It's the memory that matters

     It's not the meal, it's the memory that matters, the family moments that you remember and that make holidays like Thanksgiving so special. I could have slapped a platter of turkey sandwiches, a bowl of chips, and a pile of limp pickles on the table and it would still have been memorable, a celebration, a feast, a glorious repast, simply because family and friends had gathered round and the air was festive. It was the occasion of working together for a common cause, of last-minute frantic phone calls begging "Can you pick up some more eggs and butter at the store?", of lists of a thousand chores and things that must be done, of rushing and running and planning and preparing,  of cooking and chopping and stirring and baking, of holding hands and bowing our heads in prayer, of sitting together at the table with no cell phones chirping, no television blaring,  and finally, partaking of a meal  rich with conversation and laughter and family and friends.
      Of course, I cooked like a maniac for two whole days, working myself into a frenzy brining a twenty-four pound turkey, mashing mounds of  potatoes, peeling piles of apples, stirring gravy until it was golden brown and smooth as molasses, popping pumpkin and pecan and coconut pies into the oven one after the other, whipping up cheese sauces and cream sauces and casseroles, preparing a crown roast, a cake, a pan of biscuits. On top of that, silver had to be polished, crystal and china washed to a sparkle, the table set, the linens pressed, the flowers arranged, and the house fluffed and brushed and squeezed into order; but it was the atmosphere of the day, the anticipation, the waiting for the grand finale, everyone gathering together for a splendid repast, that permeated the air and lifted our spirits. We were ready, and waiting, and eager for Thursday to dawn, our day of feasting and giving thanks.
    On Wednesday,  I stayed awake until 2 a.m., thanking God above for the Gone With The Wind marathon that kept me awake, albeit sobbing, as I sat up in bed in the dark, angry with Scarlett, angry with Rhett, still hoping they could work things out,  appeasing my frustration  with them by waiting for the designated hour when the ceremonial bird could be lifted into the pre-heating fire.  As I crept in the dark down the hall and silently lifted the massive turkey into the oven, the rest of the household slept, a peaceful sleep of children home from college, dogs once again claiming familial beds that had previously been empty, a feeling of wholeness and completeness settling over the house.  I shut the door of the oven and climbed back into bed, exhausted, knowing that in a few short hours the mad rush would begin, but  feeling peaceful and joyful in anticipation of the day.

      Thanksgiving Day dawned brilliant and blue and clear and glorious.  Family and friends arrived in a steady stream. Jim brought his usual gourmand fare, in years past it had been oysters Rockefeller and barbecued shrimp and quail ravioli,  this year a smoked rock fish nestled beneath a creamy sauce of lemon and dill.  The golden bird sat perched on a platter, waiting in all its glory to be carved into moist slices of creamy, succulent meat, while the rich, brown roast rested nearby, ready also for the blade. We carried plates and bowls of asparagus, beans, roasted potatoes, sweet potatoes, dressing,  rice, gravy, cranberries, and apples to the waiting table, keenly aware that our over-abundant meal was in stark contrast to the original repast of the near-starving Pilgrims. We gathered in a circle round the groaning table, held hands, bowed our heads, and thanked a gracious God for His goodness, His abundant love, His generosity towards a belligerent nation.

    And then, we ate. And ate, and ate, and ate.   Ate until our bellies ached and our eyes grew heavy with sleep, ate  until even the hot, steaming cups of coffee we consumed with our pie could not keep us from begging for a nap and a break from the gluttonous grazing at the indulgent table.

     But even in the midst of all the gluttony, the over-indulgence, the abundance of food, it was not the meal that mattered. It was the gathering of family, of friends, of loved ones. That was the memory that will last, and long after we're gone and only the young ones remain, they will hold near to their hearts the remembrance of the day when we gathered together and laughed and talked and loved at a common table. They may not remember the mashed potatoes or the pumpkin pie, the turkey that I woke in the dark of night to cook,  the smoked rock fish, the polished silver, or the sparkling crystal, but they will remember the day when we came together with family and friends to laugh and love and commune as one.   

      And that is what makes a holiday special. It's the memory that matters, the traditions and the gatherings, the family and friends. It's why we exhaust ourselves in preparation, why we spend days and hours planning and preparing for a meal that we could just as easily have ordered from the local deli. It's teaching my son how to brine and carve a turkey, teaching my daughter how to make a cream sauce and a pie, teaching them how to set a table and then carry a conversation around that same setting, teaching them how to serve others and still be thankful, teaching them that family matters, friends are important, and traditions are what bind us.  That is what matters, that is why we work so hard for these holiday moments.

      I have much to be thankful for. It is not the best of times, it is not the safest of worlds, it is not the easiest of generations in which we live. Yet there is still much to rejoice over, to be thankful for, to praise God for, and I am thankful.

