Thanksgiving

Glendale — There is that place where a scent, an edge of light, a nameless wind can turn your eyes to the heavens. That same place where, as a child, you held some stone, some amulet, some precious nothing in your hand knowing that if you never let it go or if you buried it under the moss or squirreled it away in the back of some drawer that all that terrified you couldn’t turn you to stone. That place where with no one around but God or god and maybe the river you were filled up and filled up again. That place where you never greeted despair with powdered words but as another traveler on the road. That place you could look through the window and beyond – look out as though you were skipping the smoothest stone across the silence, across loud and wordless prayers, across grieving and gratitude, across grace, across all that has ever been held in your hand or mine — across days where Thanks and Giving knew their names and at times did not. That place across this table, that table, every table that knows the harvest of heart and home and neighbor and need as we ask once more, ask to become our blessings.