Sunday, November 27, 2011

A Rejoicing

This was mostly written the day before Thanksgiving, but someone threw up before I could finish.  I haven't had a long minute in front of the computer since.  I'm going to post it anyway.



This is the day which the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24

It was Wednesday.  I was making stuffing for our Thanksgiving feast.  It was snowing.  My two year old was rearranging our velcro calendar so the fourth Thursday of the month would never come this year.  He stuck a velcro sunshine on the current day, and a rain cloud where the date should be.   He had buttery fingers from his bagel.  Now all of November was buttery too.

I am thankful for butter and two year olds.  How can I not be?  On the first Thanksgiving, they probably didn't have butter, and half of the 101 who arrived the previous year on the Mayflower had died over the first harsh winter.  So they wouldn't have had many two year olds either.  Maybe none.  Cold, hunger, sickness, lack of basic necessities had wracked the small community.  Still they had a feast of thankfulness.  In one book I read, I think they called it a Rejoicing.

Over ninety Wampanoag locals came, their chief Massasoit leading them.  They came to the Pilgrim's settlement where their relatives once had a village of their own.  Plague had wiped out so many of them, they had vacated the area before the Europeans arrived.  Still they came to feast with the newcomers.  Harvest time feasts had been celebrated for hundreds of years in their culture.  They thanked their Creator for their provisions - long before they even knew His name.

I couldn't find my counters underneath the food preparations being prepared for Nana's house the next day.  One of the four children whined that he didn't like what we were having for lunch.  Another spat and threw his off the highchair.  I squashed a piece of pear under my foot and sighed.  Nap time couldn't come soon enough; I had so much to do and it was difficult with so many little hands to help.  My little blessings.  Baby's nose was gooey.  He smushed a pear slice in his hair and whimpered to be held.  Little sticky hands reached for me.  I don't care about your apple pie, Mommy.  I just want you.

Did you know the first book printed in America was a Bible?  It was also the first book in the Wampanoag language.  John Eliot translated it thirty years after the Pilgrims came to new Plymouth.
Within a generation, there were so many European transplants that the local way of life was no longer sustainable.  The native Americans were at war with the new Americans.  A decisive victory led to another thanksgiving feast in Plymouth when the new leader, Massasoit's son, was killed and his followers subdued.  Momentous events that defined their future.  My history.

The two older boys were playing roll the hubbard squash across the floor.  A friend called.  Her little son needs surgery on Monday because his bladder doesn't work.  He's already had heart surgery as an infant and lives with Down Syndrome.  She called to encourage me about the surgeon her son and mine share.  We didn't talk about the pain we have to watch them go through, or how our momma hearts hurt for them.  We say, "I'm so glad they're finding answers.  So good to know he can eat pie with you tomorrow.  Thank you for catching up with me."  And mean it.  It is good.  I watched boys' clothes shed sprinkles from the cookies we had just frosted in the kitchen.  I needed to vacuum.  We hang up.  Our lives are not how we planned them.  This is not how they could be.  But God is in control.   I will rejoice with you.

For a while, I left my kitchen to stew in its own mess.  It was bedtime.  They boys splashed happily in the bathtub which desperately needed a scrubbing.  I vacuumed their room while they were indisposed.  The carpet looked blue-er after several passes. Ben kept rolling across their floor, getting stuck in the corner and needing to be rescued.  Everyone wore fuzzy pajamas that night, the snow made us feel cozy inside.  We read books while I nursed Ben on the couch.  The boys snuggled extra close because the couch is broken and sagging in the middle.  They got to bed and fell asleep immediately.  So sweet.  I kept ignoring the kitchen and went out to shovel a path to our doorway before my cousin dropped by en route to her relatives.  It was so nice to see her, if only for a few minutes.  Don't look at my kitchen, I tell her.  "We can't buy that new place." She sighed sadly.  "We can't move yet."  She gave me a hug was was gone.

I don't know what the future holds.  I know there will be pain and hardship, loss and tears.  But I had a buttery calendar because of my two year old.  Worth it.  I had sprinkles in my hair and a dented squash because of my four year old and five year old.  Worth it.  I had snot all over my shirt from my baby son.  Worth it.  My kitchen was a mess because I hung out on the phone.  Worth it.  My arms were tired because I shoveled so my cousin could come inside for a moment.  Worth it.  I have a homeland, long forgotten relatives, memorable traditions, and Bibles printed in my own country through the great sacrifices of those before me.  Worth it?  May I never take it lightly.  Rejoice with me.

1 comment:

  1. A friend pointed me to your blog. I really enjoyed this post. I'm not sure how you find the time to write, but it's worth it. Keep it up. :)

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