A Thanksgiving story

On this day after Thanksgiving, I am seeing shadows.  

The Thanksgiving holiday was spent primarily at my family home in Lee’s Summit — the white, two-story 1920s home that my parents purchased in 1979, and which is now owned by my youngest sister and family.

As I made the traditional cheese grits on Thursday afternoon, I found myself thinking about a particular Thanksgiving in the 1980s.  Mom’s brother, Uncle Edwin, was in town with his wife Mary.  My grandmother was there too.  And perhaps Aunt Esther, although I don’t recall.  

Mom had worked hard on the Thanksgiving meal, but when Mary and I found out that she did not plan on having stuffing, we set to work.  Mary made cornbread, and the result was some of the most wonderful stuffing ever.  Several of us raved about it, at the expense of raving about the rest of the meal.

Mom was not happy.

I still remember how badly I felt.

This is now the 20th Thanksgiving without Mom here.  The traditions continue.  We ate food from my maternal grandmother’s plates on Thursday, and we had the traditional family additions of cheese grits and paper-sack apple pie.  My sisters and I shared the cooking duties, with the addition of Karen’s adult son Blayne and Beth’s wonderful husband Robert.  New traditions are set too, including plates of things like cauliflower and Brussels sprouts.

More shadows are emerging, and more additions are present too, including the lovely young great-niece Lily.

On this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for SO many things, not least of them family, and shadows that ground and remind and connect me to a place and people, and most importantly for the means of grace and for the hope of glory.

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