Journey: Feasting in Gratitude
Maybe it was the Halloween candy. Maybe it was just the excess of spending on home repairs, grocery bills, extra school supplies and activities that month. Maybe it was when no one said thanks for the meal we just forked over $40 to enjoy. Or, maybe it was my overflowing pantry, which was a scavenger hunt of cereal boxes, canned goods and plenty of foods I should have said no to before they made it into the grocery cart. Something hit home with me that first day in November. That was it! No more excess! No more eating out! Not a drink. Not a pizza. Not an "anything."
With Thanksgiving on the horizon, I felt like this was the perfect time to demonstrate to the kids what being thankful really means. It was time we all experienced what it felt like to sacrifice just a little. I decided we would drastically simplify our meals and get unnecessary spending in order. We would reward our efforts at the end of the month with Thanksgiving, a true feast of gratitude. I fell in love with the idea, even though I knew the burden of budget meal planning and being prepared would fall on my shoulders. If the older kids wanted a meal out, a drink in the drive-thru or even a stick of gum, they would have to do it without me or our family funds. Otherwise, we were jointly getting down to the basics -- plain and simple needs versus wants. The needs would win, and the wants would have to wait.
I fully recognized that this “sacrifice” wasn’t really a sacrifice. It was just correcting our middle class, first-world attitude about what we’re entitled to enjoy. Was it too much to ask for everyone to wait until we got home from church and pitch in together to make a simple lunch instead of cramming our family of five into a booth at Panera or Steak and Shake and letting someone else fix it for us? No, I thought, it wasn’t too much, and it was something our budget could benefit from as well.
So, after the Halloween leftovers were tucked away from sneaky hands, we began that first week in November with simple meals and no after-school stops for snacks. Four days into it, there was hardly any complaining. Our relationship with eating out and extra spending was drifting, like a forgotten friendship that’s only fueled with companionship. Out of sight; out of mind. We were doing well.
My plan for teaching my kids about gratitude took a different route that Friday, November 4, however. Like a tricky curve on a country highway, my agenda met an unexpected turn. and I was the student instead of the instructor. It was that evening when I lost my appetite. Completely. The thought of eating was repulsive. No food (not even the hidden Snickers bars on top of the fridge) could remedy the in-the-pit-of-my-stomach anxiety that was churning throughout my whole being.
Around 6:30 p.m., my husband texted me a picture from the emergency room – a photo that will forever change my life. It was the image of a white Suburban cradled upside down in a ditch. Its back end was a worn-out accordion of smashed metal, and its windows of broken glass were like the teeth we had just carved on pumpkins the weekend before. Next to it was an ambulance and the overturned remains of a red tractor trailer that had tumbled two times and skidded before slamming into the Suburban. The picture was of the car my 17-year-old daughter had been riding in that afternoon, shotgun alongside her boyfriend’s mother and his two brothers who were in the back seat.
They were on their way to an away high school football game to watch my daughter's boyfriend play. The team had experienced a rough year and this was the last matchup. She wanted to be there for him. I let her go. They didn’t, however, make it to the game. His glances toward the stands that night were met with an uneasiness of wondering why they weren't there.
Their vehicle, which was stopped to allow a car in front of it to turn left, was blindsided by the weight of an enormous tractor trailer that slammed into it without a moment's warning. The Suburban flipped at least twice and landed upside down in a ditch. The front and back seats, however, were perfectly cradled and protected, nestled in the palm of the earth like something precious held in cupped hands. Those seats, one of which held my first-born, were flanked by crushed metal and broken glass in a matter of seconds. Miraculously, all of the four passengers unbuckled themselves and crawled out of that crumpled SUV on their own, with just a few aches and pains and a couple of scratches. The driver of the truck walked away too, with quite a few more injuries. But, he survived. The woman who had been making an illegal left-hand turn in front of them was cited. She no doubt carried away the relief that tragedy was avoided, as did everyone who witnessed it.
