This reflection on Thanksgiving began in an entirely different, and
darker, direction. What I had on my mind was what it meant to be
thankful in a world as deeply troubled as ours is and in which blessings
seem so unevenly distributed. It was with that theme in mind that I
boarded the subway this morning, not terribly happy to be going to work
(which, believe it or not, is unusual for me) and dreading the commute
on this cold morning. It didn’t make me feel any better when I just
missed a B train and had to wait a long time on the next one.
When my train did come, however, I noticed my mood start to lift. The subways are not generally thought of as having a positive effect on one’s outlook on life. Perhaps that is because we’re not paying attention.
When my train did come, however, I noticed my mood start to lift. The subways are not generally thought of as having a positive effect on one’s outlook on life. Perhaps that is because we’re not paying attention.
Across from me were a young boy, perhaps 7, and his grandmother. They
were completely caught up in each other. She was telling him a story
while holding his hand and stroking his hair from time to time. The
words were Chinese, but I could tell the basic plot line. The boy’s
brow would crinkle in puzzlement. Then his eyes would grow wide with
surprise. When the grandmother would imitate a mouse chewing on his
hand, he would laugh and his eyes would nearly close. It made me
smile. Thanksgiving.
A young mother and her baby in a stroller got on and sat opposite the boy and his grandmother. The baby was perhaps 6 months old. Very cute. He mostly watched his mother, and she never took her adoring eyes off him. Occasionally he would glance at other faces, once at mine. When he started to make a sound, the young mother, perhaps out of concern for the other passengers, reached for the pacifier. I admit I was a tad disappointed as the sound was sort of a cross between a gurgle and a coo. When she placed the pacifier in his mouth, she shot him a peace sign. That made me smile, too. Thanksgiving.
On weekday mornings in the tunnel where I change trains there is a man playing the accordion. He plays well, even if he does have a limited repertoire. He makes me smile. Thanksgiving.
It all made me think back and remember how my morning had actually begun, which is how it does every day. It is so regular that it is far too easy to take it for granted. I remembered walking out of the apartment, which I never do without Ginger reminding me that she loves me. This morning was no exception. And Annie wags her tail. More smiles. More thanks.
Then there is the man who hands out newspapers at the entrance to the station on 42nd Street. He always greets me with a big, wide smile, “Good morning, Pastor.” This morning I intended to greet him first by wishing him a happy Thanksgiving. He beat me to it. Then he followed me half-way to the street insisting that I give his own Thanksgiving greetings to my family. “Have a blessed day,” he concluded. “And a safe one.” It made me smile. Thanksgiving.
By this point I was seeing things differently. What had seemed a cold day now seemed fresh and crisp. I could feel the energy of New York City. Thanksgiving.
And at the end of the trip came yet another blessing—being able to walk into the Church Center and engage the tasks to which God has set me, tasks that challenge and delight me. It made me smile again. Thanksgiving.
I realize the problem with my first approach to reflecting on Thanksgiving is that I wasn’t really seeing what was really around me. Perhaps it is a problem of working at this level of the Church that it may be too easy to be distracted by the big picture and miss the small ones. Or maybe I just wasn’t really looking at all. So now I can be thankful that God opened my eyes this morning to see what is always there.
It makes me smile. And it makes me thankful.
A young mother and her baby in a stroller got on and sat opposite the boy and his grandmother. The baby was perhaps 6 months old. Very cute. He mostly watched his mother, and she never took her adoring eyes off him. Occasionally he would glance at other faces, once at mine. When he started to make a sound, the young mother, perhaps out of concern for the other passengers, reached for the pacifier. I admit I was a tad disappointed as the sound was sort of a cross between a gurgle and a coo. When she placed the pacifier in his mouth, she shot him a peace sign. That made me smile, too. Thanksgiving.
On weekday mornings in the tunnel where I change trains there is a man playing the accordion. He plays well, even if he does have a limited repertoire. He makes me smile. Thanksgiving.
It all made me think back and remember how my morning had actually begun, which is how it does every day. It is so regular that it is far too easy to take it for granted. I remembered walking out of the apartment, which I never do without Ginger reminding me that she loves me. This morning was no exception. And Annie wags her tail. More smiles. More thanks.
Then there is the man who hands out newspapers at the entrance to the station on 42nd Street. He always greets me with a big, wide smile, “Good morning, Pastor.” This morning I intended to greet him first by wishing him a happy Thanksgiving. He beat me to it. Then he followed me half-way to the street insisting that I give his own Thanksgiving greetings to my family. “Have a blessed day,” he concluded. “And a safe one.” It made me smile. Thanksgiving.
By this point I was seeing things differently. What had seemed a cold day now seemed fresh and crisp. I could feel the energy of New York City. Thanksgiving.
And at the end of the trip came yet another blessing—being able to walk into the Church Center and engage the tasks to which God has set me, tasks that challenge and delight me. It made me smile again. Thanksgiving.
I realize the problem with my first approach to reflecting on Thanksgiving is that I wasn’t really seeing what was really around me. Perhaps it is a problem of working at this level of the Church that it may be too easy to be distracted by the big picture and miss the small ones. Or maybe I just wasn’t really looking at all. So now I can be thankful that God opened my eyes this morning to see what is always there.
It makes me smile. And it makes me thankful.
Peace,
+Stacy
+Stacy
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