It’s early here in Boston. The house smells of Thanksgiving – the genuine goodness of pumpkin and winter fruit pie, of cranberry sauce and mac ‘n’ cheese, of candles and home, of memories and traditions. I text my daughter telling her that the mac ‘n’ cheese is crazy good. “Oh good! I always wanted to be a family that had mac ‘n’ cheese as a Thanksgiving tradition!” And I love this response for it speaks to the power of creating and recreating traditions as generations come and go.
We will go to her home for Thanksgiving, joined by my brother and sister-in-law who we have not shared American Thanksgiving with for years, my nephew, and two of my sons. There will be laughter and there may be some tears, because Thanksgiving can be both.
We buried my mom on Tuesday. It was a beautiful, clear day. The service was rightly solemn, “from earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The small and lovely chapel at the Massachusetts Veteran’s Cemetery held our mom’s coffin and our tears. My mom’s coffin was placed by the window, her grave dug in the distance during the service. It was profoundly hard and beautiful, as it should be.
The world is genuinely sad. From bombs flying and wars far away to grieving souls and families closer, you only have to look in your own neighborhood or home to see pain. Yet still we give thanks on this day.
The older I get and the more I see the stitching unravel around me of things that used to be so put together, the more convinced I am that chasing beauty and giving thanks are necessary, the more convinced I am that somehow in the mystery of life these things matter. There is something in them that contributes to goodness, making it less fragile and more resilient.
This year it feels particularly important to give thanks. To give thanks for my mom’s life on earth – a life well lived. To give thanks for a good death – for if death can be called good, it was a good death. To give thanks that grace sustained our big, messy family and through it, a big “You won’t win” was shouted at those forces that would crush it. To give thanks for sunshine on the day that we buried my mom. To give thanks for the sometimes fragile but always present faith and hope that have sustained me since I was a little girl.
Giving thanks does not negate my need to pray for the world or for my family. Indeed, it reaffirms my desire and need to pray for Palestine and the suffering in Gaza, for Israel and hostages who long for home, for Ukraine and a hard winter coming, for my friends and family who are struggling and hurting, and for all of us who are held hostage to hate, destruction, inability to forgive and all that would kill and destroy.
Yet still we give thanks. Because every day that we get up and choose good, every day that we get up and decide to forgive, every day that we get up and say “God, I wish this wasn’t so, but it is and so I give thanks” we contribute to something bigger than ourselves. Every time we choose to give thanks in all circumstances it contributes to renewed life and hope, to resurrection.
Happy Thanksgiving dear friends. I am so grateful to know you.
[Picture Credit: Carol Brown]