Where Thanksgiving Went

Advent outside, candle poised,
wrecked  by beer and scandalous boys. I was so angry.

As far as Moral Inventories go, when I feel misunderstood, the pegs of sanity wobble, and my whole world comes crashing down.  For years I've confessed my tirades, made my amends, prayed to become this New Creation the Bible talks about, but God, either because He likes my angry self, or because He hasn't chosen/saved me yet - not sure which - has not seen fit to answer my prayer to become a composed, gracious, genteel, positive, "sweet" Christian.

And so I remain: floating inside a soundproof bubble whenever "hardship is not as I would have it" ( thank you, CelebrateRecovery, for this new vocabulary). For safety's sake, I determine to stay isolated from people as much as possible, lest I do or say some unfathomably wrong thing that can never be amended away, especially now that I recognize that pastor abuse has taken place in my church: a staff who measure people by what they can do rather than by who they are in Christ... or, who they might someday become by the grace of God, Amen, PthhPthh (<-- that Jewish thing Barbara Streisand does in Yentl).

It's a dangerously shunning place for those of us who struggle, yet DH has deemed that we must stay, enduring their dysfunction until we somehow, finally "arrive".  

I pass the struggle down,

so, the poor kids have learned to ignore me; and neighbors know --when they see my offspring getting hammered in public (like last night on the driveway, mouths taut & checked out while I chop'd the air and pointed my finger) that it's gonna be good, and so - I imagine - their windows fly open, ears craned.  

The kids were headed to the "Xmas" TreeLot without having first met DH's budget requirements.  (Childish idealism collides with adult realities once a-gain.)

But, this isn't about that.  

What about Advent? What about That Thanksgiving Gaffe?  It had all been piling up in my overheated little psyche. . .


Those TURKEYS!
I thought it was understood by my weird family that Thanksgiving was sacrosanct.  Holy. The most important holiday of the year. Well, next to the fourth of July.  This has and ever will be one of my most cherished convictions, & every year I put a flourish on it when I wish out loud for Christmas to just GO AWAY.

We've included some beautiful hymns to our celebrations down thru the years that take the spotlight off the food for just a minute, and shines it where it belongs: on the LORD of the Feast, the Giver of life, the Comforter of the Pilgrims at Plymouth. JUST for a MIN-UTE block of time, we'd pause.

Add to this sentiment, the fact that my kids can sing. Oh! How they sing.  Their blended voices produce this 'harmonic' that, like David singing to Saul of old, can soothe me out of any ill temper and restore order and sanity to my disordered heart.

So, will they, I asked, offer our most recent Family Gathering of thirty aunts, uncles, cousins and an ailing grandmother, some tiny gesture of harmonic resplendence?

No.

Something about "no one asked them."  I don't count, you see, because I am the mom.

It's not that they're shy, or unused to performing.  They're just infected with the myopic perceptions common to all those raised in dysfunction:  it was false humility. An immaturity.

Poor blokes. So disabled. 

On this count, so abundantly bereft of grace, I must take blame. The acorn falls not far from the tree.

And poor gathered TurkeyDay diners, deprived of a few brief moments of reverie and Spirit filled re-ordering of priorities... a prayer, at best, or a mouthful-plus-two chews of needed entertainment, at worst.  My TV-less children must not know that diners crave entertainment. They do not perceive that people gathered once a year in a Grandmother's three-car-garage at rented tables with space heaters and lit candles, NEED a diversion from stale, predictable, shallow conversation.  ANYTHING BUT the droning hum of space heaters is welcomed. 

WE ARE AN ENTERTAINMENT CULTURE. PEOPLE DEPRIVED OF THEIR TV'S FOR FIVE HOURS ARE HUNGRY FOR ANYTHING, be it a juggling act or a circus clown.  Or three offspring with a Thanksgiving hymn to offer up in the Spirit of the Day.

The disappointment has yet to wear off, tho it's been two weeks.  And to make matters worse, on our second Advent observance, i actually heard the man in charge say these words when I complained that I didn't get the import of his reading: "What do you want? We sang the hymn, we read the passage and we prayed the prayer. What more do you want???"

O h  d e a r  G o d.
Just take me away.