On Thanksgiving, Being Grateful For What Endures

LORRAINE V. MURRAY, Special Contributor

Published: November 18, 2004

The mug slid from the counter and hit the floor with a resounding crash. The shards of clay lay there in a pitiful pile, while I tried not to cry.

My husband and I had purchased the pair of handmade cups, each one sporting the imprint of a pelican, when we were on vacation about 20 years ago. We’re talking major sentimental value here.

Each afternoon for years the ritual has been the same: After our naps, I head to the kitchen and pour us coffee in our pelican mugs. Or at least that’s the way things used to be, for we are now one pelican short.

And then, a few days later, while sweeping the front porch, I knocked over the ceramic angel sitting in the corner and the poor thing collapsed into fragments.

Maybe because I was an English major, I am always looking for symbols in things, and so I wondered: Is God trying to tell me something?

Since Thanksgiving is a season when we count our blessings, I wondered if He might be warning me against becoming too attached to material goods. And reminding me that change is inevitable.

As I age, I find myself doing something I vowed I would never do, which is clinging more tightly to the past.

Whenever I drive by the Vortex restaurant in Little Five Points, I recall fondly that the eatery was once named Eat Your Vegetables, a place where my sweetheart and I used to meet every Friday religiously during our courting days.

And don’t get me started about all our other favorite hang-outs that I dearly miss, like the Lullwater Café, Oxford Books, The Royal Bagel, Katz’s deli, Niko’s Greek restaurant—and oh, sob, Woolworth’s!

Still, it seems clear when you look around the world that change is constant. Fall leaves burst into a riot of colors and then catapult toward the lawn, the moon waxes and wanes—and babies sprout into toddlers almost overnight.

Within our hearts, though, we long for perfect stability, which we don’t encounter on earth. And perhaps this longing is God’s reminder that we will never be satisfied solely with worldly things.

We also harbor a feeling of changelessness within our souls. Most older folks will admit that they don’t feel that much different “inside” than they did in their twenties.

Oh, hobbies may change, but in our heart of hearts, we still feel like the same person. Which is why it’s a shock for a gray-haired gentleman to look in the mirror and see a bona-fide grown-up staring back at him.

And as we age, we all become survivors of one thing or another, whether it is a war, a disease, an accident or a divorce.

We all have seen our dearest dreams and hopes crumble—and we have seen more than our share of broken mugs and shattered angels.

Fortunately, we also have seen how tendrils of green can spring from the crevices in concrete buildings and how a tenacious tree can survive a storm. We are well acquainted with hope.

My husband, touched by hope, tried to repair the broken mug, but it was, alas, a goner. It was only a cup, I reminded myself, while also remembering Jesus’ warning.

He said it was better to store up treasure in heaven than on earth because worldly things fall prey to moths and rust.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I remind myself that everything made of clay, glass and wood eventually will break, burn or otherwise be destroyed. Even our flesh-and-bone bodies, as wondrously complex as they are, will one day stop working.

When I was a child growing up in New York, Thanksgiving meant going to visit my Aunt Lilly and Uncle Savy, who lived in a tiny one bedroom, one-bath apartment in the Bronx.

The kitchen was way too small to put a feast together for seven adults and seven children, but somehow Aunt Lilly managed it.

While the aunts and uncles squeezed into the kitchen to trade stories and sip cocktails, the raucous crew of cousins invaded the tiny living room to play cards until it was dinnertime.

When the meal was served, the kids sat upon folding chairs at a crowded bridge table, while the adults squeezed into the dining room—and it never occurred to any of us to complain that the setting was inelegant.

Instead, as we bowed our heads to say the blessing, we all sensed, deep down inside, just what was fueling this marvelous feast: It was, of course, the love we had for one another.

Since then, Aunt Lilly and Uncle Savy, along with my mom and dad, Uncle Danny—and even my cousin Daniel—have died, but the memory of those early Thanksgivings lingers on.

And each year, when I sit down to count my blessings, I never dwell too long on the things—and people—of this world, for I know that house, car and, alas, even the folks we cherish are transitory.

Still, that longing in our hearts for a changeless world reminds us there is one blessing we can always be thankful for.

It is God’s love, which endures forever.

And because of this great love, we will one day see all the pieces of our lives put back together again.

In Heaven, broken angels will be made whole and shattered hearts will be mended. We will be reunited with all the beloved ones who have left us.

And on that day, the part of us that never changes will finally feel at home. Then we will know the true meaning of Thanksgiving.

Lorraine Murray is the author of “Grace Notes,” a collection of previously published columns, and “Why Me? Why Now?” a spiritual guide for women with cancer. E-mail: lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com.