Canadian Thanksgiving, and Lyndon’s mom and dad come for the day. Grandma with pies in her arms and Grandpa with the hunting stories and they come into our home, warm with the good smells of the good dinner to come. We crowd the table, food and extra chairs and the pink ginger ale that signals the specialness of the meal.
We bow and pray and pass the food, and the visiting lasts the hour and through the cleaning up and on into the afternoon. Stories and laughter and a little break for Father and Son to spend an hour outside fixing the dog’s kennel, getting it ready for winter.
The house is full of family, three generations of men and two women for balance, and this day, I think, is a blessing.
The evening draws in, skies darkening and clouds that look like snow, and the table is made full again with the turkey and the buns, and the pies are finished, three helpings each for the boys.
Leftover turkey is packed once more into the fridge. Eggs, fresh from the barn, are washed and made ready for Grandma to take home. The kitchen is tidied and the things are gathered and the signal is given. Time to go.
I think, as I wipe the last crumbs from the kitchen table, that I am a woman mightily blessed. I whisper a prayer for the hungry ones tonight, and I whisper thanks for the day, the food, the family, and the home.
This post is part of a series of posts called 31 days to loving my home. If you’d like to read all the posts in this series, go here.