Thanksgiving 2023: A two-sided harvest

“All the world is God's own field,
fruit as praise to God we yield;
wheat and tares together sown
are to joy or sorrow grown;”

The images and memories surrounding Thanksgiving abound. Regardless of our histories, when we think about this holiday it usually conjures memories of tables surrounded, and food overflowing. As a child, I always loved Thanksgiving. It was a more relaxed holiday than others, and it was easy to see all the reasons I should be grateful.

But this year I find myself looking beyond the Norman Rockwell images to the shadow made visible because of Thanksgiving’s light. With all the people assembled, there are people missing. With all the food, people are still hungry:

A family gathers without their son. He was sent to rehab to address his life-long problem with addiction.

A woman tries to create a happy Thanksgiving for her children on this first year since the divorce was final.

A daughter, whose father died two years ago, tries not to hear her father’s voice when someone new says grace.

A couple eats at a table in their retirement home knowing their children have lives too busy to visit.

A father doesn’t look over at the empty seat where his son used to sit. Seems he’d rather be elsewhere this Thanksgiving.

A widower offers a grateful smile to the neighbors who included him in their Thanksgiving feast, but it isn’t the same since his wife died.

Every harvest includes grain and chaff. To every happy celebration, there’s an echo of sadness. The hopeless romantic, the tender child, within me wishes it were not so, but, somehow, I know I need to look not only into the light but also the shadows. When I do, my gratitude finds greater depth, my song of praise, a richer tone.

Leaf Removal

The last remnants of Fall clung to the trees while the other leaves blanketed the ground. Yellows and reds had yielded to shades of crispy brown, and despite the wonderful sound of my shoes shuffling through the dry leaves, it was clear a new season was on its way.

Walking on a favorite trail, I found it hard to see the path. Although a familiar route, the leaves shrouded the trail, making me have to guess which way to go. Fortunately, there were trail markings sporadically placed on the trees, but the leaves still made the journey difficult.

It reminded me of the spiritual walk I’m on, the way I’m trying to follow, and all the “leaves” that cover my path. Like the ones covering my shoes, there are leaves on my spiritual path which hide which way I should go. Once bright with promise, they now lie crumpled and colorless on the ground. Exciting creative ventures, vibrant friendships, and glistening dreams of one sort or another . . . leaves come in all shapes and sizes. Now they lie scattered before me, hiding the way forward. I’m left guessing which way to go.

Unlike my walk, the solution is to remove the leaves, push them aside and unearth the trail that lies beneath. It takes work to remove leaves, and mental and spiritual discipline to find the path again. It’s where it’s always been, but the leaves need to be cleared so we can commit to the way forward.

Soon, it will be Advent, the season before Christmas when we are invited to refocus on the way and commit, once again, our lives to a particular direction. If you’re like me, there are leaves of all kinds hiding the path. We just need to push them aside and get walking again.

All Saints' Day 2023

The sunlight shone through the colorful leaves better than any stained-glass window, and the sound of the leaves crunching beneath my shoes made me walk as if processing down a Cathedral’s center aisle. Breathing deeply, I drank the air as if it was living water. It was one of those days, one of those moments, when believing in the “creator of heaven and earth” was easy.

I knew it was only a matter of time before the oranges, yellows, and reds above me would be blown from their perches and join the sacred dance to the ground like whirling dervishes. The trees would become bare, and leaves turn brown. To everything there is a season, I reminded myself, but part of me wished there was another way.

I pulled myself back from my head to my heart and looked around with renewed appreciation. No, these leaves would not last, but there would be others. The leaves above would soon become part of the soil below. That soil would feed the trees so that they could bring forth a new canopy of shade and color. In that way, the leaves of today are a part of tomorrow’s, which will be a part of those that come after them.

I cannot help but think back on the people I’ve known, the great cloud of witnesses through whom God’s light shone in unmistakable ways. Often, I stood and looked in awe and wished they would be with me forever, but I learned early that they, like the leaves above me, would be blown into the sacred dance and away from my sight. I miss their color. I miss their shade. But I trust they remain a part of this circle of life. Someway, somehow, they remain, for everything is connected, and everything belongs.

More than any day of the year, this is the day I cling to that truth and cherish that hope.