I Was Wrong. . .

I said it to more than one person. . . “The holiday’s are going to suck.”  “I’d rather just skip this season.”  “Can I just stay home?”  “I can’t do this!!”

I was afraid.  I was afraid it wouldn’t be like it used to be.  I was afraid I couldn’t make the meal like she did. I was afraid the gravy would be runny, the dressing would be flavorless, and the turkey would be dry.   Ultimately, I was afraid to face the pain.  The pain that strikes my heart with the same intensity that a hammer strikes a nail.  The pain that is unavoidable as we adjust to her absence.

I sit here now in my childhood home.  The children and most of the adults are sleeping.  The scent of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner lingers in the air.  I hear the hum of the television in the next room and my sister sits next to me as we enjoy a comfortable silence.  In this moment I see it clearly.  I was wrong.

The holiday’s aren’t going to suck.  I don’t want to skip this season.  I don’t want to stay home.  And I can do this. 

We did do it.  We had a good day.

You want a turkey dinner with all the fixin’s, you say?  Your wish is my command. . . I hope perfection is what you want, because that is all we had.  From the turkey to the gravy and from the potatoes to the dressing. . .we got it done. 

Piece by piece it came together.  Our hearts pounded with nervousness as we approached the final and most challenging part:  The gravy.  As we stirred, poured, and assessed, my sister and I watched as our gravy became “just like Mom’s” right before our very eyes.  High fives were slapped, hugs were exchanged, and a simultaneous sigh of relief was taken by all.  We had done it. . . and we had fun doing it.

It was somewhere between the mashing of the potatoes and the slapping of the high fives, though, that I remembered. . . it’s not about the food.  I looked around at my precious little family and listened to the laughter of little one’s all around.  I watched some doze in and out of sleepiness while others sat and played games.  I heard silly jokes exchanged and conversations the flitted from the topic of life direction to queries about tomorrows weather and I was reminded. . . I am blessed.

I laugh at myself and the fretting I have been doing for weeks. I realize I wasn’t built to sit in the fear or the sorrow.  Call it my upbringing. . . call it my makeup. . . or call it denial. . . I can’t stop the thankfulness from welling up. . . even in the presence of sorrow. 

Were tears shed today?  Oh yes, there were.  As we sat down at the table Chad presented the family with a small box filled with roses from my Mom’s funeral.  The roses were inconspicuously gathered, preserved, and lovingly pieced together into a memorial by my wonderful mother-in-law.  Roses to represent all of us that loved my Mom so dearly drew our attention not only to our loss. . . but to our love of this woman who gave so much to each of us. 

It is hard to remember. . . but it is good to remember.

Yes, we had a good day.  Not because everything turned out so well, but simply because we were together.  This crazy, unique, and silly bunch of people makes my heart swell with thankfulness.  It is in the midst of these people when I feel that my own strength is trippled and I am certain that I can make it through anything. . .