I grew up in East Texas, where the
chicken is fried, the pine trees grow tall, and the accents drip thick with
“honeys” and “bless-your-hearts”. On Thanksgiving, it was my family’s tradition
to take the two-lane highway straight-shot over to my grandparents’ house for
lunch. I’d perch on a stool in the kitchen in order to watch my grandmother
turn “a little of this and a little of that” into a traditional turkey feast,
or run with my sister through the leaves that the huge oak had molted in their
backyard, seemingly for our pleasure alone. After second and third helpings of
lunch, my grandfather would send me to the freezer for the Blue Bell ice cream.
He’d dish it out on top of oversized slices of pecan pie for each family
member, and we’d all retire to the living room to watch the Cowboys’ game, take
a nap, or contentedly combine the two.
When I think of Thanksgiving, I think of
home, and when I think of home, I think of my grandparents’ house in East Texas
on Thanksgiving day. I smell fried chicken crackling on the stove. I hear my
grandfather spinning yarns about growing up in the Depression or going to war
or working in the oil fields. At the table I see my parents in their youth, my
sister and my cousins playing at cards, and the aunt who taught me to drive in
the high school parking lot down the road.
This is my home, although I don’t live in
East Texas anymore. I find myself saying “you guys” far more than “y’all”, and
my grandparents recently moved out of their house into assisted living. Their
huge oak tree was felled by a storm years ago, and now I’m the one standing at
the kitchen counter arranging pecans on the pie while my kids look on.
The world has shifted with age and time,
and the will of God has taken me from my home, but my longing for it has only
grown stronger. Some might call this longing homesickness. Others might call it
sentimentality or romanticism. Still others, a desire for the simplicity of
childhood. But do we not all long for home? Do we not all long for that feeling
of settledness, of familiarity, of being known in all of our ages and stages?
Do we not, even more, long for a place, a time, or an assuredness that all is
right with the world, that it’s been freed from its turmoil and unspeakable
atrocities?
Whether our home has been in a high-rise
in the city or a farmhouse tucked away in some far-flung place, we think back
with warmth to the traditions, the smells, the tastes, and the voices at the
table. We who’ve not had a sanctuary in our youth try to create it for our own
children. We desire the simplicity of a satisfying meal and togetherness with
others around a table. We long for a laborless rest and a sense of peace. We
crave time to stop, that we might try to fully ingest the overarching story of
our lives and God’s gracious hand weaving there throughout.
My grandmother will not whisk gravy at
her stove this Thanksgiving, but I have learned home from her, and I have
become the whisker and masher and baker. I will make mashed potatoes for my
sons, and perhaps while I work at peeling them, my boys will perch on a stool
at the counter and watch, taking in the sights and smells. More likely, they
will wrestle in the leaf pile or run through the house with their cousins while
the Cowboys’ game blares in the background.
Home, I’ve realized, is something we
receive, something created and cultivated for us. I work tirelessly to create a
place, a feeling, of “home” for my children, but my feeling of home is what was
created for me. I imitate what I saw and smelled and learned from those before
me. We’re all, in effect, imitating the One who’s set a longing for home in our
hearts. It is a whisper we must lean down to hear, an invitation to carefully
investigate. We think the longing calls us back, to the places and faces we’ve
known, to the traditions and tastes we’ve enjoyed. Instead, it is coaxing us
forward, to look for the place and the face we’ve not yet known by sight. We
know by faith what we’ve not yet seen, but we only know it now as longing.
Our Christ is preparing a home for us,
you know.
The longing rises, even in the midst of
our thankfulness. Something is not yet complete. The world strains under its
own pressure. Our hearts cry out¾for redemption, for
settledness, for rest from this darkness and this flesh. We cry out for our
God. The ultimate longing underneath all we crave is to be at home with Him, at
the table, studying every contour of His face, hearing the tenor of His voice,
enjoying His delight, trying the heavenly mashed potatoes, and relating to
others without sin. Perhaps the only remaining holiday in heaven will be
Thanksgiving.
In this liminal space, we live with
thankful longing. We know that the world has been set right, and this is why
we’re thankful, but its rightness is still being disseminated. We are left
longing, because God is not yet done pursuing. We must humbly give Him space
for His own longing.
In this in-between, we create imitations
of our real home through the table, the talk, and the giving of thanks. When we
gather with friends and family and lift our meager words of thanksgiving to
God, we pause the advance of age and time if just for a moment and, with our
traditions and tastes, foreshadow our heavenly home. As we will do there, we turn
our attention to the host, who has provided a bountiful feast of celebration
and gladly serves all who’ve accepted the invitation to the table. We enjoy the
company of our brothers and sisters, named so by blood. We accept with gladness
the offered food that satisfies and drink that quenches. We receive all we’ve
been given¾oh how much!¾with humble thanksgiving and, here only, a prayerful
desire for more.
Friends, let this Thanksgiving be a taste
of home. Make your family’s traditional foods, watch your family’s traditional
movies, and play your family’s traditional games. However, when a twinge of
longing attaches to your thanks-giving, remember that this was set in our
hearts. We’re all hungry. We’re all thirsty. We’re all weary and heavy-laden.
Let the longing for a true north lead you to Christ and an anticipation of
what’s to come. In your rest from work, know that He who began a good work in
us will carry it onto completion. Pass out appetizers of grace and truth,
preparation for the feast to come. Love wildly. Forgive tirelessly. Thank Him
unabashedly. In all things, imitate and anticipate the final Thanksgiving table
and a place where all our longings will finally find their home.
Happy Thanksgiving to each of you!
