Unconditionally and Foreverby FootlooseThanksgiving. What was so special about it, anyway?
For me, it was a day where I was toted around in the big family van to my grandma’s house with my six sisters and eight brothers. We would eat dry turkey, bland ham, thin gravy, potato salad that desperately needed salt, rock hard rolls, five different cranberry pies- each from different people, all of whom expected you to like theirs the best, and, worst of all, peas. I didn’t get what the big deal with the peas was, anyway. Never once in my life had I read a history book that had noted the Pilgrims eating peas. Then, after the long, tedious meal, my grandmother would take me into the kitchen to wash every single dish we had used that day; I had given up years ago trying to tell her that we should just use paper plates.
After the dishes were done, we’d head into my grandma’s living room and talk. My siblings would talk in detail about their entire personal lives, my parents would speak about how proud they were of them, and all my grandparents, uncles, and aunts would join in. That was another thing- nobody paid attention to me. I was boring old Riley. I didn’t have the potential to become a famous athlete someday like Nick, Elliot, Ryan, and Lilly. I certainly wasn’t going to waltz on stage like a made up clown and act like I’m somebody that I’m not, as Joy, Leah, and Tyler did. My face sure wasn’t going to be smiling out at you from a magazine anytime soon like Alyssa’s, Madeline’s and Ashley’s. And I, most definitely was not talented in music whatsoever, much unlike Michael, Jesse, Cody and Sam.
It seemed that, with my relatives, you had to have
something to be included in the conversation. It was ridiculous. The whole thing was. I didn’t know why any of my family cared about the holiday, anyway. Yet, despite my moans every November, they all seemed to love it, and I honestly felt sometimes that they stayed as long as they did, at the Thanksgiving parties, just to prolong my suffering.
And yet, the dreaded holiday was rolling around again. We all bundled up in our warmest coats and headed to Grandma’s. We sat through the long meal, washed dishes, and were just about to sit down to talk when my great grandmother Rose called me to her chair. A little shocked, I stumbled over to her large armchair; I hadn’t really ever talked with her before. She motioned for me to sit down on the floor, and then lay back in her chair, eyes closed.
“Grandma Rose? You still there?”
I asked timidly. She nodded solemnly and slowly opened her eyes.
“Riley, I’ve noticed something different in you. Different than your siblings. You don’t seem to enjoy Thanksgiving as much as them.” I looked down and my shoe and started to play with the peeling rubber on it.
“I can tell that I’m correct,” Grandma Rose chuckled, “Why don’t you like it, Riley?” I sighed and looked up into her serious gray eyes. My grandma had to be at least ninety, and I still marveled at the fact that she could look so stern.
“It’s just that… There’s never seemed to be a point to it!” I finally let out. But to my surprise, Grandma Rose smiled.
“I can understand that, dear. I was the same way when I was around your age. What’s the point of taking the whole day to talk and eat? Right?” I nodded and went back to picking at my shoe.
“And I finally learned from my great grandmother that it’s not about what you’re doing, it’s what you’re thinking about. I know, the Pilgrims get a little old every once in a while. But that’s not the point! The point is that we’re thanking God for what He’s given us.”
“God?” I looked up, skeptically, “I’m not so sure I really trust Him anymore. It seems to me that if he was a good God, he would have prevented Grandpa from dying…” I trailed off as I started to choke. I looked up at Grandma Rose and saw that her eyes were clouded by a light mist of tears.
“You know, Riley, your Grandpa Rick is also my son. And I know full well how hard it is too lose someone you love. But that doesn’t mean that you can completely forget our Lord. God loves us unconditionally and forever. He never ceases. Just think about it.”
She patted me on the head lightly and settled back in her chair. I stood up slowly and huddled in a particularly quiet corner of my grandma’s living room. I thought carefully about what my great grandmother had said. Maybe she was right… Maybe there really was a point to Thanksgiving… Maybe God really did love me?
There was only one answer.
“God…” I whispered, hands clenched tightly together, eyes squeezed shut, “I know there must have been some good reason that Grandpa died, but it’s so hard! Please, God, if you’re there, will you just give me something so that I can know? Thanks… Amen.” I opened my eyes to see my five year old cousin, Sally, skip over to me.
“Riley! Will you play a game with me? Please? Please? Please!” I grinned at Sally as a warm wave of Thanksgiving-happiness swept over me.
“Sure,” I said, “And while we’re at it, how about I tell I tell you the real story of Thanksgiving?”
“Okay!” She responded, beaming as brightly as ever. And as we settled down to play a lively game of Go Fish, I started speaking to Sally about how God provided for the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving by giving them food to eat. How he loved them, and how he loves each and every one of us, too, unconditionally and forever.”
