It has been a good Thanksgiving.
As I said in last night's post, I don't focus on the false narrative I was taught in elementary school about a happy feast between immigrant Puritans and Indigenous Americans. Instead, I choose to embrace gratitude for all the blessings of my life. This year and time, in particular, I think it's radically important to hold onto grace at work in the face of darkness and hopelessness, The great writer Flannery O'Connor once wrote, "All human nature resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful."
I think our lives are charged with grace, sometimes joyful and oftentimes painful, no matter how young or old you are. Even if you're as old as Cheerios.
Billy Collins has breakfast . . .
Cheerios
by: Billy Collins
as I waited for my eggs and toast,
I opened the Tribune only to discover
that I was the same age as Cheerios.
Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerio
for today, the newspaper announced,
was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios
whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.
Already I could hear them whispering
behind my stooped and threadbare back,
Why that dude’s older than Cheerios
the way they used to say
Why that’s as old as the hills,
only the hills are much older than Cheerios
or any American breakfast cereal,
and more noble and enduring are the hills,
I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.
As per my family tradition, we did a 5K Turkey Trot this morning. This year, my little clan consisted of my wife, son, and puppy. And it was a good time, even if my 16-year-old son refused to walk with us out of some sense of teenaged embarrassment. Grace.
Then we had a mimosa brunch with my wife's side of the family at her cousin's home, Lot of good food. Lots of good drink. Most importantly, an abundance of laughter and love. When we posed for the family picture, it was a scene straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, including a surly teen (my son again), two dogs, and a semi-drunk uncle (that would be me). Grace.
And, in the evening, we hosted my side of the family for the turkey feast. That means I spent most of the afternoon preparing and cooking food. My wife dragged out the wedding china, silverware, and crystal, and I cracked open two bottles of good wine, of which I had a few glasses. After dinner, we played games and watched a Christmas movie. All grace again.
Billy Collins feels his age in today's poem, and I certainly felt mine today, too. In particular, I was thinking of all the people who weren't there to celebrate with us. My wife's wonderful mother, uncle, grandmother, and grandfather. My mom, dad, sisters Sally and Rose, and brother Kevin. My good friend, Helen, who would have sent me a text message full of joy and thankfulness. Graces all.
As O'Connor said, grace is painful sometimes. If you love deeply, you will grieve deeply. There's no way around it. That's the way it works. I'm profoundly grateful I had those missing people in my life, however short or long the time was. They may be resting high on that mountain now, but they filled my days with joy and happiness when they were here. Profound grace.
I give thanks for everyone who reads my little blog posts, too. My messages may be silly, maudlin, angry at times, but you all stick with me, And that's grace, too.
Here's a poem Saint Marty wrote for a Thanksgiving worship service this year . . .
by: Martin Achatz
On that first Thanksgiving after
my dad wasn’t stealing scraps
of turkey skin from the kitchen,
burning his fingers and tongue,
or settling at the head
of the table, I sat for the meal
with my hat still on, because he wasn’t
there to give me his John Wayne
stare, point, rumble Hat!
since he was taught on the farm
men removed headgear
at dinner time.
No, as frost laced the windows,
he wasn’t king of this feast,
surrounded by his favorite
foods, us kids waiting in silence
while he intoned grace
as if administering last rites
on the bird before us. We all
sat in our places, not quite sure
how to begin without him
until my mother looked around,
said Where’s your father?—
her memory in a different
time and place.
I recalled the story of Christ
bowing his head, seasoning the five
barley loaves and two snappers
with prayer, then performing divine
math, feeding the famished legion
an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet
with leftovers for breakfast and lunch
the next day.
I cleared my throat, made the sign
of the cross, began saying the words
my dad said every year. Suddenly,
I could see him scooping mashed
potatoes, ladling gravy, forking
yam and white meat onto our plates,
multiplying his love over and over and over
and over until all our hungry hearts
were full.
