Happy Thanksgiving! Read the winners of our November Writing Challenge

Happy Thanksgiving, and congratulations to the winners of the November Writing Challenge from the Southern Christian Writers Conference!

Enjoy the following stories; they'll be a wonderful respite during your Thanksgiving holiday and will inspire you to look at your meal in new, creative ways.

This month's writing challenge was to imagine that you could invite anyone to your Thanksgiving dinner table; it could be someone famous (a celebrity or a historical figure, for example) or it could be someone from your own life or past. The ensuing contributions were fantastic, and we loved reading all of our submissions.

When it came down to it, we had to decide on a list of final winners--which is such a difficult decision each month.

Congratulations to the following writers for their November Writing Challenge submissions:

1st place: Jessica Bolyard
2nd placeL Anna Dickson
3rd place: M.M.R. Warren
Honorable mention: Anne Childress
Honorable mention: Jessica Ross

You can read their winning stories below, and also remember that these stories and ALL of the winning submissions to our monthly challenges throughout 2025 will appear in the annual anthology The Write Collection (2025). This ebook will be available this year on Dec. 22.

"How Did you Know?"

by Jessica Bolyard

By all accounts, he’s a stranger.

He’s here for Thanksgiving, though, and I catch my breath when I see Granddaddy on the porch. He went to the Lord when I was very young, making it a full forty years since I last saw him. I only knew him as much as a four-year-old can know a grandparent who lives five states away…

…but I somehow feel that I know him as well as I know myself.

We’re so alike, I’ve been told, that if we were in the same room we’d have a lot to talk about. As I nervously take him by the arm and guide him toward the table, the family knows what this means. I can get answers to questions I’ve had for four decades. We are barely seated when I ask him.

“How did you know?”

I myself am not even certain to what I refer; I have a sense, though, that however he responds, he’ll have the answer I’m seeking. As Grandmother always said, we’re cut from the same cloth. Whether he tells me of his battle with mental illness or his passion for putting words on the page, my question will be answered. Those are the two things I really want to talk about while he is here.

I pass him the Jiffy cornbread I made sure we prepared especially for him, he smiles. It seems he’s curious about how I know certain things, too. The rambunctiousness of dinnertime in a large family ensues around us, but Granddaddy and I are alone in the room.

“I had a feeling you’d ask,” he says, settling in. “But…it’s just that it’s not quite that simple.”

He fought an invisible enemy in a day and time when there were no words for such things, save for the ones no one would dare use today.

“I just always felt…off. Kind of crazy, almost. My mind worked hard against me. Up and down, up and down. While I couldn’t see the inner workings of other people’s lives, I wasn’t aware of anyone else struggling to just function like I always had to. My brain…it just…it was hard.” After a long pause, he looks back at me and says, “I’m sorry.”

He knows I have it, too, and it appears his heart aches to know his granddaughter fights the battle he fought for so many years.

“Sundays were hard, weren’t they? I’ve always heard you had an especially difficult time then.” I cover his hand with mine. “Me, too. Facing a new week is so overwhelming. I get so anxious and sad. It’s too much…” My voice trails off.

His eyes sparkle with tears that were unacceptable during his lifetime. Men didn’t cry. Men were strong. Men could handle what life throws at them, but life threw a lot at my Granddaddy.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, so softly that I can barely make out the words over the din and chatter. I’m already shaking my head to stop him.

“No,” I insist. “Don’t do that, Granddaddy. It’s been hard, but I’m okay. Really. I am.”

So, I explain to him how it has been different for me. That yes, I never understood what was wrong with me, and how it wasn’t until adulthood that my burden was labelled as bipolar depression. How the pendulum of my mental health swings back and forth, back and forth, ad infinitum. I can encourage him, though, because although he nods, I can distinguish between our similar stories.

“There are doctors who believe me. There’s medicine that helps. I have a therapist and supportive husband, and God gives me strength. It’s part of my story, but I’m okay,” I assure him.

“So, how did I know?” He repeats the question. “I didn’t. It wasn’t like that then.”

We pause as I gain understanding. With a nod, the conversation shifts toward lighter things: our love of words. Books. Editing and writing and reading.

