True Confessions.

[av_textblock fold_type='' fold_height='' fold_more='Read more' fold_less='Read less' fold_text_style='' fold_btn_align='' textblock_styling_align='' textblock_styling='' textblock_styling_gap='' textblock_styling_mobile='' size='' av-desktop-font-size='' av-medium-font-size='' av-small-font-size='' av-mini-font-size='' font_color='' color='' fold_overlay_color='' fold_text_color='' fold_btn_color='theme-color' fold_btn_bg_color='' fold_btn_font_color='' size-btn-text='' av-desktop-font-size-btn-text='' av-medium-font-size-btn-text='' av-small-font-size-btn-text='' av-mini-font-size-btn-text='' fold_timer='' z_index_fold='' id='' custom_class='' template_class='' av_uid='av-lpe2u3c0' sc_version='1.0' admin_preview_bg='']I must confess that I read Dear Abby every day.  My “excuse” is that her column is right beneath the bridge column and right next to the New York Times crossword puzzle.  Consequently, I really have no choice in the matter.This past Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, was no different from every other day with regard to my newspaper habits.   The puzzle was a bit tough and the bridge column was above my pay grade.  But, happily,  Abby was there to save the day.Apparently, her late mother wrote a common prayer for Thanksgiving many years ago.  Somehow, through all these years, I’ve either missed it or forgotten it.  It seemed too appropriate this year to not share it with others who may never have seen it or, like me, may have forgotten it.  Here it is (slightly altered):

We give thanks for foodAnd remember the hungry.

We give thanks for healthAnd remember the sick.

We give thanks for friendsAnd remember the friendless

We give thanks for freedomAnd remember those in captivity

May these remembrancesStir us to service.To share our gifts with others.

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