Over the River and Through the Woods

It's more than a little sad that so few of us live near our families any more.  My own little ones would have to fly over the ocean and through the desert to spend Thanksgiving at Grandmother's house here in the mountains of Utah.  But still, I like to imagine them all racing around my house--the air filled with the delicious aromas of turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie and homemade rolls.  Occasionally, one of them will dash into the kitchen to hug my aproned knees, or to slip into the pantry to hide, silently signaling me with their eyes wide and a tiny finger to shushed lips.  Then, as long as I'm imagining, I'll add some squealing cousins to the mix and the men's deep voices rising in a sudden shout, followed by their easy laughter rolling in over the sounds of the football game from the TV.  There'll be my daughters and a daughter-in-law bustling around the kitchen with me, recalling kitchen secrets from grandmas long gone, sharing a dish towel and our love for each other and our hopes and concerns for those we will soon feed.   

Tomorrow, while Greg and I enjoy our quiet Thanksgiving together, I plan to imagine scenes like this stretching out across the continent.  I'll see smiling families and friends coming together with huge hugs, gathering to celebrate their love and gratitude for each other and their lives. How dear it is that for one warm and golden afternoon, we can all forget our worries of economies, environments and wars (in all their varieties) and instead think only of gratitude, God and family.  The gatherings may be smaller, but the joyous memories of Thanksgivings past--or dreams of Thanksgivings longed for--will be large and warm and comforting.  May tomorrow's Thanksgiving be all you hope for it to be.