So many words.

“How did you know?” he asks me. “When did you know it was in you?”

“Always,” I answer. “Wordsmithing is as much a part of me as my brown eyes…that are like yours.”

This satisfies him. He grins and wonders aloud whatever happened to his book proposals. There were so many rejection letters, he tells me, that he made an overstuffed notebook.

“Oh, the black binder? It’s in my office. I look at it all the time.”

Incredulous, he tilts his head and asks why I would want to look at something like that. Why would I keep it, much less enjoy it?

“I’m working on a binder of my own, and yours reminds me where I come from. It reminds me that this isn’t just something I do, but someone I am. It reminds me that when I keep trying, I’m not just doing it for myself. I’m doing it for you, too, Granddaddy.”

We sit in silence, the festive conversations swirling around us as we push our food around on our plates.

“I had no idea,” he says. “It seemed like a lost cause.”

“Legacy is a powerful force, Granddaddy, and you left me with one that drives me every day. It’s been the wind at my back, more than you could imagine. Thank you for that. Thank you for continuing.”

“That’s all I need to know, sweetheart. I never knew, but now I do.” He pauses. “It was for you.”

Tears finally trickle down our faces as he pushes his chair back from the table. Things are wrapping up and it’s time for him to go. We share an overdue embrace in the foyer; my heart flutters when I smell the sadly familiar smell of pipe tobacco on his coat.

“Keep your chin up,” he says. “There’s more to what you’re going through than it seems. You just never know. You really just never know.”

The door closes softly behind him. I take a deep breath and help clear the table.

"Thirty-Three"

by Anna Dickson

I open the pie safe she gave me. It smells the same way it did when I was a child. I keep candles in it just like she did. She also used to keep seasonal items in it - placemats, cloth napkins, decor. I keep my daughters’ art supplies in it now, but to keep the nostalgic smell alive I put all my candles in there as well. She’ll be here soon. I grab a candle. My husband is pulling food out of the oven and reminding our young daughters to clean up some of their toys.

I light the candle, take a deep breath, knowing the weight of what’s about to happen and the joy that will come with it. Then our doorbell rings. I take another breath and slowly walk to the front door. I open the door and silently smile at her. She does the same. We both know how special this is. We silently soak it in for what feels like minutes, but after about three seconds we burst. We
laugh, we tear up, we give each other big hugs. “Come in, come in!” I say.

My mother has come for Thanksgiving dinner. But she’s wearing large round frame glasses, has bangs, and long brown hair. She’s my age. She’s thirty-three.

She loves seeing her granddaughters, but she doesn’t play with them the way she does now. She’s a young mother like me. She’s tired. It doesn’t mean she loves them any less. Her capacity is just different. She reminds me to offer myself the same grace.

We eat dinner all together. Then I bring out dessert. She’s impressed it’s more than Little Debbies and we both laugh. After dinner, she and I sit in the living room, just us two. We’re eating a second round of dessert and drinking coffee - mine brewed, hers instant.

It gets quiet. She looks at me, knowing I have something I want to say. “How do you do it?” I ask. “How do you raise daughters well? How do you work and create businesses? How do you keep your house clean? How do you care for your marriage? How do you do all of this so far away from family? How do you be a good mom, for yourself and for everyone else?”

We sit in silence for a few more seconds again. Then she smiles. “How do you do it?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I don’t either,” she says, keeping her smile. “I guess we just try to do the best we can.”

She leans over and hugs me. “It’s time for me to go,” she says. She thanks me for the meal and I thank her for coming. We both feel so much, our eyes end up saying more than our words do.

She steps outside and turns around. “I liked that candle, by the way. It smells like home.”

I head back inside. My husband is finishing cleaning up the kitchen. My girls are in bed. I walk over to the candle and breathe the scent in deep one more time before I blow it out. For many of us, we forget our parents were just like us. They were tired, they paid bills, they were stressed, they didn’t have enough uninterrupted time together, and they didn’t have enough help. They’re superhuman in our childlike minds, but the reality sinks in that my mother was just like me. She was doing the best she could. And she did great.

