Just like clockwork the winter holidays are upon us, year after year. We should be happy about that, right? At Thanksgiving most of us gather as a family at a relative’s house for a huge festive meal. We catch each other up on what’s happened in our lives since the last time we visited. We stuff ourselves silly with turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes, and a dozen other side dishes and swear we couldn’t hold another bite. Until the desserts come out and we admit we could try just a taste. Of every single one of them.
The children run around in the yard while the adults reminisce and wait for the game to come on. Afterwards everyone looks bleakly at the pile of dirty dishes. But someone makes a pot of coffee or opens a bottle of wine, and we share more stories as we tackle the clean-up job. And before folks start to trickle out the door, we talk about Christmas plans.
All this sounds familiar and cozy and sweet, doesn’t it?
Unless your heart is broken. Unless there is an empty chair. Unless the sight or scent of your loved one’s favorite dish has you fleeing the room to find a safe place to sob. Because the dish is here, but not the loved one. Not just unavailable but gone from this earth. How do we give thanks for that?
I mentioned last week that my daughters’ father died unexpectedly on November 12th. My older daughter, Casey, has hosted our family Thanksgiving for almost ten years now. There’s usually around twenty people for dinner. The attendees vary somewhat from year to year, but we see mostly the same faces around the table every year. And we always take a group picture. We marvel at how the kids have grown since last year. Tease the person who has worn the same sweater three years in a row. And politely don’t mention the additional gray hairs and pounds that some of us are sporting.
But almost every year there is someone missing in the picture. Because they had a critical work assignment that couldn’t wait. They had moved several states away and just couldn’t travel that year. They just had a new baby. They are missed, but we all understand, send our love, and expect to see them next year.
Only sometimes an absence is permanent. The missing isn’t just this year.
Despite her very recent grief, Casey is still hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Her dad’s girlfriend will join us. By herself. There will be tears. There will be stories told about her dad that make us laugh. He won’t be there to defend himself or retaliate with a story of his own.
We will also tell stories about Rachel. Casey’s younger sister. My and her dad’s younger daughter. This will be our 8th Thanksgiving without her at the table. Our stories about her mostly make us laugh and smile these days. Rachel’s husband will be celebrating with us. He is family and always will be. They had a year of courtship and two months of marriage before she died in a car accident. Not a lot of time to accumulate stories. The missing is still there – always will be – but it’s soft and sweet now. Although I expect some of the tears of new grief will spill over into the old.
It’s an aspect of life that people join us and people leave us. The table looks a bit different every year. But still every year we gather together. We ask God to bless the food to the nourishment of our bodies and our bodies to His service. And we ask Him to bless those who could not be with us.
But if they are feasting at God’s table, they are already blessed. Let us give thanks for that.
Laura
A Light for My Path 
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