I don't want to jinx it, but this might have been the best Thanksgiving I've ever had. There was no bickering, no accusations, no back-biting, and best of all, no flat-out fights. Everyone helped. We ate. We cleaned up. We watched a movie.
Maybe there are other families that are always like this; mine isn't. Since I was young I have assumed the role of peace-keeper and mediator and it can be stressful to spend time together. I find myself on high alert, listening for the minute tremblings of unrest, a subtle change even the most sensitive seismograph couldn't detect. So maybe I'm blowing it out of proportion, but it just makes me so happy when everyone gets along. I mean, last night we even joked about my sister's high school rebellious streak... something that's easier for my mom and dad to stomach now that Carrie is a married, a successful lawyer at the attorney general's office, and expecting her first child.
The day had a few nice moments, like my dad and I retreating to the den for solitude and being followed soon thereafter by my sister and mom who filled the room with their chatter. My sister and I catching up on our lives while we cut vegetables for the stuffing. Or when their kitten Rosie held my hand with her paw while we watched HUGO.
But the best part was dinner.
In our family, my grandfather gave the blessing. He passed away several years ago and was a really really great man. Like strangers showed up to the funeral who he had met at the grocery store and a 5-year old neighbor boy asked us where Carl was when we returned to his home after the funeral. We lost his wife, my Babcie, earlier this year.
Both my grandparents were involved in the church. My grandfather was an organist for years. We attended an Episcopal church where my parents sang in the choir, my mom was an organist, and in middle school, I was an acolyte. But by high school, my parents relationship with the church changed - I'm not sure what happened but some sort of internal church politics seemed to get in the way of their faith. I was 15 and could care less about waking up early to sit through a stuffy service where people sang music they would never sing at home. It stopped being a part of my life.
In college, one of my teammates reintroduced me to God. She grew up in a church where the songs of praise where sung over rock riffs and the preachers jokingly said prayers for their sport teams. The environment felt joyous and people seemed genuinely happy to be there. They weren't perfect people, but they were trying to be better. I really dug the atmosphere. I still go to church when I can drag my ass out of bed on a Sunday and I pray every night for friends and family.
Now I'm the only representative of the faith in the family. In the past few years, we've sat down to holiday meals and stared at our empty plates, wondering if anyone was going to offer a prayer like Dziadziu used to. Sometimes I'm asked to pray and sometimes we just start eating.
Tonight, my dad asked me to give the blessing. I can't remember what I said exactly, but I made everyone hold hands and I gave thanks. It wasn't the most eloquent -in fact, I used the phrase "cooking in Carrie's womb" to describe the fetus growing inside my sister's belly- but that's the fun of leading the prayer. You get to say what you want to say. It was emotional for me and my voice quavered.
When I finished, everyone had tears in their eyes, too. Even my dad, who doesn't get all riled up like the women-folk. We all cried for different reasons, but whatever it was, the release honored the time we have together. I'm thankful so many of us are still here to hold hands around the table.
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