For all the difficulty that adulthood and parenting can bring, my parents were also like us in our joys. They had children to love, a spouse to care for, dishes to clean due to full plates of food, a home filled with memories, and a pie safe filled with the scent of a magical childhood. And just like my mother, I’ll keep it that way. Or at least I’ll do my best.

“A Thanksgiving Healing Lesson”

By M.M.R. Warren

When she walked in the door everything slowed down. We made eye contact and both sighed before approaching each other for a gentle but tight hug.

“Thanksgiving with Ms. Gina…again,” I said.

She smiled and stared into my eyes. “It’s been a long time.”

After taking the moment in for a few more seconds, I made introductions.

“Welcome to our home! This is my husband, Briggs, our friends Penny and James, and their daughters Elle and Margot.

“Um. Hi. Um…” said Elle as she wiggled and fidgeted. “What’s your name again? Um. Hey, what’s your name? Sorry that I forgot.”

Ms. Gina slowly bent her back to be eye to eye with the child and said, “I’m called Kaya now.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Ok, then, this is Ms. Kaya everyone. Or is there a different way to show respect? Is Ms. Kaya okay?” I said.

“Just Kaya is fine,” she said. “I’m learning my language at the Cultural Preservation Department of my Tribe, and I’m called Kaya now instead of the English name Gina.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful.”

I guided my guests to our living room and offered everyone tea. Kaya requested no sugar; rather, she clarified that her doctor requested she not have sugar. She sat on one end of the couch and the girls gathered in the middle near her. Briggs helped serve the tea, while I fetched the picture.

“The retreat,” Kaya said with a smile.

“Can you believe it was 17 years ago?” I said, giving her the photo. Little Margot scooted closer to her on the couch straining her neck to see the picture. “That’s when Kaya and I met for the first time, Thanksgiving Day 17 years ago at a Native Women’s Retreat.”

The girls couldn’t contain themselves any longer. Margot climbed into Kaya’s lap, while Elle leaned into Kaya’s shoulder and pointed to my face on the picture.

“Dere’s Aunt Haper! And…um…Kaya, where you?” said little Margot.

Kaya pulled the photo closer to see and found herself. She pointed, smiled, and shook her head with the shared feeling of awe when so much time has passed.

We finished our tea and moved to the dining table for our meal. Kaya brought her traditional berry-corn pudding to add to our feast.

“Berry-corn pudding!” Elle said. “I can’t even imagine what that tastes like!”

“Well, I like berries, and I like corn. Can’t wait to try this! Thank you, Kaya,” James said and winked at his daughter.

“Yeah, me too,” said Elle as her cheeks reddened.

Plates and dishes were passed around. “Should we share our thankfuls,” Briggs suggested. Most of the adults expressed gratitude for the moment and the good company, and the girls shared their delights about the break from school.

Then Kaya shared, “I’m thankful for this land that has grown the food we eat, and for the Native Nations who stewarded it for many generations. I’m grateful for the elders of my tribe back home who are preserving our culture and teaching language classes.”

“I have so many questions,” Elle said. Her 7-year-old burning enthusiasm expressed what we all felt. “But Aunt Harper said to share my thoughts and not ask too many questions.”

I explained to everyone that before I visited Kaya’s reservation, my church told me that questions were a cultural difference we had. “I was a lot like you, Elle. I had so many questions, but I didn’t know how to communicate them cross-culturally,” I said and looked to Kaya for compassion and help to explain further.

“We have a difficult history with questions. Our answers were greatly disrespected. But it’s not that we hate questions. In our culture we listen and observe. We believe things are revealed in time. We have to wait to grow our relationships,” said Kaya.

Penny and James reminded Elle about when they grew pumpkins in their yard, and how they waited for the pumpkins to grow.

Briggs said, “You can’t ask pumpkins how it happens; you just care for them and watch them grow.”

After the meal Briggs and James worked on the dishes, while Harper and Penny pulled out toys for the girls to play with outside. Then the three ladies sat in rocking chairs circled on the porch.

“Before you came, I was remembering all the prayers we’ve exchanged in our letters over the years,” I said to Kaya. She slowly leaned forward in her chair, gently grabbed my hands, and stared with tears in her eyes. I continued, “Those prayers have been so special to me.”

