Where have all the forks gone?
It’s less than one week until Thanksgiving; I am thinking about the table. There’s something distinctly beautiful about a well-laid table. . . Sigh. . . maybe someday.
In my house roam female teenagers, LOTS of them. Our family has a collection of mismatched, cracked, and chipped dishes. Greg and I have been married almost 19 years; there are no original cereal bowls left. We are down from 12 to 4 salad forks, and we have 2 spoons not yet mauled by the garbage disposal. I am grateful to report I did not register for fine china. I hope my Mommaw’s silver is still in tact and wholly present but admit am a little afraid to look or count.
It’s just the truth. My littles can be careless and forgetful. Forks accidentally get thrown away. Spoons gravitate towards the disposal. Bowls break. It’s our modus operandi. We joke that our family’s reality show would be titled, “the Wackmons.”
But, we do have plates, and forks, and slightly dangerous yet functional spoons. There will be turkey AND ham AND all the trimmings over the holiday. We will be, I pray, tucked in to the hearth we call home, safe and secure. I pray, too, we will be ever aware of our many blessings.
There will be those who have Thanksgiving alone, or lonely. There will be those who partake of the bounty in fear and dread over when will come the next cruel word or harsh slap. There will be those in hospitals and other institutions. There will be those missed dearly, and there will be those dear ones doing the missing. There will be those who have no Thanksgiving at all. Just thinking about the pain is nearly unbearable.
How to reconcile the abundance in the face of all this pain? And how many among the abundant suffer in abject poverty of spirit? Poverty is all around in one form or another. Pretending or ignoring doesn’t make it any less real; the reconciling is complicated and tough and important. I can, and do, weep over those who are suffering or hungry, or lonely. I am simultaneously grateful for the gifts of my own situation and family. And, I am learning to live with the tension.
. . .
Laura St. Fleur is one my favorite patients in Les Anglais, Haiti. She is old; how old, I do not know. Nearly blind from cataracts and pterygia, she is feisty as all, but her chairs have all been stolen. She doesn’t like to venture from home. So, at some point during every trip, I make a house call. We sing and dance every time as tears stream down both of our faces, both of us overjoyed at not being forgotten. Laura and her caregiver let us know how they appreciate the assistance Harvest Field Ministries provides with food, and they complain, loudly, about the dearth of meat (they receive fish and black beans) and juice. I cherish that Laura is healthy and well-fed enough to complain.
Most of my friends and loved ones in Haiti live differently from most of us in the United States. Different does not make either way of life better or worse; different acknowledges each. I am learning to live with the tension.
. . .
I turn 49 years old two days before Thanksgiving, and I am so grateful for my life in all its abundance and chaos. My happy place is a porch on Pawleys Island or the back of a white pick up truck somewhere on National Highway #2 in Ayiti Cheri. My family are my heart, and I live a split-hearted life between Knoxville and Les Anglais. Some days this works better than others. I am learning to be gentle with myself more often and to stand stronger as well, when needed. I am learning to live with the tension.
