Today is Thanksgiving, and even
though I’m 4,685 miles away from home, I popped out of bed this morning before
my alarm because of a lifelong habit, a culturally ingrained anticipation of
the celebration to come. Thanksgiving is
one of those holidays that you just have to be present for. It’s a holiday that never loses it’s magic.
Waking up
on a holiday feels different than waking up any other day of the week, better
somehow. But as the enchantment coursed through my sleepy veins, I was reminded
just how far 4,685 miles is from home, and I imagined what my family was doing
at the moment, what I was missing out on. So many memories flooded my head, and
I started thinking about what the day would hold for them. I found myself
imagining their next moves, what their faces look like while they’re cooking,
laughing, talking.
Growing up, my brother and I would
get up on Thanksgiving morning, snuggle down on the couch next to each other,
and watch Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade for hours. Then our mother would send
us outside to play until it was time to go to our grandparents house. I have no
idea how many Thanksgiving days he and I passed like that, but I like to think
it was many. Then we started hosting Thanksgiving. It was high time that we
both contributed and thus began the annual pre-Thanksgiving prep, laboring in
the kitchen until our feet hurt and our backs ached and our stomachs were full
of nothing but mistakes and the ingredients we snitched, which was more than
enough. We would go to bed on Wednesday
night tired, joyful, and satisfied. We
would arise early on Thanksgiving to iron table cloths and napkins and finish
baking and cooking, to start the meat and mash the potatoes.
Today, my brother will get up and
start smoking meat, maybe lamb. (My family proudly serves the flesh of at least
three different animals.) Everyone will rush around until late morning, when
they will rush around trying to look presentable before my grandparents arrive.
At noon my mother’s parents will arrive, bearing ham. My grandmother will come
into the kitchen and make gravy while my father carves the turkey. Then the
rest will file in at one in the afternoon, babies and children playing at
everyone’s feet. People will gather in the kitchen to help, their sleeves
rolled up, and their spirits light. When dinner time comes, they’ll all hold
hands around the table and pray, to thank God for what He’s given them, and
then they’ll continue to stand as they all tell each other what they’re
grateful for this year, even the smallest among them.
Rolling out of bed this morning, I
thought of all of this, and couldn’t help but think what 4,685 miles means for
me. How far I am from my family. How I won’t spend Thanksgiving enjoying a huge
meal with my family and friends. How I won’t sing along with the music, or bake
the bread, or cut up potatoes and put them on to boil. I thought about how I’m
going to spend my Thanksgiving this year as I spend every Thursday this
semester, cleaning, doing laundry, and grocery shopping. I thought of all of this and I started
feeling homesick. But as the fog lifted from my head, sleepy and nostalgic, I
remembered what Thanksgiving really means. Thanksgiving is a time to reflect on
what you’re grateful for, and thank God for all that you have.
So I started to think of all the
things I’m thankful for. It’s a long list. I have a lot to be thankful for. I’m
thankful first, for my family, a safe group of people who love me
unconditionally. I’m thankful for a roof over my head, and clothes that keep me
warm. I’m thankful for good health, Lord knows how I’ve waited on that. I’m
thankful that I’m spending this Thanksgiving in London, studying abroad. I’m
thankful that I’ve been given the means to study abroad without going hungry or
missing a meal. I’m thankful for the wonderful friends I’ve made in the UK. I’m
thankful that I have laundry to do. I’m thankful that I have friends back home
who love me. I’m thankful for so many things, that a list can’t contain them.
With all of this recognized thankfulness, I think I really I started
celebrating Thanksgiving. A meal may be traditional, and holidays are better
spent with friends and family, but sometimes, it’s good to sit back and reflect
on why it is you celebrate a holiday, and what it means to you. This year I’m
observing Thanksgiving in quiet, stripped of all the tradition, of all the
extra, but I’m celebrating it all the same.
At the first Thanksgiving, the
pilgrims were so thankful to be not dead that they gathered together and had a
meal and celebrated with the people who helped to ensure their aliveness. I think that’s the reason why Thanksgiving
never loses it’s enchantment. Because it’s the most sincere holiday of them
all. Year in and year out families and friends come together and celebrate
Thanksgiving. It’s never inflated beyond proportion. Those who celebrate it
understand that it is a time to give thanks for all that you have. Nothing
more, nothing less. But that’s what makes it endure. That’s what makes it
beautiful.