“Thanksgiving should be celebrated in the spring.”
Thus declared the famous Canadian author L. M. Montgomery. She further explained her opinion with these words: “I think it would be ever so much better than having it in November when everything is dead or asleep. Then you have to remember to be thankful; but in May one simply can’t help being thankful…that they are alive, if for nothing else.”
When I first stumbled upon this quotation, I heartily seconded Montgomery’s assertion. After all, November is not the most becoming garment in nature’s seasonal wardrobe. The trees raise empty hands to sky, their lost leaves floating on the silver streams. The dried seeds of the faded flowers rattle in the crispy grass. The winds are stronger now, howling from the north like the heralds of the winter to be.
So yes, it seems like an unfortunate twist of irony that Thanksgiving appears in the very season when thankfulness hauls the hardest. One can agree with Montgomery’s logic that the effervescence of spring stimulates gratitude much more than the barrenness of November. Even the extravagance of summer or the white-clad whirl of winter seems more conducive to fostering a thankful heart.
But then, I realized something unexpected. Perhaps Thanksgiving’s place on the yearly calendar is not a mistake but a very intentional message. Perhaps, after all, giving thanks in the bitter end of November is good practice—for life itself.
You see, in life, we enjoy many seasons when gratitude comes easily—the “springtime” seasons, when, as Montgomery argued, “one simply can’t help being thankful.” The child is born. The marriage is wonderful. The job is fulfilling and the dreams are growing. In such times, our praise pours easily from the overflow of our contented hearts.
But then there are other seasons that bluster into our lives like the rough winds of late autumn—whipping our gratitude to shreds. The child is drifting. The marriage is struggling, or the job is draining, or the dream is dying. These seasons come to us donned in the ragged robes of November, and suddenly, our thankfulness evaporates. These are the times when gratitude feels not just challenging but also futile.
Yet it is precisely in these seasons that gratitude is most needed.
We hear this, and everything in us revolts. When we feel the least like offering praise, why would we? It’s asking a lot to expect us to survive this season—but to celebrate it? What could possibly be the purpose of summoning our thanks?
For this simple fact: gratitude equates with grace.
“Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him,” Paul urged the Colossian church, “rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving” (Colossians 2:6-7 ESV). It’s interesting that Paul equates a continued experience of God’s grace with gratitude. The two can’t be separated! He repeats his exhortation in Ephesians 5:20: “[Give] thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (ESV). But perhaps this is the most profound passage: “Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (1 Thessalonians 5:18 ESV).
You see, somehow we’ve gotten gratitude all wrong. We see it rather like a tip, bestowed upon Heaven when we’re happy with our treatment. If we receive good service from Heaven, we’ll respond with a big tip; but if we’re not waited on the way we desire, well, then we’ll withhold our grudging thanks until the service improves. In reality, though, this thinking isn’t just selfish—it’s skewed. Gratitude isn’t for God’s benefit; it’s for ours. Gratitude does nothing to sustain the power of God, as if He’s dependent on our gratitude to bolster His ego. Instead, the purpose of gratitude is to keep our own hearts soft, to heal the hard and calloused edges of our souls. Withholding our thanks will not hinder God, but it will harm us.
This is the secret Paul knew: gratitude walks hand in hand with trust. When we sullenly refuse to express gratitude for hard circumstances, we’re effectively denying God’s sovereignty, declaring that we could have done it better. Instead of remembering that “all things work together for good,” we pine for our (oh-so-superior) plans. Instead of recalling our responsibility to “trust in the Lord with all our hearts,” we exalt our strategies and solutions over the enigmatic will of God.
And the poison of ingratitude doesn’t stop there; it creeps into our relationships with others. Before we know it, our toxic attitude has blocked the release of the Holy Spirit into the world, and we find ourselves spreading death, not life.
But what happens when we choose the opposite? When we, as Montgomery said, “remember to be thankful”? Choosing gratitude—even and especially when we don’t feel like doing so—is simultaneously declaring our faith. This is how we survive the darkest seasons of our souls—along the very path that seems the most daunting and least natural. Gripping gratitude, we are planting ourselves on the promises of God. Instead of worshiping the myth of perfection, we are choosing to love God more than we cherish our own idol of the “way it should be.” We are making the bold proclamation that even in the darkness, our eyes will remain fixed on the light.
In her breathtaking book One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp convincingly argues that ingratitude lay at the root of man’s original sin in the Garden, a pattern that continues in our rebellious hearts today: “Then to find Eden…I’d need to forsake my…bruised and bloodied ungrateful life.” Thus, she believes, “Our very saving is associated with our gratitude”—not a works-based legalism but a vibrant sign of resurrection. “Jesus counts thanksgiving as integral in a faith that saves….Thanksgiving is the evidence of our acceptance of whatever He gives. Thanksgiving is the manifestation of our Yes! to His grace.”
The evidence of our acceptance. The manifestation of our yes.
So that’s why thankfulness is needed in our Novembers. It’s not just a grudging duty or a dry ritual; it’s the path to a deeper relationship with God.
How do we start? With one simple acknowledgement: that God’s way is higher than ours. We stand at the intersection of our will and God’s will, and we choose the trail of trust. And then we realize the secret: when we exhale gratitude, we inhale grace—the broken yet beautiful grace that can be found, with surprising suddenness, right where we are.
Beauty in November? Yes. Because even within terrible and trembling things, there are blessings under the surface, sprouting from the soil of suffering. I’m reminded of that even now, in autumn’s fading finale. Yes, the trees are bare—but the leaf buds of spring’s foliage are tucked along their limbs. Yes, many of the birds have flown—but the ones that remain still spill their songs into the drab days. Yes, the wind takes my breath with its cold—but when I step outside in the silver world of swirling leaves and swooping clouds, it also makes me feel alive.
This is the path of gratitude. We look beneath the surly surface of circumstance, searching deeper, closer, longer—and suddenly we see something to be thankful for. And then something else. And then something else. The blessings align like stepping stones, and gently, humbly, with open hands and open eyes and open hearts, we take each step.
The life in our lungs…
Thank You.
The hug from a friend…
Thank You.
The promise of eternity…
Thank You.
And before we know it, the stepping-stone path has become a highway of holiness. With every thanks, we’re moving closer toward the heart of God, practicing the gratitude that has become a liberating lifestyle.
So—would Thanksgiving be easier to celebrate in spring or summer? Absolutely. There’s much to be thankful for then. But there’s much to be thankful for now too. So this Thanksgiving, I’ll stand in the rough wind, watching the last faded leaves flutter by, and I’ll lift my arms to Heaven. Because our thanks is never needed more than in the November world.