My daughter described her upside down world, when she was suspended by her seat belt and was staring at the ceiling of the Suburban after coming to the realization of what had happened, “I remember seeing my purse dangle beside me as I held my cell phone in one hand and wiped cold coffee off my face with the other. I thought, at first, it was blood.” I imagined her hands tracing the wetness on her skin, the shock of it all settling in her expression and her big blue eyes blinking out of disbelief. She said that seconds later, her boyfriend's mother went into survival mode and calmly asked everyone if they were okay. Her youngest was complaining about his neck, and the other had cuts and scratches from the broken glass, and blood was starting to dribble down his face. But, they were all okay. They were dizzy from the hazardous juggling and were hanging upside down. But, they were all okay.
Recalling the smell of gas shortly after the impact, my daughter said that immediately, her “creative brain went into analytical mode,” as she contemplated kicking out the front windshield to escape before a potential explosion. (She had been binge-watching old NCIS episodes on Netflix.) Thinking back on her description, my heart still sinks. That creative brain – the one that is crafting a full-length dress out of newspaper in art class and is pulling all A’s in junior level Honors and AP courses – was analyzing an escape plan along the ceiling of an SUV that should have been smashed flat. That beautiful, creative brain that constantly reminds her to do the right things and stay on the right path when other teenagers start to swerve was developing a plan to place the coffee-splattered blankets (the ones that were supposed to provide warmth at the football game) onto the broken glass so everyone could crawl through the window without cutting themselves. God bless every cell of that creative brain, even the ones that downplayed the accident when I randomly called her minutes after it happened and she forgot to mention that she had tumbled like popcorn into a ditch and that everyone at the gas station nearby ran to their aid, expecting to call the coroner’s office instead of an ambulance. It was that brain that subconsciously didn't want to worry me and left out the fact she was riding in an ambulance to the hospital instead of the Suburban, which I originally thought was the unfortunate victim of a common rear-end collision. It was that brain that always thinks of others first, even when two tons of metal could have taken her from this world.
No crafting of words can describe the gratitude in my mama's heart for having my daughter home that night, safely tucked in her bed, pumped full of muscle relaxers and a neck pillow cradling her beautiful head. Over the last 17.5 years, I’ve had my share of bended knee requests to God and tests of patience and faith as a mother. The fact that the Suburban was nestled within that ditch instead of pancaked on the pavement was an answer to a prayer that I didn’t even have to ask. Things were okay before I even pleaded. Amen for that. Eventually, relief eased the knots in my stomach later that evening and thankfulness overwhelmed my mind. I still checked on her several times that night like I often did when she was a baby, feeling the steady rise and fall of her back as she breathed and slept peacefully, protected from harm. I stroked her hair and kissed her head, thanking God that He brought her into my life and that she was spared from having to leave it too soon.
The next morning, I knew what I had to do despite my promises to myself and our family.
I had to go to Krispy Kreme.
Glazed donuts are a big deal in the Rogers household, and this was a day for celebration. So, I broke my Thanksgiving no-meals-out pledge and brought home a dozen so my oldest baby girl – and the rest of us – could indulge and celebrate. The days that followed found me in the kitchen, continuing my mission to dine more simply, however, I turned to food as a method of gratitude instead of sacrifice. I made her favorite meals throughout that week, demonstrating my appreciation for her via a mother's culinary love language. There’s just something about a home-cooked meal that communicates thankfulness, whether its a 20-pound stuffed turkey or a simple barbecue chicken slider and home fries.
The day following the accident, I learned of a friend’s 11-year-old nephew who had been killed when a tree fell on his tent during a weekend Cub Scout outing at Red River Gorge, a beautiful place in Kentucky that holds a special place in our family’s hearts. He was the oldest of a set of fraternal twins, and his death was senseless and tragic. I’m not sure why he was taken among the peace and beauty of a forest when my daughter miraculously walked away from death on a noisy highway curve. My heart is heavy for my friend and her family. It’s also full of relief for what could have been for ours.
This Thanksgiving, we are no doubt more humbled and grateful than we ever have been. This year, it's not about the abundance of food we’re anticipating. It’s the abundance of gratitude in our hearts. The thought that we each are only here for a short time on this earth has propelled me to devour each day like it was a plate of turkey and dressing with all the fixings. Abundance and sacrifice are a seesaw in life. Sometimes we go without. Sometimes we have plenty. Sometimes we avoid disaster. Sometimes we’re in the thick of it. Whatever the menu that life offers us, this experience has taught me there's always plenty of gratitude to pass around – and extra helpings to share with others.