Kaya nodded in agreement, sniffed a little, and said, “My deepest desire is to heal. For the land to heal, for the tribe to heal, for my daughter to heal.” She paused and looked down. “But she died,” she said. She took a long, deep breath, and leaned back in the rocking chair. “The complications from diabetes took her.” She slowly rocked back and forth and gazed at the trees around our house. “We need the land to heal so that we can feed ourselves properly and heal too.”

Kaya turned to Penny and said, “You know, Penny…before I knew Harper, I thought that white women didn’t have souls. I had never seen a white woman cry. But the first time Harper and I prayed together, I cried. And she cried. After that I could see her soul.” Kaya looked back at me with her deep gaze and knowing smile.

“When my daughter passed away, there never were enough tears to show the darkness I felt. But when I shared those tears and other people, like Harper, shared their tears with me, then it seemed there were enough tears to truly grieve,” she said.

We grieved losses and celebrated discoveries together. My European ancestors did not share this land fairly. But Kaya has shared her food, culture, language, and traditions with me. More than that, she gave her friendship. And that Thanksgiving Day I think…I think I started to learn how to share.

"A Thanksgiving Dinner with Corrie ten Boom"

by Anne Childress

This Thanksgiving, my husband David, my mother Patsy, and I would host one of the most remarkable figures in the 20th century. As a family of students of history and one seminarian, we have invited an elderly woman back from eternal rest to share her story and experiences with us. That guest is Corrie ten Boom (1892–1983). Her life is a singular, powerful testimony to the strength of faith in the face of unimaginable human evil. Hosting her would be an evening dedicated not just to gratitude, but to learning the practical, daily steps of endurance and forgiveness. The anticipation in our home would be immense, transforming a simple holiday gathering into a sacred evening of testimony. For David, Patsy, and myself, the chance to sit with someone who embodied history’s sharpest edge is a humbling privilege; we study the past, the costs of civil disobedience, and the sacrifices made by those who risked everything. The seminarian among us, in particular, carries academic questions about theodicy—the vindication of God's goodness and justice in the face of evil—that only a survivor can answer with lived experience rather than theory. This is more than dinner; it is an act of historical and spiritual communion, a moment when the abstract lessons of our studies become intensely personal truth.

The dinner is held in a quiet, sunlit corner of the home, perhaps near a window, to emphasize the simple blessing of light and warmth. The atmosphere is immediately gentle, but serious; you know you are in the presence of someone who understands the true cost of peace. Corrie would be surrounded by people eager to hear her wisdom and to acknowledge the historical significance of her life. The room is filled with the rich, savory aromas of the feast—cinnamon, sage, and the deep, caramelized scent of roasting meat. The light would fall softly on the table, illuminating the traditional abundance of our feast—the turkey, Virginia Baked ham, potato salad, and deviled eggs—all of which would feel like an astonishing bounty. 

The sight of the rich food, the untouched skin of the turkey, and the buttery rolls stands in stark contrast to the thin soup and stale bread she knew in Ravensbrück. Corrie, having survived the starvation of a concentration camp, would treat the meal with a quiet, joyful reverence, not eating quickly, but deliberately, each taste of turkey or apple pie an act of worship. Her focus would not be solely on the food, but on the unbroken circle of family around the table. Her presence would make us intensely aware of the warmth of the wood, the sturdiness of the walls, and the profound, silent miracle of being together and safe. She wouldn't waste a crumb. Corrie ten Boom would be warm, small, and sharp-eyed. She would be an engaged, humble guest, but her quiet demeanor would carry an immense weight. She doesn't need to speak loudly to command attention; her story speaks for itself. Her gentle smile suggests that the greatest warmth in the room is not from the fire, but from the faith she carries. Her greatest gift would be shifting the focus from the food on the table to the miraculous presence of love and community surrounding it.

