Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

holidays

When the thankfulness takes thought

Yesterday I was feeling anything but thankful.

Lonely. Stressed. Overwhelmed. Ungrateful. Bitter.

Yeah, that’s more what my day before Thanksgiving was like. The list-making, the shopping, my daughter home from school giving us an extra six hours of potential fighting with her brother. I wanted to be thankful. But wanting it wasn’t making it happen.

Earlier in the week I’d realized this is our sixth Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. The sixth year we’ve been absent from our family celebration in Illinois. It was coupled with the realization that Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday. Phil and I love the food and family, the togetherness in playing board games, laughing, sharing stories of years gone by. On Thanksgiving there’s no pressure to bring anything except yourself (and maybe your signature dish). No gifts. No pressure. Don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas. In theory. Maybe those are thoughts for another day.

So, there I was missing my family, not looking forward to the food prep ahead of me, feeling bad for feeling unthankful.

—

My hands were covered in flour, sticky and dough-covered as I formed and shaped the rolls. Our daughter stood next to me, her hands matching mine, doing her best to make round balls of dough that would later become dinner rolls. Our son was crumbling cornbread into a bowl, readying it for the cornbread dressing to be baked the next day.

And I realized something else.

In the six years we’ve been in Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving, I’ve learned a lot of things I might not have learned.

Making homemade rolls, for one. It’s taken me years to decipher the traditional recipe from my husband’s side of the family, and I still don’t get it right all the time. But I can make rolls from scratch using flour and yeast and everything, and they taste like dinner rolls, even if they look like blobs instead of clovers.

For this, I am thankful.

And cooking a turkey. I was terrified the first year, sure I would screw it up. But for five consecutive years I’ve brined and cleaned and oiled and roasted a turkey. (This year, we opted for a pork chop Thanksgiving.) And I learned that I actually like turkey.

For this, I am thankful.

I make pie crusts from scratch. We have our own food traditions now.

For this, I am thankful.

Over these years we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving with select members of our family, with other people’s families, with just the four of us. One year, we celebrated in anticipation of the arrival of the fourth member of our family.

And I’ve learned that sometimes family is geographic, rather than genetic. As much as we love our blood relatives, we’ve found friends who are as much like family here in Pennsylvania.

For this, I am thankful.

And I’ve learned to be thankful even when my husband had to work on Thanksgiving because at least he had a job.

This year, we’re glad to have him home for the day.

As we cooked up kukelas (pronounced like koo-kah-luhs), the German fried and sugared dough of my husband’s family’s heritage, and ate our fill of sugary goodness, the thankfulness hit me again. I’m thankful for this family, this house, this season of life, not because I think we deserve it or even because we have so much, but because we know what it is to not have, to nearly lose what’s most important, to take for granted.

For this, I am thankful. 

Not only for the blessings of God but for His mercy. For the grace of others. For love that covers a multitude of sins.

In everything, give thanks.

 

Why dads matter

My dad’s birthday was Sunday and since this is the year of me failing to send a card for any birthday/holiday/anniversary in our family, I’m turning, once again, to what I can do: write a post for everyone to read!

Birthdays aren’t a big deal to my dad. At least, that’s what he says. But I loved the look on his face when Isabelle started singing “Happy birthday” to him during our Skype call on Sunday.

It’s not always easy for me to talk about my relationship with my dad. Not that it’s bad but we don’t have one of those daddy-daughter date night kind of relationships. During my childhood, we bonded while watching Cubs games on TV or Bears football or while riding bikes as a family or taking amazing road trip vacations every summer. I think my dad gets credit for my love of travel, though maybe even he was surprised that I wanted to spend a semester in England during college. I don’t know. I’ve never asked him.

A couple of summers ago, Dad and I talked about our relationship. I didn’t understand when I was younger why he missed softball games or came late or why he worked long hours, but time and a family of my own have given me a different perspective. Those long hours were acts of love. A way of providing so our family didn’t end up on the street, or having to move, or struggling to feed ourselves, like his childhood experience.

As I’ve gotten older, my dad has been the one I want to talk to in a time of crisis. My mom is emotional, like me, so if the two of us tried to talk out a difficult situation, we might convince ourselves the world was ending, then we’d be in uncontrollable tears for the rest of the conversation. (No offense, Mom.) My dad, however, is more rational and logical. He takes his time thinking through things before giving an answer, which sometimes makes me crazy. Because when I want answers, I want them NOW! But, I’ve learned that thinking things through often helps me arrive at a better answer than I would have had if I knee-jerk responded.

My dad was there when I sobbed my way down the stairs of my apartment building after college graduation, offering me a hug and no words. And when I couldn’t drive myself home later that day as we caravaned through half of Indiana and Illinois. He’s always been my “voice of reason” confirming whether this car was a good purchase or my finances seemed a mess. I’m not always confident in my decision-making, but any good decisions I’ve made, I give my dad credit for instilling that in me.

I remember my dad having this thing about him with kids. Kids have always loved my dad, and I’ve seen that especially with my kids. Watching my dad be Papa to my two has opened my memory bank from when I was a kid. With them, I see my dad differently, and I glimpse how he might have been with me and my brother.

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The same summer I opened the dad-daughter conversation, I learned something new. There’s a picture of me as a baby, maybe a toddler, sitting near the tulip beds at the house where I grew up (which is not the house where my parents live now). It’s a familiar picture, one I remember seeing in the photo albums. I always thought my mom took the picture because she tends to be the picture taker in our family. She told me that summer that my dad took the picture, and it was the first time she had left me at home with him. She was out for a few hours and she wondered what he’d do while she was gone. When she came back, he’d taken these pictures of me out by the flowers.

That story tells me more about a father’s love than any book or sermon. I wish I could show you the picture, but I don’t think I have a copy. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know where to find it right now. (Ah, the joys of moving!)

If you’re a daughter doubting her father’s love, can I offer you a word of encouragement?

Dads sometimes show their love differently. And it’s not always obvious. I’ll bet if you examine your life and your dad’s actions, you’ll find ways he has shown his love. (And if your dad isn’t around, I don’t know what to say. That’s a conversation for another day, I guess.)

And if you’re a dad and you happen to be reading this, and you have daughters, can I offer you a word as well?

Try. Even if you don’t know how to show love to your daughter, try. You don’t have to speak a lot of words or write a flowery card. Sometimes you just have to be there. But if you can, say it every once in a while. “I love you.” “I’m proud of you.” “I’m glad you’re my daughter.” And maybe tell her something you appreciate about her, something unique about her.

It’s a wordy way to say “Happy birthday” to my dad, I know. But the older I get, the more sentimental I become.

And, I’m learning, you can seldom overdo it in the love department.

I love you, Dad.