Give of yourself at Thanksgiving
Slamming car doors precede the ringing of the doorbell. With a loud bark, Bruno races to the door, his nails clicking on the polished entryway floor. "Honey, can you get that?" Cybil calls to her husband. Happy voices lift in greeting. Coats and hats are hung in the closet, purses laid on the hostess' bed. Visitors disperse; women, trailing whiffs of perfume, follow the sound of clattering dishes to the kitchen, men clomp to the den where a football game blares on the big screen TV. The elderly gather in the living room to pass around pictures and talk loudly about grandchildren, golfing and garden clubs.Scented candles burn brightly amidst the harvest display on the dining room table. Silver and crystal gleam on starched linen. On the antique buffet, pumpkin and pecan pies nestle next to a fabulous three dimensional cake in the shape of a turkey, complete with tail feathers and wattle in colored icing. Children, teasing and laughing race around the house until they are corralled to carry trays of hors d'oeuvres to the guests.Dinner is served. The men groan, "Can't you wait until halftime?" The turkey, golden brown, awaits carving. Bowls and platters, piled high with steaming vegetables and colorful relishes fill every nook and cranny on the table. Wine is poured, everyone is seated. Cybil preens amid complements on the beautifully set table, the elaborate meal. "Oh, this is nothing," she says, "Wait until next year." Everyone laughs.
Across town, in an overheated inner city gym, the smell of unwashed bodies and Pinesol soon overpowers the aroma of roasted turkey. People form a ragged line from the door to the steam tables. Church volunteers stand sentry over aluminum trays, spoons at the ready. A scuffle at the door. Heads turn. A woman wails outside as the doors are closed. "Please" she sobs, "I'm so hungry, please let me in!" A thin man in a bleach stained purple sweatshirt steps out of line and walks back to the door. He hands the volunteer his red ticket. "Give her my place," he says, "I can wait until the next seating." "Bless you" she whispers as she scurries inside.The line moves slowly as people fill their trays, dragging and shoving their belongings with them. Most of them are regulars here, they know each other from days, months, even years of repeating this ritual three times a day. For them, Thanksgiving is just another day.Sam leans heavily on his mahogany cane and waves Sarah, a pregnant teenager, into line ahead of him with a gnarled hand. She places his plate on her tray and they find two seats together. "What a sweet girl you are, Sarah" he says. "My wife, Irene, would have liked you. She never would have turned you out on the street." Sarah knows Sam's story as well. He sold his car and his house after his wife died, to help his kids. In return, they let him. He thought he would live with one of them, now he wanders the streets. He never forgets to take off his hat at the door.Joe roughly shoulders his way to the front of the line. He pays no attention to the shouts and his glare stops the intervening volunteer in his tracks. He snatches up his overloaded tray and retreats to the farthest table, nervously watching the door. All he had wanted was money. He wondered if the clerk had survived.Jennifer eats with her head down, making no eye contact. Her ragged navy blue suit is the only reminder of her career as bank executive. The very drugs that helped her deal with the stress of a high pressure job, a huge mortgage and keeping up appearances, robbed her of the life she once knew.One by one, they shuffle through the line, angry, crippled, resigned. They sit crowded together, unlikely tablemates, sharing the plate of homelessness. They are thankful for the food, but even more so for the familiarity of the faces around them. They are not alone. Though their circumstances are dire, hope is ever present as they think,'Maybe tomorrow.'This year, will you give thanks for serving an elaborate meal to others or will you give thanks for the decision to give of yourself for others?Happy Thanksgiving.
