Stood with me. And without him, I wouldn’t be pastoring my church today. I’ll thank that man until I draw my last breath.
Then Jacob Skelton whispered something to the right ears at the right time — and suddenly the Administrative Bishop was looking my way. But even before that, Brother Warren spoke up. Sheila and Brad Bell spoke up. Shawn Williams. Jessy and Faun. And a handful of other people who simply said, “Why not John? Why can’t he pastor our church?”
And I’ll never forget what that tiny congregation did when Vinnie got sick in 2016. I barely had enough money to make the trip to Memphis. I was working small jobs, just enough to stay in ministry, choosing day shift instead of higher wages so I could be there for church, for people, for souls. And that little congregation — that remnant — came together and said, “We’ll send you. We’ll get you there.” And boy did they! They sent me, my mom, and my boys straight to St. Jude with love in their hands.
So yes. Thankful? You don’t even know.
I’m thankful for missionary Dr. Vance Massengill and his family, showing up dressed in the cultural garb of their mission field with courage and calling stitched into every thread. Thankful for my son — oh Lord, my boy — holding the nail-scarred hand of Jesus tighter than I’ve ever seen any grown man hold faith. Thankful for Leo still ruggedly working as a paramedic and enjoying boxing during his off-time. And my sons’ beautiful wives—priceless! Thankful for my pastoral brothers: Aaron, Brandon, Mark, Roman, Jeff, Nathaniel… men I don’t see enough but always carry in my heart.
And truthfully? If the Lord took me home today, I think I could go with a smile. Ministry is hard, yes — but the reward outweighs the cost. And isn’t that just like Jesus? The Lamb slain before the foundation of the world, enduring a torture no man could imagine… because the reward — you and me — outweighed the cost of the cross.
The Carpenter of worlds was born into the household of a carpenter. Because builders don’t retire. Makers don’t stop making. He created Adam and Eve. He shaped Heaven and Earth. Nothing exists without Him. And He told Philip, “If you’ve seen Me, you’ve seen the Father.” He is the radiance. The glory. The heartbeat behind every sunrise.
So yes, I’m thankful.
And that bitterness I felt earlier? It’s gone. Burned out. Washed away. What’s left is joy. Pure, uncut, undiluted joy.
So I give thanks this Thanksgiving — to my friends, my family, my congregation. To the ones who held me up, held me together, and held me close in prayer. And to the God who is leading us home.
Because that’s the real ending of this story.
We’re going home.
And as I sit in this quiet house with dogs snoring, memories whispering, and blessings stacked all around me like forgotten gifts on Christmas morning… my heart swells with a love so warm, so deep, so familiar it almost hurts.
The kind of love that tastes like pumpkin pie and old hymns.
The kind that smells like Grandma Carolyn’s kitchen brimming with sage and turkey and stuffing.
The kind that feels like my boys’ laughter echoing down the hallway.
The kind that wraps around a church family like a blanket woven by God Himself.
And I whisper into the silence…
Thank You, Lord.
Thank You for all of it.
We’re going home.