Thanksgiving Story

L.L. Barkat of Seedlings In Stone has shown her kindness by inviting me to participate in a little cyber-style Thanksgiving celebration. And I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I extended that same invitation to you. Please go here for more details.

Write something Thanksgivingish, she said. Sure thing. I've always loved Thanksgiving. I have many wonderful memories of many wonderful celebrations. One, however, does stand out.

My sixteenth Thanksgiving meal was the first one eaten without my family. Also my last. Because I learned my lesson.

My girlfriend’s family was planning the mother of all Thanksgivings dinners. Everything was to be meticulously planned and prepared, overseen by the family matriarch. Meals would come in four courses and include fancy table settings, crystal glasses, and food I couldn’t pronounce. Relatives far and wide were invited and on their way, many of whom hadn’t been seen or heard from in years. Even a new dining room table had been purchased to accommodate everyone. “A real shindig,” my girlfriend told me. “Can you come?”

Yes. For two reasons: It was the boyfriend thing to do, and her family was what I referred to as Important People. Successful and powerful and rich. They drove Mercedes and wore J. Crew and talked about the stock market a lot. They were, in essence, both everything my own family was not and everything I wanted to become.

I had no reservations about going because I wasn’t likely to miss anything at home. The Coffey version of celebrating Thanksgiving involved little more than a turkey, some stuffing, and my own relatives gathered around the table. People who drove trucks and wore Wal-Mart and talked about football. Not that there wasn’t anything wrong with that. I just thought that maybe it was time I broadened my horizons and saw how the other half lived.

So I went. And my girlfriend was right, it was quite the swanky affair. Fancy people arriving in fancy cars to eat fancy food. You would think all of that would translate into a fancy time. But then again, sometimes things get lost in translation.

For one, I soon learned that all the wealth and power my girlfriend’s family accumulated had resulted in some bad feelings. Some were jealous of others, others were angry at some, and it seemed as though all had something against somebody. The meal, tastefully prepared, was given without prayer. And the table that was bought specifically to bring so many people together didn’t. Squabbles broke out. Arrogance was displayed. Pettiness was front and center. And before long my girlfriend’s mother had jumped up from her seat and ran off, proclaiming through her tears that “I should have never done this!”

I sat there, lost in wonder at the sight of such a tragedy. Here were people who had worked hard and labored much to enjoy the fruits of their success, only to find that they had lost one another and a bit of perspective in the process.

"Life is a beach." So said my girlfriend, and often. And it seemed to me as though her relatives had lived up to that philosophy. They had staked their claim of the shoreline and built their castles, marveled and worshipped them, and forgot that it was all just sand.

This was having it all? Then I'd rather have none of it. The good life didn't look so good to me. So I did the only thing I could. I left. Quietly and politely.

I went back home, back to the plain food served on the plain kitchen table to my plain relatives. Back to a place where the bonds of God and family held true, not merely for one day a year, but for every one of them. And it was the best Thanksgiving meal I ever had. The best Thanksgiving period. Because that was when I learned not only to be thankful for what I had, but for what I didn’t.