In a Quiet Holiday

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Over 20 years ago, I started hosting dinner for a small group of my immediate family. I loved finding new recipes and creating festive decorations. Each year, the number of people at the table grew, sometimes by entire families.

In those early years, I thought things like matching table cloths, fine china and pretty centerpieces were important. I spent hours ironing linens, thinking of special place cards and decorating the perfect table. When night came, I would make sure that every last dish was washed and put away, the floor vacuumed, erasing all evidence that a celebration had been had.

But the bigger the group got, the harder it was to make everything match just so and to make every last dish from scratch. I was dropping those Martha Stewart balls all over the place.

And right around the year when I had no choice but to start bringing out the ugly folding chairs and mixing in the plain old, white, every-day dishes with the once a year, (not exactly) fine china, I had this out of body experience.

Dinner had been eaten and all were digging into the many desserts. The crowd was loud and boisterous, but it was like I had been given a gift of quiet perspective. As I sat smack in the middle of over 35 people squished into a small space, I felt momentarily removed from it all. What washed over me is what I can only describe as a state of Grace.

I could hear every laugh in the house as if someone had turned up the dial to the sound that joy makes. All at once, I could see every happy expression of those I've spent much of my life beside. I could distinctly feel the warmth between family and the love in every corner. I was witnessing this ordinary moment that took my breath away.  After saying goodbye to the last of the guests, I turned to see the mess that was my home. The sink had a pyramid of dirty dishes and the floor had mounds of crumbs in every room. Instead of doing what I'd always done and start the monumental task of putting it all back together, I didn't touch one single thing. I went to bed in peace and immense gratitude.

The next morning when I woke up to that beautiful disaster, it was my evidence that love had blessed us for another year.

There are these brief moments in life that we're tapped on the shoulder and shown what is most important. Among the chaos and noise, there can be quiet, too.  If we're willing to pause and look, we can see the evidence of Grace sitting right there in front of us.

Let this be one of those moments.

We are near to the close of a tumultuous and noisy year. But on this uniquely quiet holiday, let all that we're nostalgic for, all that we might be missing, all that we wish to experience, guide us to remember what makes our lives worth living-- each other.

Tomorrow, let there be space at your table to celebrate your courage, your endurance, your wonder, and your optimism.

Let us be grateful for our people, for the power of choice, sacred connections and for the love we're each capable of holding in our hearts.