Canadian Thanksgiving

The warmth of the kitchen is tingling my toes. The tinkling of knives knocking on wood, voices bouncing off the pots and pans strewn every-which-where comes through the door, quickly absorbed into the beating of my happy heart.  It’s Canadian Thanksgiving.

We gather around the table in Apt. 8, just barely big enough for all eleven. But this is family, and everyone, elbows and shoulders – all mashed and mismatched – squeeze together. The table is set, Trevor strumming quietly in the background, and all of our hungry faces illuminated by the gold of the candlelight. It’s a Canadian holiday but we’ve adopted the Romanian tradition of courses – four to be exact: appetizers, entrée, first dessert and second dessert. It’s a good idea.

We lift our glasses – the tinkering of goblets and repurposed canning jars – as we toast to gratitude, sisterhood and this place. Narouc! Good health! Kadie stands to read a chapter from Cold Tangerines, words strung together like pearls, each a reminder to hold the moment at the moment. I reach for Dana’s hand as the candlelight flickers, holding in my sniffles until I can hear them out loud. I look over and she is too. I reach for Sammy’s next to me and watch as word by word, hand by silhouetted hand, we hold the moment warm and close.

We sit in silence a moment, the kind of silence that fills a room with security. The kind of silence that makes you breathe easier, even if just for that moment. We take turns, words of thanks free-flowing as they come. I hear my sisters say they are thankful for the snow on the mountaintops. The beauty of creation and the beauty of being created. The freedom of belovedness. They are grateful for the hard work of the growing season and the freedom that comes with the harvest season.

My words come out unexpected and true. “I’m thankful for my momma,” I say, a swelling in my heart, “who sends me emails of words about home and God. And who keeps sending me emails, knowing I need them, even when I don’t yet have words to send back.” And Dana squeezes my hand tighter, and I cry, knowing my words are straight and true.

We finish, looking at one another with half smiles and full hearts. “Can we sing the doxology?”, I hear myself say. Kadie nods and the rooms fills with harmonies that are made sweeter with the passing of another season of hard work and the coming of a new.

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow…” Amen.