Thanksgiving Gift
Share
Over the past month, I’ve been contemplating the turkey. Meditating on the bird has brought up memories of birds past.
Growing up with a house full of siblings, it seemed nearly everyone wanted the drumstick. To keep the younger ones happy, my dad turned his creative and surgical skills to the task of carving as many as eight “drumsticks” out of that overworked bird. As we caught on, we graduated to a slice of breast or thigh.
Every year a stuffed and perfectly roasted turkey magically arrived at our house early Thanksgiving morning. I never knew why until my father’s passing when a priest mentioned it at my dad’s funeral. The priest was a patient, and when I worked summers in my dad’s office, I dreaded his arrival. It meant that he and my dad would get into some theological argument that would throw the schedule off. In his eulogy, he talked about how annoying my dad could be, that my dad was stubborn and would never give in. I think that might have been a two-way street.
When he stood on the altar that day, he solved the mystery of that turkey. It turned out the housemother at the rectory where he lived wouldn’t give him any dessert if he complained about my dad. Not one word.
When my dad was a young intern, the housekeepers’ husband was dying. He wanted to die at home, surrounded by his family, in familiar surroundings. Back in those days, you couldn’t check yourself out of the hospital and they refused to release him without medical support. My dad offered to go home with him and stay until he passed. For three days, my dad never left his side and gave him the passing he wanted.
The turkey, the great symbol of gratitude, was her gift to him, to all of us, from that day forward, as long as she was able.
That story also explained why patients sat in the waiting room without complaint. It was because, I think, that in that time before insurance companies started dictating how long a doctor could spend with a patient, my father gave each person the time they needed. He was present. A great gift to give and to receive.
As our days grow shorter and our nights longer, we are called to contemplate. To metaphorically huddle together as we once did in caves. To participate in the ancient ritual sacrifice of the turkey, giving its life so that we may live. We are called to contemplate the act of giving and receiving.
Happy Thanksgiving to you. Wherever you are. However you spend the day.
Growing up with a house full of siblings, it seemed nearly everyone wanted the drumstick. To keep the younger ones happy, my dad turned his creative and surgical skills to the task of carving as many as eight “drumsticks” out of that overworked bird. As we caught on, we graduated to a slice of breast or thigh.
Every year a stuffed and perfectly roasted turkey magically arrived at our house early Thanksgiving morning. I never knew why until my father’s passing when a priest mentioned it at my dad’s funeral. The priest was a patient, and when I worked summers in my dad’s office, I dreaded his arrival. It meant that he and my dad would get into some theological argument that would throw the schedule off. In his eulogy, he talked about how annoying my dad could be, that my dad was stubborn and would never give in. I think that might have been a two-way street.
When he stood on the altar that day, he solved the mystery of that turkey. It turned out the housemother at the rectory where he lived wouldn’t give him any dessert if he complained about my dad. Not one word.
When my dad was a young intern, the housekeepers’ husband was dying. He wanted to die at home, surrounded by his family, in familiar surroundings. Back in those days, you couldn’t check yourself out of the hospital and they refused to release him without medical support. My dad offered to go home with him and stay until he passed. For three days, my dad never left his side and gave him the passing he wanted.
The turkey, the great symbol of gratitude, was her gift to him, to all of us, from that day forward, as long as she was able.
That story also explained why patients sat in the waiting room without complaint. It was because, I think, that in that time before insurance companies started dictating how long a doctor could spend with a patient, my father gave each person the time they needed. He was present. A great gift to give and to receive.
As our days grow shorter and our nights longer, we are called to contemplate. To metaphorically huddle together as we once did in caves. To participate in the ancient ritual sacrifice of the turkey, giving its life so that we may live. We are called to contemplate the act of giving and receiving.
Happy Thanksgiving to you. Wherever you are. However you spend the day.
