It’s 6:30 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. I’ve got a 23 lb. turkey stuffed to the gills with celery tops, apples, onions, carrots and parsley roasting, and the first stages of a veganized version of Pioneer Woman’s Cinnamon Rolls cooling on my stove top. The house is quiet, save the incessant peeps and chirps of the latest batch of chicks that have been living in a ginormous moving box in my laundry room thanks to the too-cold nights.
Thanksgiving… it’s a double edged sword for me. It’s sweet memories of hearing my mother and Mamaw making their way into the kitchen, like I did today, well before dawn, to get the ball rolling on an outrageously ambitious menu. It’s opening my eyes and realizing I’m at one of my cousins’ houses in Ohio, and that yes, the day holds turkey and mashed potatoes, but also the adventure of not being an only child for the day. It’s sitting in my jammies, waiting for the Snoopy balloon to come to a stop in front of the Macy’s sign. It’s about my husband and I making stir-fry and being sure this would be the (much simpler) tradition our kids latched on to. (Spoiler: they didn’t.)
But it’s also being a teenager carted to a get-together with strangers as my mother tries to make much-needed connections as a newly-single woman after 20 years of marriage. It’s one day out of the hospital after pre-term labor during a truly challenging pregnancy, watching helpless as my family manages the bird, the spuds, the everything. It’s the day after my grandmother’s funeral, jet-lagged and stunned silent, watching “When Turkeys Attack” (don’t judge).
Oh, Thanksgiving. You never fail to deliver… something.
While Christopher was in Cambodia, I erected a Thankful Tree. We’ve never done it before, but it felt like this was the year to try. A branch from our elm plopped into a bucket of sand and rocks, a basket full of cut out leaf shapes ready to hand on little yarn strings. The kids awoke to it one morning, eyed it suspiciously, and waited. They’re kind of used to a mom who does random things, and as such, knew the explanation was coming in due time. Around the breakfast table, after reading our Bible chapter and announcing the Scottish Slang Word O’ The Day (dessert at dinner for anyone who uses it correctly in a sentence!), I made the announcement: if you have anything that you’re thankful for, grab a construction paper leaf and a sharpie, write it down, and hang it on the tree. They were elated, and immediately a flurry of leaves went up.
I expected to come to today and find a mostly-naked branch haunting the corner, though. Let’s be honest. Things lose steam. Kids move on. Interest wanes. And things like Thankful Trees, while well-meaning, are often just guilt gimmicks we adults latch on to in the hope of fostering some bigger moral lesson that we know ourselves we’re not embracing. Conviction? Ouch.
But today, as I sit here ruminating on Thanksgivings past and present, I see this:
That little tree is overflowing with thanks.
Simple thanks flowing out, unedited. Spelled incorrectly, in not-yet perfect handwriting, from hearts that bumped into a moment and recognized that this? This was a gift. This land, these friends, that fever that went away. It’s a blessing!
Talk about conviction. How often do I pause and realize that I should be grateful for my food?
I’m planning on today being one of the Great Ones— one of the Thanksgivings that I look back on in joy and with a contented sigh. My father and step-mom are headed down, Mathaus is home for the break, and the weather looks like we might be able to enjoy being outside nearly as much as we’re in. But even if today is rotten. Even if dinner is a flop or a kid pukes (heaven forbid) or some other unforeseen mishap occurs marking this as one of the more dubious Thanksgiving Days in my lifetime, well… I’ll have the memories of the Thankful Tree. I think that may just be enough.