The table we build

Porch lights blink; the air slims as thin as the veil. Thanksgiving peeks from the horizon, and the gentle persisting call returns to find a way to feed one another. “Come by around six?” In this season, take the invitation by its oldest meaning: I need you alive; I want to help to make it so.

The table stands at the center of that promise. A table speaks in warm specifics—chairs pulled close, time made spacious, bread broken so a story can land without rushing. It becomes workshop, classroom, chapel. At this table we tell the truth: paychecks wobble, benefits shrink, grocery math bites. We also tell another truth: we belong to a wider lineage. Dakota and Ojibwe homelands hold our water and soil; the harvest on our plates carries history and cost. 

Repair admits what life does. Promises fray. Systems seize. Hearts split under pressure. Repair answers with skill—quiet, steady work that closes a seam so dignity can hold. The scale looks small; the culture changes because of it.

Justice turns into stance—a maladjustment to injustice that lives in the bones and on the calendar. Justice becomes rhythm more than flare, a reliable motion that keeps neighbors fed, housed, and seen when headlines refuse to hold still.

Gratitude trains awe into ballast. It steadies the boat so repair and justice travel the distance. Gratitude keeps the heart open when weight argues for collapse; it refuses the heavy spell and returns us to breath.

This is our throughline for November: a people who set a table large enough for truth—truth about wages and benefits, land and lineage, the Earth seated with us as a permanent guest. The month invites intensity with lightness—lift without drag, courage without the scorch. The invitation is simple and deep: come by at six; bring hunger and story. We will honor absence and memory. We will bless the soil that feeds us. We will keep one another in motion. 

This is our throughline for November: a people who set a table large enough for truth—truth about wages and benefits, land and lineage, the Earth seated with us as a permanent guest.

Dr. Glen Thomas Rideout

Holy Love, draw us to the table you set in every season—
where bread still warms a tired hand,
where water remembers its long journey and asks us to do the same.

Bless the ones doing checkout math and the ones stretching pay through the end of the month.
Bless the body that wakes afraid and the mind that will not turn off.
Bless the worker facing a hard week, the parent who counts twice, the elder who eats last.

Teach our hands the craft of repair—
stitches small and true, apologies that hold, boundaries that keep life safe.
Set justice in our bones as a steady rhythm—
habit we can trust when the air turns thin.
Keep gratitude awake in us—
a clear, bright seeing of the world around us and the world within us,
so our hearts stay open long enough for courage to do its work.

We remember those missing from our tables and the Peoples whose lands feed our feast.
We remember the waters, the soils, the seeds, the hands.
Make us a people who say, without flinching or delay:
You are not alone. We are holding it together.

And when evening comes and the porch light lifts a small circle in the dark,
let our invitation carry its ancient meaning:
Come by at six. I need you alive; and I will help to make it so.

Amen.