Thanksgiving Ride

It was the night before Thanksgiving.

The freeway was dotted with little red lights.

Mile after mile of brake lights in front of me

and coming towards me,

nothing but the soft glow of headlights.

People were on their way home.

The night before Thanksgiving.

It’s just one of those night when the roads are full. 

Full of pilgrims - full of travelers - full of those searching

for an open spot around a table that awaits them at journey’s end.

They go to break bread with the ones they love,

and they will drive hours in the cold and dark just to get there –

just to get home. 

And that’s where I found myself that night;

stuck in this great Homecoming Parade,

crawling along the trail of lights,

meandering my way to the place, and the people, waiting for me.

But there was something different that night.

Something that separated me from most of the other folks on the road.

I wasn’t focused on where I was going.

My mind was lingering on where I had just been.

I was driving back to Redford from Big Rapids.

I had driven up there earlier that morning with Michelle.

Her mother Debbie was not well. 

She had been moved into home hospice care

and Michelle had asked if I would go and spend some time with her before the holidays.

So on the day before Thanksgiving,

we made the three hour trek to see her mom

(you’ll have to ask Michelle about how driving with me taught her a lot about prayer).

When we got to the trailer where her mom and stepfather lived,

we found Debbie in the living room, resting in a hospital bed.

I sat by her side.

 

We talked about life and we talked about death.

We talked about all the ways she was blessed,

her love of family and friends

and the grandkids that made her feel like the luckiest woman on the face of the planet.

We talked about being angry with all that was happening to her,

how it made no good sense,

and where God might be in the midst of it all.

We laughed and we cried that afternoon,

and when it was time for me to go,

Debbie asked me to do something for her;

she asked if I would baptize her.

And so I did (or I should say God did – I just got to hold the water).

Michelle went to the cupboard,

got a small, plastic Tupperware bowl,

and filled it with warm water from the kitchen sink.

We gathered around that bed.

Her daughter.

Her husband.

Her lifelong friend. 

We sang Amazing Grace.

We said the Lord’s Prayer.

We added our blessings to the water,

each speaking words of hope for Debbie.

Debbie asked for peace,

and then I placed the sign of the watery cross on her forehead. 

Sometimes you are not sure what to pray for.

Sometimes you know your words cannot come close

to capturing all the sentiment tangled in a moment.

It can be like trying to explain the perfect sunrise 
to those who decided to sleep in.

There is simply no way to get it right.

So, you don't try.
You don’t say much at all.

All I could do was ask;

ask that anything Debbie needed to be lifted from her in that moment,

would just simply fall away,

fall as easily as the clear, damp pebbles of tap water grace

now rolling down her cheeks.

Maybe we are all just in the middle of a Homecoming Parade.

Stuck in the line with all those who travel

in hopes that there is a place for us at the table,

and loved ones there to welcome us, when we arrive.

Resurrection, The Counter and Mickey Mouse Pancakes (or how we know it's Easter in Redford!)

Here we are...almost a month after Easter.
Seems longer than that actually, doesn't it?
Seems like Easter is already a distant memory -
pack away for another year.

Easter.  

It doesn’t get any bigger than Easter. 
The tomb is empty.  

New life – new possibilities – all unleashed upon the world.  
It's what we are supposed to be all about; 
there is a new world coming – and nothing can hold it back! 

But here we are.
Just a few weeks after all this hype and hoopla and life has...

well, life has pretty much gotten back to normal.  

Pretty much the same struggles.  

Pretty much the same routine.  

Pretty much life is just like it has always been...  

And it sometimes makes me wonder if the promises of Easter
aren’t just as empty as the tomb.

Still, at least we are in good company. 
Read John’s story and you will see what I mean.
It’s actually pretty funny.  

They are back to work.

Doing what they did before Jesus ever
showed up in the first place. 


Never mind the fact they just saw a real life dead-man-walking.  
Easter has come and gone, and now they are right back at it;
doing what they have always done.

They are fishing.

Nothing seems to have changed at all.  

And that's when it happens.  He's back.  
Right there on the shoreline of their lives.

And here is where it gets kind of weird.  

All this "up-from-the-grave-he-arose"
and all Jesus wants is to have breakfast.  

No, “Come on, fire up the copiers and lets get the word out!”  

No, “Come on boys! There's world to save – let's get out of here!”  

And no, "Let's get the dirty bastards who did this to us before they do it to us again!"

None of that!

 “Come, let’s have breakfast.”
That's all he has to say.

It was the Wednesday after Easter Sunday
and my 4-year-old son was insistent. 
(Imagine that – an insistent 4-year-old!) 

What he wanted was me.  That’s it.  Me. 
Time with me.  Just with me.
Leave mom and little brother at home.
We are talking father and son.  One-on-one.
He wanted what we call a “man-date.” 

But he was specific.  Very specific.  

He wanted the two of us to go to Frank’s Diner (Redford’s finest eatery!)

 

But there was a catch.


He wanted to sit "where all the daddies sit."


At the counter;
where the chairs spin
and his legs could dangle.


It's where the men meet.
It's where the township budget gets balanced.
Where the Tigers' starting lineup gets picked.
And the seven-day-forecast gets predicted.


The counter. 
We had to sit at the counter.

And one more thing;

we were going to have breakfast – for dinner. 

So, that's what we did.

Just the two of us.  

At the counter.  

Him with his Mickey Mouse pancakes.  

And me with my ham and cheese omelet.  

And we talked.  

Talked about important things.
Things like Superman and Hotwheels and how hard it is to count to one hundred.  

It was the best hour I have spent doing anything in a long, long time.  

It was maybe the closest I have ever felt to my kid.  

It was surely the clearest I have ever been about what it means to be a dad. 

And I was reminded.

Reminded of what was truly important.  

And you know what? It felt like – well, I guess it felt like Easter.