When Thanks and Giving Go Missing

Grandma wasn’t just the best southern cook in all of Brooklyn, she was the best Grandmother and the queen of our castle after my mother died.  She was from Bennettesville South Carolina and nothing about her gave that away except her cooking.  Pot lids danced atop steaming boiling stock every weekend.  Some combination of chicken and dumplings, cornbread, baked ziti, baked macaroni and cheese, lima beans and neck bones, collard greens, sweet potato pie – was always piping hot and ready for any hungry body that showed up at Grandma’s  door.

She put us kids to work too. Cleaning and snapping peas at Grandma’s wasn’t worth trying to escape – though I tried to as soon as I saw the newspaper-lined dining room table. Right after us cousins were at the table snapping peas, aunts and uncles pulled out albums and 45’s.  In between carrying peas to the sink and sitting back at the table – somebody took to the floor to the sounds of Marvin and Tammy, the Temptations or the Supremes booming from the record player.  I imagined Grandma’s kitchen must be what heaven was like.

Last week I saw a man.  A translucent mask bearing three black scars on each of his cheeks, covered his face. Blood lines oozed from the corners of his lips. A three year old girl he approached scurried her little legs away as fast as they could take her as she screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Come back,” he yelled.  The boom of his voice stood her still.  “Hit me with your shield.” She turned around.  The scarred face man stepped toward her.  “Noooooo,” she cowered. “Hit me with your shield.”  She took a step forward.  “Hit me.” She charged “Raaaaahhhhhh,” and hit him on the arm with her bronze shield.  He fell backwards.  She giggled.  He stepped forward again.  “Hit me.” More confidently this time, she stepped and whacked him again.  The little girl’s belief in the “S” on her chest overtook her emotions. Soon she was laughing victoriously as she landed whack after whack on the masked man’s (her father’s) arm, until he yelled, “OK.  OK.  You win,” on that fall festival day.

This year’s Thanksgiving appears scarred, and frightening looking. Rather than endure its looming presence – a table without beloveds, bare cabinets, or however else Thanksgiving shows up different this year, retreating might seem like a viable option. For so many these days are masked behind separated families due to COVID, family discord, job loss, or indescribable heartache.

If we but stand still, despite the odd sights and sounds surrounding us we might hear a familiar voice. One that reminds us of who we are.  One like the voice of my three year old granddaughter’s father calling her to not be afraid of his ugly scars and mask. He reminded her of the powerful shield she held. My granddaughter knew her father’s voice. She trusted him. So she looked at the S on her costume and mustered the courage to whack back ugliness.

We defy the ugly of discord with love and forgiveness. We look beyond appearances to see truth and grace. We laugh with hope knowing our unpleasant circumstances don’t define us. We dodge every arrow seeking to make us forget who we are with our shield of faith.

This year’s Thanks & Giving month looks and feels different.  And yes, I am absolutely sad at times and wish it wasn’t so. Other times I remember my Grandmother and all she endured as a woman, daughter, mother, sister, grandmother in her day – yet left me unforgettable memories of her heavenly Brooklyn kitchen.  And because she was always giving, I am forever thankful. We may have to look for thanks & giving this year in ways we didn’t have to before.  But I hope you remember who you are and Whose you are in this season.  I hope you hear a voice.  One that comforts you. One that makes you smile a deep down smile and reminds you, daughter of God, that you win.

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