Thanksgiving Turkeys and Christmas Parades

     It was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the day when our nation pauses to give thanks to a God we’re not allowed to mention in schools or any government institution, but a God we still trust to watch over our money and to whom we swear to “tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God” in our public courts. We were headed to a Christmas Parade, yes, a Christmas parade, a town sponsored fa-la-la-la-la hoopla that would kick off the Christmas season, that time of the year when we celebrate the birth of the Savior we are not allowed to pray to in public but in whose honor the shopping malls and retailers beg us to spend outrageous amounts of cash.  

     We stood in a park beneath trees still shedding their fall foliage, a full week before we stuffed the bird or cooked the pumpkin pie or went over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house. November had not yet turned into December, but who cared if we were rushing the season, everybody loves a parade! The sparkling floats, the marching bands, the Shriners in their tiny cars, the prancing horses clicking down the tarmac, the beauty queens perfecting their royal waves, and always, always,  there at the end, riding high on a sleigh perched precariously on a float,  the breathless arrival of Santa!

     Sissey, ever the purist, was lamenting the fact that poor Tom Turkey was getting a bum deal, that he was getting skipped over, ignored, and that we needed to celebrate Thanksgiving before we barrelled into Christmas.

     “This should be a Thanksgiving parade,” she said. “It’s November, for heaven’s sake. It’s not fair to the bird to just jump straight into Christmas before we’ve even celebrated Thanksgiving. I’m standing up for the turkey! No Christmas carols, no decorations, no celebrating Christmas until December! I’m calling this a Thanksgiving parade.”

    “Believe me, Sissey, the bird doesn’t mind. In fact, I’m quite sure all the turkeys of the world would be perfectly happy if we missed Thanksgiving altogether and just carved the Christmas roast instead.”

     “I guess I didn’t think about it from their point of view,” she conceded, as she agreed to join  the gathering crowd of holiday revelers.

       So we lined up beside the road, a misty drizzle frosting our heads, and prepared to celebrate the birth of a Son that we’re told is not sovreign in this nation.  I wondered how all the elected county officials,  the government representatives, the politicians and public servants  could be allowed to ride in shiny cars, grinning and waving, in a parade that celebrated the birth of a Savior?  Let them try to post the Ten Commandments in a government building or say a prayer in Jesus’ name and see what wrath and litigation they ignite. Yet the little town of Great Falls, all prettied up for the holidays, lights stringing the streets, wreaths on the windows of shops, trees sparkling and twinkling with tinsel and light, was ready to roll out the regalia of a full blown, band marching, candy throwing parade to celebrate the occassion of the birth of our Lord.

   “Look, Washington,” I wanted to yell, “You think you’ve removed God from this nation? You think you’ve wiped God out of public view?  Come on down south to a small town parade. We’ve still got Him down here, and we’re not only celebrating, we’re throwing Him a big ole parade!”

      The high school band (the very public high school band!) was  marching and blasting out Christmas carols on piccolos and flutes and clarinets,  drums booming and trombones blaring,  as they high-stepped down the street.  The flashing lights of the county fire truck and the blaring sirens of the city police cruisers hailed the beginning of the Christmas processional as floats filled with merry children and beaming dignitaries began creeping down the winding street.

     We waved to the school board chair, the public representative of the place where the mere mention of God would bring lawsuits and the full fury of the ACLU, yet there she rode in all her glory, Sunday hat perched haughtily on her head, smiling, waving to the crowd.  Next came the county coroner, and we all waved and yelled out “ Hey Terry!” to the man who will one day officially pronounce us dead, a laughing greeting now, while still alive, to the man who would eventually sign our death certificates. We yelled for the floating queens to toss us some stale Halloween candy which we scrambled for like rats in the gutter, snatching pieces of rain-drenched sweets we had no intention of consuming, the mere thrill of the find driving us to dive for the candy, darting in between the floats and cars to scoop up a tootsie roll or a peppermint or a piece of bubble gum before they were smashed by a tire. The local beauties smiled sweetly from their perches on the backs of convertibles, tiaras twinkling in their hair as they shyly waved and tossed candy to the crowd. The pharmacy, the bank, the local businesses, the phone company, the insurance companies and hardware stores and animal pound all processed by on homemade floats and decorated trailers. The local biker group noisily rolled by, revving up the throttles as they made lazy circles in the road, not to be outdone by the roar of the Shriners on their souped-up gokarts and miniature cars. And finally, in all his secular glory, red velvet suit glistening in the misty rain, Santa arrived on his truck-pulled sleigh, ho-ho-hoing and waving to the wide-eyed, excited children as they clapped their hands and cried out, "Santa, Santa, Santa!"

     It was a fine parade, and although there were no giant balloons or televised broadcasts, no big-name entertainers or celebrity marshalls,  the excitement and festivity the community produced had turned this little small town parade into an affair not to be outdone by Macy's on Turkey Day. All this, all this in preparation for a holiday that celebrates the birth of Christ. And they say we don't have religion in America? I say, bah, humbug to that and Merry Christmas y'all!

