Every now and then I’m reminded of a video post that went around tumblr a few years back that was this person remonstrating tumblr/the world at large for not knowing how to cut up avocados properly, saying with the righteous indignation of someone who suffers the burden of Real Knowledge “you all do it so dangerously you’re gonna cut your hands, THIS is how you cut up an avocado you idiots!!” And then they proceeded to hack their knife pointlessly and dangerously into the pit to yank it out.

They did it with the fervour of someone so convinced they’re right that they even influenced me, someone who grew up on an avocado farm and has never seen any of my family remove the pit like that because why the fuck would you do that, that’s deranged. They had me second guessing two generations of avocado farmers. But now whenever I think of it I’m awash with two emotions. 1) how could you have the misplaced confidence to lecture people on how their avocado-cutting skills are stupid and dangerous and then direct them to cut up an avocado in one of the top five stupidest and most dangerous ways possible while 2) how could ANYONE think that sending a large knife hurtling full force into a slippery round object in the palm of their hand is remotely safe

Why I Am Thankful (post 65) 11-26-14

                        I like Thanksgiving and always have, but he flavor of the feast has changed for me in the last several years.  Today, I see the holiday more as a way-point that occurs half a year’s orbit back towards Easter, Divine Mercy Sunday and Pentecost. The direction we are traveling will arc through Advent towards Christmas and curve sharply at Ash Wednesday onto the backstretch of my Christian year.  Thanksgiving is no longer a destination in itself. For me, the liturgical seasons have become an orderly, varied and beautiful continuum.  

Before Thanksgiving was just a rest-stop within a year’s journey through faceless days of work drudgery. For me the holiday represented a double weekend where Monday seemed farther off but not so remote that I ever forgot that it was coming.  It was a day for sleeping in, then dragging my carcass to the couch for a repast of sports television while Pam cooked the family an excellent meal.  Excepting a two minute prayer, the day was totally absent of Christian thought, more of a libation of sloth and gluttony sacrificed before the god of entertainment.  I watched all the football I could handle until I slipped off into tryptophan induced slumber in the warm glow of a magic cathode ray tube.  I enjoyed Thanksgiving in a way that would crown me as the consummate secular chump in a country populated by a bevy of domestic Neros clicking through channels in our customary holiday white tee-shirts and pajama bottoms.

And don’t give me too much credit for my two minutes of prayer.  I certainly didn’t prepare anything ahead for my once a year extemporaneous opus of acknowledgement to what God had done to bless our country and the Donnelly family in particular.  I would hurdle the prayer as the last barrier blocking the path to all the good food and good cheer, on which I could gorge myself.  The idea of giving thanks was really a parsley garnish, lost among the bowls of squash, gravy and mash potatoes.  

In the last several years, though, God has provided me with an attitude adjustment.  I still enjoy the tasty food and good cheer, but I take loving companionship and other wonderful blessings much less for granted. I am now truly thankful for the fellowship of those with whom I eat.   I drink deeply of their peaceful friendship, not just for their agility and punctuality in passing the rolls and gravy. I now have an understanding that each of us will attend a limited number of these earthly feasts, and I am thankful for family and friends both present, distant and those who have moved beyond.

For the West Coast Donnellys, this year’s Thanksgiving plans have been pretty fluid.  We are still waiting on the schedule for Nick’s lung surgery, which should remove the small pockets of strange cells created by the Bleomycin chemotherapy.  Stephen and I had hoped to be in Ohio visiting Natalie at my folk’s house, but that trip is on hold.  I am determined not to make a second emergency flight back from the Midwest.  

We will eat somewhere.  We have been invited several places by wonderful people that are very concerned for us.   We look forward to the opportunity to thank God for the grace that he has bestowed on our family at whichever table we end up.  Surely we will be in the company of good friends – probably someone that Natalie knows so that it will be easier for her to imagine us from her own table across the country.

It has been a year of blessings for us:  

Nick is still alive and in good health.  His weight and hair are restored, but the beard is still a bit patchy.  He is missing some few parts, has a trusty Power-Port embedded in his chest and is due to lose additional various chunks of flesh, which will be trimmed by the equivalent of robotic toenail scissors. Largely he is the same easygoing guy who, the other night, treated the Men of St Joseph to a viewing of before and after chemo x-rays of his lungs and abdomen.  (I don’t know why doctors always delight in showing me pictures and 3D diagrams of stuff that I just want to sink forever into my subconscious.)

Stephen has spent the year with no significant incidents.  While not eliminating the voices that distract him, his medication has largely allowed him to live without the crippling paranoia that drove him into the hospital repeatedly in the months that followed Pam’s death.  He takes walks, eats hot dogs or sushi and largely enjoys his days emancipated from the need to protect the family from assailants that never existed.  He gripes in pro-forma fashion about the transgressions of the two little dogs that love him and keep him company.

Abby is enjoying the life of an independent young woman with a bright but as yet undetermined future.

Natalie is spending an idyllically quiet year in suburban Ohio exploring the wonders of snow, slush, thunderstorms, and being a cousin to three little girls just her own age.  For the most part she is living a year buffered from ambulance rides, ER visits, missed school days and afternoons among daycare hooligans.  She does have to ride the school bus, though.  Every kid should have to be a bus rider at least once.  Hopefully her bus heater will work effectively in the cold Cleveland months of December, January and February.  Thankfully, this year Natalie will not have to endure Valentine’s Day and the run-up to the anniversary of Pam’s passing in the same house where it all occurred.  It should be a more regular winter in a house joyfully bedecked in Christmas ornaments, not a home holiday-garbed as an act of obligation.

I, myself, this year have lived a more peaceful life, still with my share of daily aggravations, but also full of helpful reminders that Jesus and my family love me.  I am thankful for blessings that others consider horrible curses.  If the result of pain is a closer relationship with Jesus, are calamities not sometimes heaven sent?

Thanks to all of prayerful IHM parishioners from the Donnellys.  We wish each of you a peaceful holiday with lots of love and without the slightest hint of Thanksgiving dinner drama.  Attending the 10:00 service on Thursday is an excellent way to start a day dedicated to gratitude for all our blessings.  One parish, one service, arrive early.