The dinner would begin with her reflection on gratitude for the ordinary. I would ask her what, after her experience in Ravensbrück, she considers to be life's greatest luxury. She wouldn't say diamonds or a house; she would likely say a cup of clean water, the ability to close a door and be alone, or the sight of a flower pushing through cracked pavement. Her perspective would instantly redefine the meaning of plenty for all of us, framing our material comfort as an immense spiritual responsibility. My mother, Patsy, might ask about the simple joy of light—the physical light we take for granted. Corrie would recount how a single, tiny sliver of sunlight in the barracks became a sign of God’s unbreakable promise, or how a shared blanket, which offered no real warmth, became a testament to human connection. David, approaching from the historical angle, might ask about the moral calculation involved in operating the "hiding place"—the moment when the risk of sheltering Jews outweighed the desire for safety. Corrie would answer that true morality begins when the calculation ends, and love simply takes over. She would emphasize that suffering has a way of magnifying the gifts we overlook every single day—the soft texture of a napkin, the quiet background hum of a functioning refrigerator, the effortless availability of sugar for our tea.

The conversation would inevitably turn to her ultimate lesson: the depth of the pit. The seminarian would perhaps pose the academic, theological question about the coexistence of evil and a sovereign God, pressing on how one can still believe in love. Corrie, however, would answer with experience, not theory. She would describe the moments when she felt truly abandoned or when the horrors seemed too great to bear. This is where I would reference the profound truth of her words: "There is no pit deeper than He is deeper still." Corrie would explain that the "pit" is a necessary teacher, not a punishment, a place where earthly comforts disappear, leaving only the bedrock of faith. She would describe the excruciating process of choosing to trust that grace extends even into the darkest corners of human experience, detailing how forgiveness was not a flash of inspiration, but a commitment made over and over, sometimes even physically painful, especially when encountering her former persecutors after the war. She would remind me that true freedom comes not from escaping the past, but from releasing it.

As we finish the meal, the overwhelming feeling would be one of spiritual challenge and immense hope. Corrie wouldn't leave me with a sense of dread over the world's evils, but with a profound conviction about the accessible power of faith. She would caution against getting lost in consumerism or distraction, reminding me that the greatest work is often done in the quiet moments of prayer and service. She would speak of the continuous need for vigilance, not against foreign armies, but against the internal creeping complacency that allows injustice to flourish, citing that the horrors she witnessed began with small compromises. I would leave that Thanksgiving table feeling that the simple act of sharing food had been transformed into a holy communion, perhaps concluding with a passage like, "Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name." - Psalm 100:4. Her quiet presence and her courageous story would be the final, most enduring blessing: a reminder that the depth of suffering is real, but the depth of God's love is eternally greater.

"The Touchdown Turkey:

How One Messy Meal Brought Everyone Together"

By Jessica Ross

Why on earth did I invite these people? To build community, to show gratitude, and to give the holiday’s would-be loners a place to belong. They deserved a bit of stability. I just didn’t expect the meal to turn out like this.

Cooking began early that morning, the smells and sounds of the season filling me with nostalgia. This year had been chaotic for our family: my husband, our daughter, and me. A beautiful meal with them and our guests felt like exactly what we needed to welcome Christmas and finally start ushering the year away.

To make the meal extra special, I went all out on the entrees: a slow-cooked chicken, a deep-fried Cajun- seasoned butter-injected twenty-pound turkey, and a ham sizzling and singing in the oven. Scents that should have clashed instead blended like a classic trio. The sides included all the staples: mashed and roasted potatoes, green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, stuffing, cranberry dressing and salsa, and pies—pumpkin, pecan, and chocolate mousse. Saying I had outdone myself felt like an understatement. I would probably sleep for a week after pulling off this masterpiece.

My daughter poked her head into the kitchen every few minutes, so I kept sending her off on small chores while my husband wisely steered clear. As a master multitasker, I was eager to see how this meal would come together. Nothing filled my cup more than hosting guests for a holiday meal, especially those who
had nowhere else to go.

Marcie arrived first, charcuterie in hand; my daughter had overheard she had nowhere to go on Thanksgiving and insisted we invite her. I thanked Marcie for the thoughtful spread as I took the massive tray from her and slid it into the fridge. It held the most elaborate arrangement of fruits and vegetables I’d ever seen.

Timmy Joe arrived next, empty-handed and painfully self-conscious about it. Mercifully, my husband came downstairs at that exact moment.

