THANKSGIVING

I've always found Thanksgiving a strange holiday. What, exactly, are we giving thanks for? There's the usual party line, that we're re-creating the original Thanksgiving Day meal of the Pilgrims and giving thanks to some Creator for the privilege of life. But we don't really eat what they ate - turkey was not on the table, for one thing, and the fare, while abundant, was fairly simple. And we certainly don't eat the meal with the same sense of blessed relief the Pilgrims did, having suffered tortuous weather, disease, and failure from almost the moment they set foot on shore. We usually try to see if we can cram in that last soupon of potato or pie, and then take a nap.

And thanking the Creator - think about that for a moment. When we thank someone, we thank them for *something*, a gift of some sort, and a gift that acknowledges the essence of who we are. What sorts of gifts has the Creator given us? Disease, tornadoes, mosquitoes, parasites, not to mention the ills created by our active imaginations, like soft ice cream and television. These aren't gifts. Far too often they become penances, and if a gift reveals the intentions of the giftgiver, then our Creator has a rather low opinion of his creation. It's meaningless to give thanks to a Creator who never consulted with us about how we wanted to be created, or whether we wanted to be created at all.

What is it, then, that we should be giving thanks to? In 1938, Wilbur Cross, governor of Connecticut, wrote a tribute to Thanksgiving in the New York Times. In a somewhat gushing style, he wrote that we should give thanks for "the harvest of earth, the yield of patient mind and faithful hand, that have kept us fed and clothed and have made for us a shelter even against the storm." I like these words because they implicitly tell us that we should be giving thanks to everyone and every thing who has made it possible to render our lives on this earth. To be sure, there is enough hatred, disappointment, and anger to go around for what parents didn't do and what lovers didn't do and what life itself has failed to deliver, enough sometimes to make us believe that being thankful is a fool's errand. But all that "realism" is usually the work of 364 days of the year. On this day it would be worth it to give time to remembering what and who has made things possible rather than impossible, passable rather than impassable. Look at the faces of the family around the table or listen closely to the voice on the phone or even give a moment to the car that ferries you around, usually with only minimal maintenance, and find that point of light that is the gift from that source. Then give thanks, and that will keep us clothed and fed for another year, keep the storm from our houses.

Learn more about this author, Michael Bettencourt.
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