Thanksgiving in California

On Sunday I participated in our fellowship's "Thanksgiving Leftovers" service. Here's my bit:



It seems to me that Thanksgiving and certain things go together. Turkey and stuffing, peacans and sweet potatoes, family, ice and acrobatics.

My childhood memories of Thanksgiving include, yes, the fine meal with the usual menu, you know the one, but also cars parked on the lawn and stacks of coats on the beds. It was cold back then. As much steam coming off the hot chocolate as your breath meeting the crisp winter air.

I grew up in the midwest where late November brought temperatures that hovered around 30 degrees. That’s the freezing point. If you had a sunny afternoon and a cool evening any moisture on the roads would freeze instantly, creating a smooth, shiny, and dangerous yet entertaining surface.

Frost and ice storms go along with my Thanksgivings. More than once I’ve seen a midwestern woman emerge from a car, twice her normal size in winter coat, boots, and earmufs, and suddenly sprout eight legs like a mother octopus, land on her behind, while victoriously raising a saved casserole over her head with mittened hands.

Mark and I were married in 1999 and have since lived in four states, Michigan, Indiana, Connecticut, and now California. There have been years when we made it back home for Thanksgiving, but usually we find ourselves as orphins.

That’s a universal term. We’ve heard it coast to coast. Orphins are people who don’t have family nearby to share the Thanksgiving meal. Each year we find ourselves taken in by one family or another on Thanksgiving day. We seen a lot of Thanksgivings, and we’ve seen a common link between them.

Connecticut offered the same entertainment as the midwest, dare I say more. I once saw a woman slide, one footed, down the 40 foot driveway while juggling four pumpkin pies and a ceramic pilgrim. When people will risk life and limb to deliver a pie, that’s love.



Now here we are by the beautiful Pacific Ocean, blue skies, green grass, people freezing at 62 degrees and palm trees? That’s not right. I’ll tell you what, Californians have a lot of audacity cooking turkeys without hazardous road conditions.

But frost or not, Thanksgiving brings family. And makes family. For the last seven years Mark and I have sat down at a seven different tables for Thanksgiving. We’ve gathered hands with so many people. Yet, it’s always the same.

There’s this point during the meal when my heart leaps. It’s somewhere along the make-shift buffet, between the mashed potatoes and the candied yams, when everyone is making their plates, voices raised in joyful praise of the beautiful food, and I take a second to see the people gathered there.

Between all the miles we’ve traveled, and all the families that took us in, it’s there again. It’s that longing that families have to be families. When people learn that Mark and I are orphins on Thanksgiving, they take us in. It happens every time. It happened at Pat and Barb’s house on Thursday, somewhere between the pink stuff and the stripey jello.



By fullfilling our need to belong, they belong as well. Isn’t that the way love is? To be loved, you give love. To belong, you include. So what is it that makes my heart sing… on Thanksgiving… freezing rain or not? It’s that realization that I am home.