In Every Thing, Give Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving to loved ones and readers near and far. Here’s a story from some time ago. May it be a blessing to you:

“Oy es taansgeeveen dei, verdad?” asks a man in the Cholula market. It takes me several tries before I recognize what he is asking me: “It’s Thanksgiving Day, right?”

I am 19, an American studying abroad at the University of the Americas in Puebla, Mexico, living in the small town of Cholula. I have come to buy groceries for the impromptu Thanksgiving meal my roommate and I will prepare for about eight students, fellow Americans far away from home for this distinctly American holiday.

I am surprised and taken aback by this man’s awareness and acknowledgement of a holiday that is not his own. In this moment, surrounded by his words of welcome I don’t feel like a foreigner. I feel known and deeply seen. It isn’t until years later that I pause to reflect on the depth of meaning in his greeting, and wonder what I might do to offer a similar welcome to the foreigners living in my midst. For this memory, I give thanks.

Fast forward thirty years. For nearly twenty years now, our family tradition has been to join with other members of our faith community and serve a traditional Thanksgiving dinner at a shelter in Minneapolis.  This shared meal truly marks the highlight of my holiday season.

This year is different, however.  In a story with a twist, this November Thursday finds me in Rome. Alone. On Thanksgiving.

I have come to visit two of my children who are studying a semester abroad, and due to a transatlantic email miscommunication, my son has left Rome for a weekend in Barcelona with friends a day and a half before my daughter is scheduled to arrive from France, leaving me alone in Italy for the holiday.

I am trying to take it all in stride, but the truth is, introvert that I am, I don’t do so well when I’m truly alone. Let alone in a foreign country. On my favorite holiday.

I bravely say goodbye to my son on Wednesday, and take the tram back to the AirBnB apartment he has found for me. My touchstones are all gone, and I’m struggling to stay positive and not get sucked into the useless and most unpleasant self-pity vortex. That thing pulls in one direction only, and it sucks hard.

Thanksgiving dawns and I decide to make the best of it by attempting to create a modified Thanksgiving dinner for my daughter. Her flight doesn’t arrive until 10:30 pm, but, no matter, we can celebrate on Friday. I take myself to a local park, and watch the families with children and older couples. The weather is balmy and delightful, much nicer than the Minnesota weather I left behind. For this, I give thanks.

With my heart in my mouth, I go grocery shopping.  I emerge from the grocery store an hour later, no cultural or linguistic mishaps to my credit, with what promises to be the makings of a small Thanksgiving feast.

At “home” again, I whip up the pumpkin bread mix that I have brought from the States for my pumpkin-loving daughter. I open the oven door to get it started, and, much to my surprise, find a washing machine where the oven should have been. Well, ok then. No matter. I guess I’ll try and fix it on the stovetop. After scouring the apartment kitchen, I manage to jimmy rig a double boiler. 

My second attempt at pumpkin bread also fails, as I can’t light the gas stove. There isn’t a match or lighter to be found in the entire apartment. I know— I’ve looked. Twice. I am getting a little frustrated, but am bound and determined to create Thanksgiving, no matter what. So the next step involves procuring matches.  I slave over my Italian dictionary and verb book for half an hour until I come up with two sentences that I hope will work: “I need matches. I’m trying to cook.” I’m adding the second sentence to clarify my intentions, lest I unwittingly, in my unschooled Italian, manage to say something like: “I need you to light my fire” by mistake. It is another language, after all, and, well, you never know.

Mercifully, the landlord comes home just as I am leaving to procure matches, and since he has good English, there is no misunderstanding about what I need. He provides me with matches, and I am finally in business. For this, I give thanks.

I cook the pumpkin bread/pudding for several hours. It is not yet done, but it is time for me to head to the airport to pick up my daughter, so I turn it off to finish it later.

My daughter and I are both nervous about this airport rendezvous, not having phones that will communicate with each other, or with anyone else, for that matter.  My daughter is coming from France, multiple bus, train, and airplane flights away. I have given her the address of my Rome apartment as a back-up plan, but this is small comfort, since my Roman taxi driver had great difficulty finding it even with his GPS.

I am grateful that my son, before his departure to Barcelona, took time to orient me to Termini, the local bus station, as well as which bus company would take me to the correct of two airports. For this, too, I give thanks.

I walk several blocks to the train station and take the train to Termini, find my way to the correct bus, which will, hopefully take me to the correct airport. I have given myself several extra hours in case anything goes wrong and I need to backtrack. Mercifully, everything does not go wrong. Everything, in fact, goes right. After a long and boring wait in the airport waiting room, I see Erin’s anxious face appear alongside those of other arriving passengers. I catch her eye and we let out a collective sigh of relief. As soon as I reach her, we have a tear-filled reunion;  it’s hard to say which of us is crying more. We link arms and head out to find a taxi. No matter if it gets lost—we’ve found each other, and that’s all that matters. All’s well that ends well—and for this, I give thanks.