“Hey, TJ!” he said, patting the burly man on the back before inviting him on a quick house tour. My husband had coached his college football team before TJ went pro, and he knew TJ had nowhere to go for the holiday, so he’d invited him. TJ had recently lost a big game, and my husband had already warned me not to bring it up at dinner.

Penelope arrived last, eyes darting as she handed me a large bowl of purple Jello. Then she hurried straight to the kitchen. How she knew where it was, I’ll never understand, since she’d never been over before. She was a wildcard, a retired therapist I’d randomly met at the grocery store. She wasn’t talkative until I mentioned Thanksgiving, which triggered a twenty-minute monologue about spending it alone.

Before I could stop myself, I’d invited her. And now here she was, rifling through my fridge like she’d lived here for years. She looked vaguely disappointed with its contents, poured herself a glass of eggnog without a word, and Marcie and I pretended not to notice as we headed to the dining room to set the table.

“Dinner’s ready!” I called. A stampede descended the stairs—my husband, TJ, and our daughter. Marcie and I sat as the three followed. Penelope entered last, a satisfied smirk crossing her face.

After prayer, everyone began digging in, my husband at one end, TJ at the other. Marcie, however, sat politely with her hands folded in her lap, seemingly unbothered by the unfolding chaos. 

“Are you okay?” I whispered, leaning toward her since she sat beside me.

“Ah, yes! I’m sorry. I’m a vegetarian. I guess I should’ve mentioned that sooner. I’ll just take some charcuterie,” she said, smiling as she searched for the fruit and veggies she’d brought until she found
them.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” I apologized.

“It’s no trouble at all! I mostly came for the friendship,” Marcie said, beaming generously.

As I smiled back, something abrupt caught the corner of my eye. I shouldn’t have been surprised—TJ had always been prone to dramatic gestures, on the field or off.

Before anyone could react, TJ lunged onto the table, sending a bowl of mashed potatoes flying, with the gravy soon to follow.

My daughter watched, eyes wide, as he hoisted the turkey overhead.

“What are you—no, No, NO!” I yelled, rushing to TJ’s end of the table.

TJ was unfazed and slammed the giant turkey onto the floor, yelling, “TOUCHDOWN!” You’d think he’d just won a football game by the look on his face—until it hit him. He wasn’t on the field. He glanced around, as if noticing us for the first time. “Uh... sorry, I, uh...” He sank back into his chair, leaving the bird where it lay. Mashed potatoes coated the front of his sweater, and stuffing clung to his sleeve.

My husband and I exchanged a look, and he shrugged innocently.

I swallowed a grin and glanced at Penelope. She ate her salad, eyes fixed on TJ, inching toward the edge of her chair.

That’s when TJ toppled off his chair.

Delight crossed the elderly woman’s face, as if her secret ingredient had finally taken effect—though certainly not in the way she’d intended.

“Got it!” TJ exclaimed, raising a turkey drumstick before settling back into his chair. Tackling the turkey had its advantages.

Everyone except Penelope and Marcie erupted in laughter.

Penelope just rolled her eyes, while Marcie looked genuinely concerned.

Tears streamed down our faces as we struggled to catch our composure.

My daughter’s face couldn’t hide the delight she felt. Everyone was laughing for no reason, and she didn’t care.

Eventually, we returned to the table, plates piled high, and laughter still lingering, proof that even chaos can bring everyone together. This Thanksgiving wasn’t what I expected, but it was one for the history books...and the clean-up crew. Despite the mess, the noise, and the flying food, the table had exactly what I’d hoped for: everyone together, laughing, and belonging.

~~~~~~

Thank you to our SCWC members for providing us with such wonderful Thanksgiving stories! And don't forget to enter our monthly writing challenges.

The December Writing Challenge--to write a journal/diary entry in a childhood voice, sharing either a true memory of Christmas morning from your youth OR to create a fictional story about a Christmas morning--must be submitted by Dec. 7. The maximum word count is 750 words please. Email to scwritersconference@gmail.com with "December Challenge" in the subject line. We look forward to receiving your submissions!

And... Happy Thanksgiving to all of you. May God bless you today, and may we be reminded of everything we have to be thankful for.