Waypoints: 30 Days of Gratitude

This month, Moteventure turns its compass toward the quiet power of thankfulness. Waypoints: 30 Days of Gratitude is a daily storytelling journey through resilience, grace, and the moments that anchor us. Each post will be a marker — a pause along the path — where gratitude reveals itself in unexpected ways. From small gestures to life-altering kindness, these stories invite reflection, connection, and a deeper appreciation for the light we find (and share) along the way.

Every path has its waypoints. If gratitude lit yours, leave a note beneath this post.

Happy Thanksgiving from Moteventure

Today, as tables fill with food and hearts fill with gratitude, we pause to honor the quiet gestures that make this season meaningful. Whether you’re surrounded by family or reflecting in solitude, may this story remind you that kindness — like pie — is best when shared.

The Pie That Crossed the Fence

It was Thanksgiving morning, 1993, and the snow had come early to western Nebraska. The wind had quieted, but the drifts were high, and the roads were slick. Most families were staying put, gathering around fireplaces and folding tables, carving turkeys and passing mashed potatoes.

At the edge of town, in a small farmhouse with a broken porch light, a woman named Ruth was spending the holiday alone. Her husband had passed the previous spring, and her children lived states away. She’d baked a pie anyway — pumpkin, with extra cinnamon — because it felt wrong not to. The smell filled the kitchen, but the silence pressed in heavier than the snow outside.

Next door, the Johnsons were hosting their usual crowd. Laughter spilled from the windows. Kids ran through the yard in snow boots, leaving trails across the drifts. Ruth could hear the clatter of dishes, the hum of football on the TV, and the muffled chorus of voices saying grace. She smiled faintly, but her heart ached.

She didn’t expect a knock.

Just after noon, there it was — three quick taps on the back door.

It was Sam Johnson, the youngest of the bunch, maybe ten years old. He held a plate covered in foil, steam rising from underneath.

“Mom said you might want some turkey,” he said, shyly. “And pie. But you probably already have pie.”

Ruth smiled. “I do. But I bet yours is better.”

They traded plates — his turkey and stuffing for her pie. He ran back through the snow, boots crunching, and Ruth stood at the window, watching the steam rise from the food. She didn’t cry. Not then. But she felt something shift.

That evening, she ate slowly, savoring each bite. The turkey wasn’t just food; it was connection. It reminded her she wasn’t invisible.

The next year, she made two pies. One for herself. One for the Johnsons. She walked across the yard, balancing the dish in mittened hands, and knocked on their door. This time, she didn’t wait for them to come to her.

By the third year, she was at their table. The Johnsons pulled up an extra chair, and Ruth found herself surrounded by laughter, stories, and the warmth of family she thought she had lost.

Sam’s mother later said, “It wasn’t the pie. It was the gesture. She reminded us that Thanksgiving isn’t about abundance. It’s about noticing who’s missing — and making sure they’re not.”

Ruth passed away in 2007. But every year since, the Johnsons have baked an extra pie. They deliver it to someone who might be alone. Sometimes it’s a neighbor. Sometimes it’s a stranger. Sometimes it’s a family new to town.

And every time, they say the same thing: “This started with Ruth.”

Gratitude doesn’t always arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes it’s a pie passed over a fence. Sometimes it’s a knock on the door. Sometimes it’s the quiet decision to include someone who wasn’t expecting it.

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If these stories have stirred something in you — a memory, a smile, a quiet moment of gratitude — consider subscribing to the Waypoints series and Moteventure. You’ll receive each new entry directly, and help us grow a community built on kindness, reflection, and the beauty of everyday moments.