Yang Girly Girl

Thanksgiving is over, but the message behind the holiday came home to me this year.  A while back, Thanksgiving became the holiday of food, football, and family drama.

It was the start of what I call self-inflicted flagellated slavery.  I shopped, I cooked, I tasted until my taste buds rebelled and all I wanted was some guy named Paulo to serve up a Mojito, laced with three different types of rum.  Ergo, the happy cook.  Anything that tasted like turkey, dressing, or sweet potatoes was off the list.

As the resident cook of turkey day, I stepped up to the plate.  Everyone ate in the span of twenty minutes, and I splayed myself on the couch like Jabba the Hut, without the pre-disposed notion of ransoming bikini clad princesses.  Boy, was I tired, and not a Mojito in sight.

I cook Thanksgiving dinner every year because my children demand it.  In their minds, I make the best turkey in the world, the best everything.  Folks, we all make the best Thanksgiving dinner around.  It’s not the food.  It’s the emotion it evokes when you smell it, taste it, and ultimately, feel bloated after it.

The smells, the cooking, the cacophony, is what reminds you where you came from.  It’s one of those things that can’t be captured in a Yankee Candle.  If they could, then you could light one, drink a couple of Coronas and you’re good to go.  No need for Billy Bob’s Colon Cleanse Bonanza, just so we can gear up for next year’s glutton gala.  I have no judgment.  I participate.  It is, after all, an American tradition.

While I thought I would spend the holiday whining about the usual…the cooking, the clean-up, the leftovers, “Should we make turkey nachos, or perhaps a turkey soufflé?”A 2 by 4 hit me across my head and brought me to my senses.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  Okay, I’ll finally admit that it’s not about the food, or the fact that I get praised as the best cook in the world, which I’m not.

Thanksgiving took on a new meaning this year….go figure.  I learned what all of you already know, but I need to share this, in case you forgot.

On Wednesday night, before Thanksgiving, my husband and I were at the airport to pick up our daughter and her boyfriend.  While waiting for her plane, we strolled past a young man counting his change as he picked up the receiver on a public phone.  He put the receiver back in its place without making a call. 

He looked like a typical 18 to 20 year old, cargo pants, camouflage jacket, a couple of duffel bags, and sneakers.   He looked like anyone’s son, brother, or nephew, except for one thing:  something was amiss in his eyes.

 “That kid is stranded,” I whispered to my husband.   “I just know it.”

I strolled to the end of the concourse to greet our daughter, while I watched my husband speak to the young man.  I couldn’t hear him, but I knew what he was saying. 

“Are you okay?  Do you need help?  Are you stranded?” my husband asked.

“Well, kind of.”  The young man replied.

He looked at my husband, who explained that we were there to pick up our daughter and her boyfriend.  The young man saw me, and relinquishing his trepidation, began to tell his story. 

He had flown to Seattle on a special fare ticket from Oklahoma after being invited to spend Thanksgiving with who he thought was “the girl.”  They had gone to High School together and over the last few months had established a relationship on the internet.  When he arrived, she told him that number one, she didn’t think he would actually show up, and that she had a boyfriend.

Bereft and broke, the young man rode a bus back to the airport, where he was determined to stay until Monday, when he could fly back home.  To change the ticket would cost more than $150.  His cell phone was dead, he had no charger, and no money.  It was the first time he had traveled anywhere outside his home town, and he was not about to ask anyone for help.  It was too scary.

Even if he called his parents, there were no flights out on Thanksgiving. 

Many thoughts went through our minds.  We could call his parents and have him stay in a hotel, but again, alone in a strange town.  We could give him a ride somewhere, but there was no place to go.  Or, we could invite him to sleep on our couch, share our Thanksgiving dinner, contact his parents and try to get him a flight out Friday after Thanksgiving.  We chose the latter. 

Once he was convinced that we weren’t Satanists or ax murderers, he accepted our offer and came home with us.

“Are you crazy????” my daughter asked.  “What if he’s lying, what if he’s a drug addict, what if he’s running from the police……..?”  and so on.

“I trust him.”  I replied.  “Don’t ask me why, I just do.”

He was unusually polite, kind, and self-effacing.  We didn’t pry, we didn’t ask.  We just shared our time, our table, and a movie.  After speaking to his parents, they bought a new ticket, and Friday after Thanksgiving, we put him on a plane.  We’ll probably never hear from him or see him again, but those things don’t matter.

Due to one random act of kindness, we’ll never be the same, and I’m sure our new friend won’t be either.

While it’s my propensity to whine about much ado about nothing, the real message of Thanksgiving is the simplest message of all.  Yes, it’s about giving thanks for our bounty, for our family and friends, and for our blessings.  Yes, we still have blessings, amid the economic crisis, amid the unemployment, amid the terrorist attacks on innocent people.  The blessings unfold little by little, day by day, during those six degrees of separation, when we, as humans, discover once again, why we’re here.  It’s what validates us.

