In January, I have a new book coming out, Uneasy Silence: An Activist Seeks Justice and Courage over a Lifetime of Change. The book’s only a little longer than the title.

A theme that emerged early in writing the book is the vision of what Martin Luther King Jr. called “the beloved community.” In sermons and speeches, from pulpits and prisons, he held out his vision of life lived not for ourselves but for the good of one another. He described a community where justice belongs to everyone, no matter our race or religion or gender, where the immigrant and the stranger are safe and welcome.

King’s vision of a beloved community didn’t die on a balcony in Memphis – it’s stayed alive in the witness of thousands of followers including, memorably, the late Congressman John Lewis. And it speaks to me about the urgency of community following a pandemic of illness, political self-preservation and grim isolation.

If I sometimes fear we’ve taken a step backward in recent elections, away from the beloved community and toward a nation defined by self-interest, I need to remember that the evidence hasn’t yet been assembled. I don’t help anyone (including me) by living prematurely in the wreckage of the future.

While ruminating about all this, I notice that our annual feast of thankfulness is upon us. It’s Thanksgiving Day again, right on time and never more important.

We have two holidays now, Thanksgiving and Friendsgiving – the latter a call to break out of our isolation and gather with friends who matter to us. It isn’t Norman Rockwell’s tradition. Instead, it’s an opportunity to express our thankfulness for friends and with friends, some of whom may also be family.

If we have it in us, we can move one step beyond thankfulness to gratitude. I’m thankful for something specific like a birthday card or a retirement watch. But when I’m living in gratitude, I’ve taken hold of a life quality that outlasts a moment or an event. Thankfulness is a feeling; gratitude is a choice, more than an emotion. It’s a decision, a commitment to recognize grace in my life.

I’m not sure turkeys can choose gratitude but, if they can, I’m pretty sure they’re grateful for vegetarians. Me? I’m grateful that I have people in my life who I genuinely love, and who love me in return. I’m grateful for my grandson’s hug, my granddaughter’s giggle, and the soft gurgles of their newborn brother. I’m grateful to be alive after some pretty close calls. I’m grateful for the right to vote, grateful for those who voted differently and want to live in harmony with me anyway.

We live in a time of extraordinary differences. At one extreme is Dr. King’s “beloved community.” At the other extreme are dehumanizing brutalities endured by Afghan girls and women who, if caught singing in public, will suffer flogging and being stoned.

I’m grateful that the dream of Dr. King’s beloved community has not died. I’m grateful for those who will risk safety and status to defend justice and integrity. Tonight I’m going to heed Maya Angelou’s advice to “let gratitude be the pillow upon which I kneel to say my nightly prayer.”

When I wake tomorrow, to honor my sisters in Afghanistan, I’m going to sing while I make my morning coffee, sing while I drive to my first appointment, sing while I prep the turkey and the cranberry sauce.

I’m choosing to be grateful and, even if a little off-key and humbling, I’m going to sing about it.

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