A November Moon Over the Day After Thanksgiving
- Ashley Walker
- 5 days ago
- 3 min read
On this November night—the day after Thanksgiving—a pale moon rises like a lantern in the inky sky beyond my study’s French doors. The world outside is hushed, wrapped in the velvet chill of early winter. Thanksgiving’s warmth is now a memory of crowded tables and lingering pie crusts, giving way to the solitary clarity of the season’s first true cold. Bare branches claw at the moon’s glow, their silhouettes etched sharply against the faint mist that softens the horizon, as if the trees themselves reach upward in quiet supplication.
The moon hangs full and unyielding, its white fire spilling through the glass panes and pooling across my desk, where the remnants of the holiday’s bustle still lie scattered: photos of grinning Lettermen in red and blue tees, arms laden with Turkeys for Heroes; a signed football from a 100th birthday celebration; a radio selfie taken mid-interview, finger pointed at the screen in unabashed holiday cheer. No stars pierce the haze tonight. Instead, light pollution from distant streets dims the celestial drama into something intimate, almost confessional. It is the kind of night that invites reflection—the year’s harvest weighed against its losses, gratitude tempered by the shortening days. Here, in the quiet aftermath of feasting and giving—autographs for heroes, meals for veterans—one hears the echo of the psalmist: “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). This lunar vigil becomes a sermon in silence, reminding us that thanksgiving is not mere sentiment but a posture of the soul—acknowledging the Giver amid the gifts, as Christ washed feet before breaking bread, turning service into sacrament.
Beyond the doors, the grass gleams with frost’s first kiss, ready to crunch beneath any brave footstep. The air carries a faint thread of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney, a ghostly echo of the day’s feasts. Across the kitchen, in the den, Chito and Simba—my two little orange tabby kittens—toast their buns near the fireplace, curled like warm, breathing embers, oblivious to the moon’s vigil yet embodying its peace. In this stripped-bare landscape, theology finds its poetry: the moon, the lesser light to rule the night (Genesis 1:16), mirrors the steadfast love that chases away our shadows, pointing to the true Light that entered our winter two millennia ago. It whispers of Advent’s nearness, when scarcity yields to incarnation and barren branches bud with hope—just as today’s heroes, from gridiron to battlefield, passed the torch of abundance to those who served in silence.
Now, tired from the whirl of microphones and merry handshakes, I rest in this vigil, the day’s labors settling like frost. In this threshold moment—between feast and fast, abundance and austerity—the moon stands sentinel, illuminating the study’s quiet. It reminds me that November’s gift lies not in excess but in its stark beauty: a world stripped bare, yet luminous with divine promise. Tomorrow, the sun will reclaim the sky, but tonight, under this watchful orb, the day after Thanksgiving feels eternal—a foretaste of the banquet to come, where every hero finds a seat, and even the smallest creatures bask in the glow.
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