But it’s more than that. It’s about what we do when we are given seconds to make a decision about how to change a person’s circumstance, or even their life.  We’ve had those opportunities, and often time, we let them go by due to discomfort, thoughts, or even fear.  In our case, we didn’t think, we didn’t fear, we simply acted.

For some moments during this Thanksgiving holiday, I was grateful that my children would travel to see me and demand that I use every pot and pan and dish in the kitchen to serve up the usual dinner that they could probably get anywhere.  I was grateful that we had a couch for our unexpected guest to sleep upon, and that he didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving on a cold vinyl chair in an airport thousands of miles from home.  I was grateful for my husband’s never-ending trust in people and the human spirit.  Indeed, I was grateful.

Those sayings that have since reached cliché status still hold substance for me.  “Random Acts of Kindness,” “Pay it Forward,” and “Count Your Blessings.” 

The only reason we were able to enact what Thanksgiving is all about is because somewhere, back in my life, someone has done the same for me.  I have many stories about how people’s compassion changed my life.  Here’s one of them.

In 1990, my late husband, Michael, had a kidney and pancreas transplant.  Things went awry early on and he spent the majority of that year in the hospital.  When he was finally released, he couldn’t walk, hold a fork, see or hear very well, and definitely, could no longer work.  I was working two jobs at the time, and taking Mike to the gym on my nights off to build back his strength.  The insurance company dropped us like a hot potato when his condition worsened after the surgery.  That’s another story, and it’s not funny, but I’ll write about it another time.

The point is, when Christmas came in 1990, we were devastated under the weight of medical bills, Michael’s illness, and my general fatigue.  I had saved approximately $400 to spend on Christmas for our daughters and the rest of the family.   It was what we had and I was determined to make it work.

Our oldest daughter, who was in 5^th grade at the time, came home from school each day to watch her younger sister and help take care of her dad while I left one job and went to another.  For her, there was no hanging out with friends, going to Christmas gatherings, or any hope of getting something she really wanted for Christmas, like a Nintendo.  She accepted her duties and her situation without complaint.  I call that Amazing Grace.  I wanted more than anything to buy her that Nintendo.  She deserved it.  She had earned it.

Two weeks before Christmas, I went shopping at the local department store.  I picked out a few items, including the Nintendo and reached for my wallet.  It was gone.  I hadn’t zipped my purse, and someone had simply taken my entire wallet, including the $400 I had saved.  Of course, it was in cash. I raised my hands, looked up at the sky, and said, “Okay, I was stupid, but can anything get worse?” 

The next day, at work, I was lamenting to my co-workers what had happened the day before.  They showed concern and asked if there was anything they could do.  Do I need money?  No, I lied.  Do I need a babysitter?  I thought of Stacy being able to go somewhere with her friends for a change.  No, I lied. 

My pride stood in the way of accepting offers of help.  When the Office Manager came around that day asking for donations for the Sub for Santa family the company had chosen to sponsor that year, I pulled out a dollar, apologized and said it was all I could afford.  She smiled and said, “Every penny is appreciated.” 

You can imagine what a shock it was on Christmas Eve day when the entire office staff from my work showed up at my house with gifts, a ham, a turkey, a Christmas tree and lots of toys, and one very special one, a Nintendo for my oldest daughter.  We had been chosen as the Sub for Santa family that year.  They were very good at keeping secrets.  They should have been.  It’s a CPA firm, one of the largest, and no it wasn’t Arthur Anderson. 

I can’t stop thinking that the person who took my hard earned money must have needed it far worse than I.

That wasn’t the only time kindnesses have been offered unconditionally, therefore “Paying it Forward,” “Random acts of kindness,” and “Count your blessings,” is a lifelong directive.  Like I said, I have many stories.

I have proof that the human spirit never falters, never jades, and never disappoints.  We are harangued by cruel outside experiences, sometimes so visceral that we don’t know if we can recover our humanity.  We blame, we anger, we despair, or we seek justice.   It is during the darkest moments of my life that I have discovered amazing miracles, produced by none other than my fellow human being.  The human spirit cannot exist alone.  It must bring into its embrace the hopes, dreams, and visions of others in order to survive.  It must assimilate, morph, proliferate, and flourish.

You know this.  Do you know why?  It’s that split second when you don’t allow thought, or fear, or rhetoric to preclude you from doing something your spirit tells you to do. 

If you’ve ever wanted to be a master of something, you already own that skill.  It’s called giving. Don’t ever stop giving thanks.  Don’t ever stop giving hope.  Don’t ever stop giving your time.  Don’t ever stop giving.

Love and Light to you my fellow human spirits.