On December 4, 1619, thirty-eight English settlers arrived on the north bank of the James River, approximately twenty miles from the colony of Jamestown, Virginia. The group’s charter required that the day of arrival be observed yearly as a “day of thanksgiving” to God. The group’s charter stated, “We ordaine that the day of our ships arrival at the place assigned for plantacon in the land of Virginia shall be yearly and perpetually kept holy as a day of thanksgiving to Almighty God.” Captain John Woodlief officiated that first service, two years before the Pilgrims at Plymouth got the same idea.

Three years later the local Indians had enough of the English and decided that the only way to get rid of them was to go to war. The result was about a third of the colonial population of Virginia was killed. Tough times settled in—hunger, war, death, cold winters and unbearable summers. The New World that once held the promise of a new life had become a hell.

I’ll be honest and say I didn’t know much of that. I learned in school about the Indian wars and the hardships faced by the settlers, of Pocahontas and John Rolfe and all the rest. But not the thanksgiving part.

And not this part either—even during those dark days of war and hunger and death, the settlers still paused each year to give thanks.

To me, that’s amazing. I know there have been more than a couple Thanksgivings in my own life when the mood of our country was so hurt and so soured that the last thing on our minds was to say thanks to God. I think of the Thanksgiving just after 9/11. I think of ones in just the past few years, when recession and job loss made a feeling of appreciation next to impossible. And maybe for you, this year is particularly tough.

Sometimes we don’t want to thank God. Sometimes we’d rather yell or cuss or plead, but never to get down on our knees and count our blessings.

Thing is, that’s exactly what we’re supposed to do. Good times, bad times, in-between times, sunshine or rain, laughter or tears, hope or hopelessness.

“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

That’s what I’m thinking about this Thanksgiving—how it’s so easy to say thank you when times are good and so difficult to say it when times are not. But today, give thanks. Give thanks even if you don’t feel thankful.

But I know this: God has built an oasis of beauty in even the ugliest of times. He has placed a blessing into every harm and pain. He has planted the seeds of joy in every tear.

And that is why we are called to give thanks in all things even if we cannot give thanks for them.

Today is the official pub date for Paper Angels, my second novel published by the good folks at FaithWords. Feel free to mosey on over to Amazon or Barnes & Noble or your local bookstore for a copy. And if you’re around Twitter today, come say hi during our Twitter party. We will be using the hash tag #PaperAngels.

There will be book giveaways, trivia, interviews and reviews by @faithwords, @katdish, @amysorrells, @cathylynnl and @gyoung9751.

I’m also giving away three signed copies right here. I’ll take your thoughts through Saturday, at which point three winners will be randomly chosen (and by random, I mean the kids will pull out three names from my cowboy hat). All you have to do is leave a comment below that answers this question—

Who or what has been an angel in your life?

Some friends of ours moved last week. Traded one set of blue mountains for a set of rocky ones. It’s something they’ve wanted to do for a while (he has family in Colorado, not twenty miles from their new home, and she grew up in nearby Boulder). Their move had less to do with the economy than a simple desire for a change of scenery. I nodded when they told me that, but I didn’t really understand. Who would want to leave rural Virginia?

I’ve known them for about fifteen years now. They’ve been to my home, I’ve been to theirs. We’ve shared meals and Christmas presents and birthday parties for our children. It’s a sad thing that in a world defined by hustle and bustle and there’s-always-something-going-on, few people slow down enough to make good friends. That’s what I’d call them—good friends.

But they’re gone now, a thousand miles westward. They will find new lives, and I will keep my old one.

Their leaving was a bit anti-climactic. That surprised me. I suppose deep down I knew what I had yet to consider, which was that they’d still be around. There’s the phone, of course. E-mail. Facebook and Twitter. Skype. No matter that two mountain ranges and a great big river separated us, they’d still be no more than a few button pushes away.

That’s when I realized how much the world has shrunk. Never mind that our technology has made it possible to cure disease and peer into the deepest reaches of the universe and know within moments what has happened in a tiny spot across the world. It has done something more profound than all of those things together.

It has lifted from us the heavy weight of ever having to say goodbye.

I’ve read stories of families separated during the Great Depression, of parents and children cleaved apart as some remained behind and others struck out for new territories and better hope. They had to say their goodbyes. Many were never heard from again. Can you imagine?

I remember looking around at my classmates during high school graduation and thinking that I’d never see or hear from most of them again. These were friends, many of whom I’d known since third grade. They’d shared my life, I’d shared theirs. Yet as I sat there I knew all of that was slipping away. I knew that to live was not about being born and dying later, it was to endure many births and suffer many deaths, and sometimes that birth and death happens in the same moment.

I was right. Twenty years later, I’ve not seen many of them. But more than one have friended me on Facebook, and from all over the world.

This should make me feel good, I guess. Aside from death, there are no farewells now. There is always “Talk to you soon” or “Shoot me an email” or “DM me.”

But I don’t feel particularly good. I think we’re missing out on something if we never have to say goodbye anymore. I think it robs us of the necessity of truly understanding the impact some people have on our lives, and the impact we have on the lives of others. To have to say goodbye is to know a part of you is leaving or staying, either scattered through the world or planted where you are.

I say this because just a bit ago, I received an email (plus pictures) from my friends. Things are well with them. They’re settling in and getting used to things. They’re happy. And that’s good.

But rather than casually shooting an email back, I think I’ll sit down and take my time. I think I’ll treat it as a farewell, even though it isn’t. I think I’ll tell them just how much I’ll miss them even though it’ll be as if we’re still just down the road from each other.

I figure somewhere deep down, they’ll need that goodbye. I know I do.