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| Norman Rockwell's American Icon: Thanksgiving |
Thanksgiving is just around the corner here in the US. It is a grand time of year, with low key family gatherings, lots of seasonal food, some time afield, and "Low Sunday" sorts of Church services. With the passing of Diocesan Convention this weekend, I am starting to gear up for the day. Next week, I will sit down for an extended lunch with my United Methodist and Roman Catholic colleagues and we will plan our ecumenical service for the year. There is not much planning involved besides determining who will preach, but it is a wonderful chance to renew friendships and let things run themselves, which is so much in keeping with the spirit of this holiday for so much of rural and suburban America.
This year is particularly satisfying for us because all of the family is here in Ohio again. Tristan will be home from University, and Ashley, Matthew, and the girls are just an hour away in Athens. Everyone is as safe as can be, and the joy of children's laughter rolls through the woods and across the fields as it did two decades ago. On Wednesday afternoon, Ashley brought the girls up for a visit. They immediately dived into the dress up bag and came out attired as fairy princesses, complete with tiarras and magic wands for "enchanting" any unfortunate dog, chicken, or horse they happened to encounter. Then it was "wellies on" and to the barn to feed apples to the equines and to determine what chickens they would take to their farm with them in the weeks and months to come. From there we wandered over the back pasture and into the woods to visit the old hunting cabin (a marvelous adventure when you are only three feet tall!) Back at the house, we piled into Grammy's garden wagon with "golden Jesus and picture Jesus" (only my grand-daughters are allowed to loot the family chapel with impunity) for a ride around and around and down the lane to collect the mail. Then, finally, we returned to the house for tea and a story before traveling for dinner to a local Albanian restaurant and then home to Athens.
Presidential politics and Ecclesial disputes seem so far away here at Briarwood. The clean air and the occasional smell of wood smoke seem to wash away the cares of the world. The love of family and the comfort of a faithful dog, the aroma of a newly groomed horse, and the crisp taste of homeade cider make the unrelenting realities of the broader world seem so remote, and clear my heart to concentrate on those things which are truly important: my God, my family, and giving thanks.
