Giving Thanks

For me, Thanksgiving has always been synonymous with family; as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been a day for family to travel from near and from far to gather round the table and eat and talk and make memories. When I was little, it was with grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the kids were always relegated to a small folding table to the side of the big table where the adults sat. Later, after I had gone off on my own, I would always travel back to my dad's house and celebrate with him and my stepmom and my brother, along with some of the same aunts and uncles (a bit older, of course); we would have the same fare, and watch football, and talk and laugh and relive Thanksgivings past. One year I even flew from Cleveland to Cincinnati in my then-boyfriend's plane, arriving at the house just in time for dinner. As the years went by, and I was married, then had children of my own, our house became the gathering point for those memorable turkey dinners--sisters, nieces and nephews, parents, and sometimes even friends would gather round the table and in the living room afterwards, reliving the experiences of Thanksgiving Days past. Even when my family suffered fractured relationships, and some no longer joined us, we continued to gather--my parents, my in-laws, our kids and their kids--we would celebrate that special day, and plan ahead for the following Thanksgiving Day and discuss the details: who would host it, who would come, who would make the pies. Then, in 2018, we celebrated our final Thanksgiving with my parents--just me, my husband, and my brother gathered around my parents, holding hands, and giving thanks for the years past, the memories we shared, and later partaking in a catered turkey dinner picked up from a local restaurant.  Six months later, both my parents and my in-laws had died, gone on to celebrate a heavenly Thanksgiving. The next year, neither my husband nor I could bring ourselves to celebrate the way we had in the past--the pain was too fresh, and the memories only brought tears. Now I sit here on another Thanksgiving Day, remembering all the Novembers I have had, the memories pouring in and cascading through my mind as tears fall down my face. Today we have simple plans, no extravagant, giant turkey in the oven, or myriad of sides, or even the ubiquitous pumpkin and apple pies.  Acoustic praise and worship songs are playing on the TV, Alex is cooking up a double batch of goetta, and I will be planting 150 spring blooming bulbs, and then we will have a simple dinner at Cracker Barrel with my brother. 

Looking back, there are memories and laughter; I can hear the voices of people long gone, see the smiles of loved ones unable to join us, smell the familiar aromas wafting through the house. 

Looking forward, there are memories to be made, laughter and the tears; Thanksgivings will be different, and we will reminisce about the holidays past, but we will have no regrets. 

Looking up, I praise the author of Thanksgiving and all the days, and I am thankful, for every day is a day of thanksgiving, no matter who we are with or where we are or what food we prepare. 

Pinning my hopes

 

Election day: an event holding huge promise for everyone, not just the candidates, an event on which many pinned hopes. Hope that the election results would bring answers and resolution to all our fears: the pandemic, healthcare, the future of our country, riots, unrest, and economic insecurity. Hope that we could once again be one nation, under God, indivisible. Hope that we could return to a time when civil discussions were the norm. Hope for a political and ethical reset. Hope for affirmation of our ideals. Hope for a return to patriotism and respect and kindness and civility. And I secretly hoped for my side to win to achieve some sort of narrative closure and a reaffirmation of the basic good and decency of the American people.  I had not just pinned my hopes on the wrong thing--I had wrong hope, and had placed my trust in princes.

Like many of you, I expected, no prayed, for this election to NOT be a close call, but instead to unify us towards a common goal. But why would I, like my fellow voters, expect, or even hope, that the election would reflect anything other than the stark, irreconcilable differences touted on Facebook, Twitter, CNN, Fox, church pulpits, street protests, and even dinner table conversations? Because I was placing my confidence in earthly systems, and counting on a flawed process to bring America to its knees, to acknowledge that, as a nation, we have abandoned our Christian values and are blatantly ignoring God's law. Ashamedly, I secretly hoped for a landslide to crush the opposition and show them, once and for all, who is boss. So here we are, 48 hours after the last polling station closed, and not just me, not just the country, but the world waits with bated breath on the outcome of this election, as if the outcome will make all our dreams (or nightmares) come true. I hate this waiting, the not knowing, and worst of all, I am mad that things are not going to go my way; even now, it is taking a Herculean effort to NOT turn on the news or go to my browser to ascertain if Arizona has declared a winner or if the Congress' balance of power has shifted right or left. And this scene is being repeated millions of times across the country, with folks stressing out over whether their ballot had all the right answers, thereby validating their choices, their values, and their beliefs; some are even already protesting when there is nothing to protest. 

On Tuesday night, when it became painfully obvious the election results not only mirrored, but reinforced the division of our country, I noticed my chest was tight, I was irritable, anxious, and wanted above all else to escape from everything related to election results and partisanship. This distressed me emotionally and spiritually, and I struggled to squelch the anxiety and refocus on God and Scripture, so I began to dissect those feelings and thoughts to try to make sense of them. I turned to Scripture and Christian resources, and began to work through it, as uncomfortable and distressing as these feelings can be. I was anxious—election anxiety.

Anxiety, regardless of the genesis of it, is inordinately hard, because anxiety triggers the fight or flight reflex, and the overwhelming desire to master the situation, conquer the anxiety, and above all, be in control. Being a Christian does not preclude the presence of anxiety; sometimes suffering anxiety as a Christian causes even MORE anxiety, because we wrongly interpret God's word on the subject. Casting all our cares on Him, or not being anxious about anything, does not mean we will never be anxious.  We will be anxious, simply because we are humans; in the Psalms, David asked God numerous times to help him with his anxiety and cares (Psalms 13, 23, 30, 91 and 139, to name just a few). Like David, we can cast those fears and anxieties and misgivings on the Lord, and He will help us walk through them. Hopefully, with God's help, I will reflect to others that we trust in God’s sovereignty.

Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man in whom there is not salvation. When his breath departs, he returns to the earth, on that very day his plans perish. (Psalm 146, 3-4)