It Was Never about the Turkey

This Thanksgiving Day instead of remembering the past I focused on the future.

In the back of my mind, memories from Thanksgiving Day’s past quietly paraded by. Mama standing in the kitchen with that perfectly browned turkey in the middle of the kitchen table, her pretty dark eyes turning towards me, will always be present in the fabric of this day. Her passing still stings me; the memory of her on Thanksgiving morning all busy and focused makes me laugh. Joy. Mama was joy to me.

My first Thanksgiving as a young wife, in-laws who could never be satisfied, a husband who tried to encourage me in my imagined failings, at once makes me laugh and makes me cry.

Time can be cruel in its passing and its sweeping away from us those whom we loved the most. Holidays have a way of slapping us squarely in the face with regrets at what we may have failed to say and/or do.

Love. That is what I remember most about Thanksgiving. Love. Looking across the table at those whom I loved most. My husband didn’t seem to mind that I had overcooked the turkey (if he did notice, he didn’t mention it).

Love. Remembering Mama. My perfect Mama.

Love. Remembering that husband from so long ago.

Thanksgiving is about love, about gathering to thank God for another year to share the table with those whom we love the most.

Time is cruel in its taking from us those whom we have loved the most.

In this holiday season, I have been reminded of the rapid, cruel passage of time.

But, rather than be sad, rather than give into the darkness of depression, rather than giving into the despair, I ask God to give me the courage to just simply be thankful for the love that I had been blessed with those many years ago.

Thankful for love.

Thankful for those November memories.

Thankful for those memories I will always cherish regardless of the pain of loss they sometimes bring.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2020