    

Pink Rainbows and Red Taillights

     Last night, I dreamt I was dying. It was one of those rapidly intense hallucinations where you rush through an entire lifespan in about three minutes and wake up gasping with your heart pounding in your chest. In my dream, an ugly and progressive disease ravaged my body in a matter of moments, leaving me paralyzed and dying. The experience was so powerful that it shook me awake, and when I placed my palm against my pulsating breast, I could feel the palpitations of my racing heart as if I held it in my hand.

    It was not that I feared dying, for I do not, but the dream disturbed me with the intensity, the pace, the helplessness of my death. I awoke in the dark of the night, and as I lay in bed contemplating the experience of dying, my mind sorted through confusing and morbid thoughts. It was easy to understand why I had dreamed the dream, as we had driven back to Richmond to attend the funeral of a dear friend, one who had lost a six month battle with Lou Gehrig’s disease. His experience with an unseen foe was heavy on my mind, and my sleeping brain was processing his struggle against an enemy that had captured his body and rapidly torn it apart.

      The mind is funny in the dark of the night, the places it wanders, the thoughts it holds. Something about the dark, the absence of light, leaves one confused and fearful, and as I lay there, counting the vibrations of my pounding heart, the dark recesses of my brain rumbled and churned. So I did what I do when I wake in the night.  I began to pray, and as I prayed, the calm that surpasses all other things washed over my thoughts and comforted my unsettled soul. It was as if the very hand of God had touched my pounding chest, settled my heart, and lifted the film of fear that had enveloped my mind.

      Afterward, as I lay in the dark, I pondered two moments from the trip home. The six hour drive to Richmond had begun after a long day of classes, and it had been a tiring and trying drive in the rain and the dark. We were both eager to get home and get off the road, and as we drove, we chatted about the schedule for the weekend, the visitation,  the funeral, what time to leave for the church. Neither of us were expecting or anticipating our own near-death experience, an incident that happened in the blink of an eye, a sudden disruption in the otherwise  uneventful trip. It was a moment that could have been life-altering, a moment that ended almost as quickly as it had begun, a brief second that left us unchanged yet changed.

       In order to let oncoming traffic merge onto the road, the car in front of us came to a sudden and abrupt stop. Rather than merely slowing down as expected, the red taillights of a braking car flashed before me, and I screamed as I realized the car had completely stopped.  I quickly slammed on breaks, going from 70 to 30 in about 2 seconds, swerved into the adjacent lane, and fishtailed across the interstate as Sissey’s head and shoulder banged into the side of the door.  When I had regained control of the car, my breath, and my senses, I checked on both dog and daughter and realized we had not, in fact, passed from this life to the next. I cautiously began to proceed back down the rain-slickened interstate, trembling hands guiding a steering wheel I had almost torn from the column moments earlier.  Sissey rubbed her aching neck and with a nervous laugh said, “Mom, guess it wasn’t our time to go!”

     The second moment that I pondered was one which occurred shortly following our near-death experience.   After regaining control of the car, as the night progressed and the rain drizzled on, I nervously and cautiously inched down the road. Eager to get to Richmond and the safety of home, I was silently thanking God for preserving our lives but simultaneously contemplating the frailty of that same life. We were headed home for a funeral, one that easily could have been our own, and the propensity of things beyond our control, the unexpected and the unanticipated events that occur without forethought or warning, these aspects of life seemed to scream out to me. The night was darkening as I drove, and I peered tentatively up at the dusky sky, searching for a break in the steady drizzle that had trailed us from South Carolina, through North Carolina, and into Virginia. There, in the evening sky, hovering in the firmaments was a vision such as I had never seen. Stretching from one side of Interstate 85 to the other, against a backdrop of dark storm clouds and glaring halogen headlights, a solid pink rainbow glistened in the air.  A neon pink arc, an intense sweep of color painted in a bold stroke against a setting of storm. It seemed appropriate at that moment to remember a promise made by a loving God, a Father who will be with us through calm and storm, through life and death. So without forethought or fear, even after my close brush with death moments earlier, I drove down Interstate 85, in the dark, in the rain, snapping picture after picture with my camera propped on the steering wheel of my car.  It was a risk worth taking, to capture that sight in that sky on that night, and  I smiled as I calmly drove on home.

      I do not know what those of no faith do when facing conflicts of life and death. I do not know what hope they cling to, or what calms their storms, or what eases their fears in the dark of the night. The sustaining power of a compassionate God, the promise of an eternal life, the gifts of grace and salvation and forgiveness and love—these are the very foundations that uphold me as I weather the inevitable tempests of life, this is the hope I cling to in the storm.  

     That evening, as I lay in my bed after frightful dreams and wandering thoughts,  I remembered that bow,  and I slept.