Oh–and the pumpkin bread wasn’t half bad.

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A Favor to Ask — Please Share

Dear Readers,

This month marks the tenth anniversary of Reluctant Methodist Mystic. It was born out of my desire to chronicle and share a trip to Europe to visit two of my children, and it has since morphed into something else entirely. It was on that European trip that I uncovered my desire to be a writer. This blog is where I practice writing.

I am delighted to let you know that I am in the beginning stages of collecting these essays to make a book. And here is where I need your help. Most publishers now require their authors to have their own followers/fan base before they will agree to publish a book. I need you to help me spread the word to a wider audience.

Please select one or two of your favorite essays (see some of my favorites below) and send to 3-5 of your friends, inviting them to follow the blog, and ask their friends to do the same. (Not to hit “Like” on FB, but to actually click the “Follow” button on the blog).

If you have enjoyed any of these writings, I ask that you would take a few minutes to spread the love.

Appreciatively,

Cynthia

Some of my favorites:

Everything’s Kosher, Except the Ham

Two Hands Full of Dust

How Not to Commit Suicide

Bearing Witness

The Foot Soldier

Ancestors Barely Yawn*

Ancestors barely yawn, and the wind howls so loud that I can hardly hear my own thoughts. I wonder if the dead howl. I know we certainly howl in their absence, the great rending of death tearing a gaping hole in our hearts. And then we tend to the mending.

Ancestors barely yawn. Perhaps in heaven or the afterlife there is no sleep? Sounds exhausting. But if one doesn’t have a body, perhaps sleep is not necessary.

Ancestors barely yawn, and so many cultures honor their ancestors, Asian cultures in particular, as well as Mexican. Many Americans rarely give their ancestors a passing glance, so pressed forward into the future. I think of Disney’s Mulan who comes to her ancestors for guidance before heading out on her epic journey. In this story the ancestors have their own building even! Mexican ofrendas –offerings, or altars, tend to include tasty food and often alcoholic beverages to lure loved ones back, if only for a time, in that liminal space that joins our world with the next.

Ancestors barely yawn, and I read a book this year called I Think I Like You Better Dead, the story of the relationship between a sister and brother that is carried on on both sides of the veil, she in the land of the living, he, passed on to what is next. This brought to the fore a renewed curiosity and many unanswered questions.

Ancestors barely yawn, and I saw a psychic this year to get in touch with my grandmother. It was fun to have a conversation with her as an adult; though her body is no longer intact, her wit and humor live on. Which makes me wonder about our personality and how that may continue in the afterlife.

Ancestors barely yawn, and the wind still howls and I think that this is a good day to be indoors with the roof over our heads. I think of those huddled under bridges, exposed to the elements. Or of the night some forty years ago, when returning with friends from a night of dancing, we came upon two children sleeping on the sidewalk, the older one tenderly adjusting a piece of cardboard over his baby brother, proof that tenderness can be greater than poverty.

Ancestors never yawn, and I wonder if our ancestors cover us with prayers, or blankets, or good intentions.

*Inspired by Alice Walker in https://alicewalkersgarden.com/2015/09/ancestors-never-sleep/

Fiercest Love

The fiercest love I know is my love for my children. Other loves pale in comparison. The ferocity of this love frightened me at first; me, a wallflower milquetoast kind of guy. I knew not from whence it came, this proverbial mama bear unfurling herself in my chest, ready to pounce at the slightest hint that one of my children was in danger. In the early years, this took the guise of standing up for my kids and making sure that anyone who messed with them was duly chastised. It wasn’t until some years later, inspired by other friends’ examples, that I came to understand that my job was to equip my children with the skills they needed for interpersonal relations, not step in to solve their problems.

Similarly, I learned not to try to protect my children from cruel realities of the world, though I desperately wanted to shield them from such pain, protect their innocence for as long as possible. I ultimately came to believe that, once again, my job was to equip my children to acknowledge and capably face any situation they might encounter, ready to stand firm in their convictions and flex when necessary.

And then, yes, the lettings go: The positive pregnancy test. I wasn’t ready, but they were. The “Mom, I’m trans” : I wasn’t ready, but he was. The 1,000+ mile drive to New York City, the dorm room with iron bars because NYU had the highest rate of suicide in the country, a fact I learned when it was too late to make another choice. The outsized cost of living there. The standing on the sidewalk with eyes full of tears, my son teasing me gently “silly Mom, do you think if you look up, you won’t cry?” The driving blindly and lost through Chinatown and through the tunnel, leaving my boy behind, glancing over my shoulder to see Lady Liberty raising her torch in the harbor, imploring her to watch over my son in my absence, to shine her light brightly and illuminate my his path .