My brother John came for
Thanksgiving one year, back when Gram was still cooking Thanksgiving dinner and
we were all helpers. It was one of the
rare years when we were all there, all seven kids with their various familial
flocks. John drove down from Boise and
brought with him his new wife, LaNae. We
all tried to be good and kind, knowing she might feel a little awkward because
we all had a natural feeling of devotion to his first wife who was the mother
of his kids. It was a typical
Thanksgiving gathering; lots of people and lots of plans and lots of hiccups in
those plans. Our mother is a strong
woman, very much a leader of the pack kind of gal, and so we should not be
surprised that she raised a few strong willed children: Lots of chiefs; not enough injuns, if you
know what I mean. I cut my spuds THIS
way to boil them. My sister cuts them
THAT way. One likes the napkins folded
under the forks, another likes them in a complicated flower type fold sitting
in the middle of the plate. Against the
clanging of utensils and the thumping of cupboard doors comes scattered
conversation:
“Don’t you think we need a little
more salt in that gravy?”
and
“Do you really want that much
brown sugar in those yams?”
Nothing earth shattering. We all get along fine and it works out in the
end. There's plenty of laughter. Dinner is always yummy and the
dishes always get done and we sing the night away after it’s all over.
But we are tired.
That night John, finally alone
with his wife, asked her what she thought of his family.
She responded:
“It’s like being around six of
you!”
(I, for one, was flattered.)
She’s not his wife any more.
So we haven’t figured out how to
keep a normal schedule.
So we sit with seats between us
in theaters cuz we’re all a little claustrophobic (people think we don’t like
each other).
So, when we finally all get in
the car and go to the store, it’s closed.
So we trip over each others’ dogs
and junk in the hallway
And we wait…and wait…and wait….
We also fold our arms together to
pray, regardless of our faith
And we hug and kiss each other
with perfect ease
And we think of each other when
random things appear
And we call each other random
names like Limpy and Oose and Sharawn and Gorgeous Handsome
And we adore our mother
And accept our past
And cherish our present
And hope for our future.
Every once in a while… when I am
very tired and yet feel compelled to say my personal prayer before allowing
myself to sleep… a very old, very familiar string of words flows through my
brain. I can almost hear my little girl
voice pronouncing them:
“Heavenly Father,
Thank you for my family, and for
this nice day.
Please bless Ameree, Libby, John,
George, Susie, Sherry, Mommy and Daddy.”
It flows out exactly in that
order. I’m not sure why, because it’s
not chronological, and I don’t even recall calling Mom “mommy”, and definitely
not calling Dad “daddy”. So it must be very old, like the vintage books I paid
big money for on my bookshelf just cuz they hit me back there, in that tiny
little sacred spot behind my sternum.
I let that prayer rise to the top
of my brain these days, that exact prayer, because we all need the blessing.
And I need to return to that child in me.
And I need to give that thanks;
not so much because God needs to hear it; I suppose He knows exactly what we
need and how I feel. I say it because I
need to own it and shoot it upward in the right direction. Up there where we
all came from, and where we’re all gonna end up again.
I can see it now, all of us lined
up in the great theatre in Heaven, smiling over at each other, one empty golden
seat between each of us.
HAPPY SIBLING DAY, 2012