Thanksgiving

It was November in Massachusetts. The boys and girls in my class in the
Boston Church School were excited about Thanksgiving.

“What does Thanksgiving mean to you?” I asked them one day. A sixth
grade boy answered quickly, “A lot of food and a lot of company.”

“No school!” someone else said. “Pumpkin pie!” “Going to grandparents
house.” Then a quiet fifth grade girl raised her hand, “Thanksgiving
means being thankful”. . . Oh, that’s right!

And so we made lists of what we were thankful for:
a nice house my new bike all my toys
that I’m not sick Grandma is coming, our new car
The lists were long. Some children said they were thankful
for God.

Later that morning the boys and girls in grades 5-8 and I went to Plymouth.
You know what happened there don’t you? The first official
Thanksgiving in our country. I wish I could take all of you to Plymouth for
Thanksgiving.

The day we were there it was cloudy and cold. The sky and the Atlantic
Ocean blended in grayness and the wind that blew in from the sea made
us shiver. Massachusetts is like that in November.

As the boys and girls and I stood by Plymouth Rock we wondered how
the children in Plymouth felt as they looked out upon the huge ocean that
separated them from their old home. It must have been lonesome
sometimes in a new land.

Then we looked through the crowded little houses where the people of
Plymouth lived—and we shivered even there, because those houses
were cold. The houses were small and bare and there wasn’t much
in them that was comfortable or convenient.

At last we climbed the hill where a monument stands. The boys and
girls were very quiet as I told them about the first winter in Plymouth.
It was cold, windy and miserable. There wasn’t enough food and many
people became sick. The monument on the hill lists the names of all the
people who died that first winter—half of those who had come to this
country only months before. The Pilgrims were afraid for the Indians
to know how many had died so they buried their mothers and brothers
and sisters and fathers quietly at night. 1612 must have been a winter
of tears at Plymouth. Some of us had tears in our eyes too as we read
the names on the monument of those who had died.

And then it was time to go. The children walked slowly back to the van.
On the way back to Boston we filled the van with songs: “We Have So Much
For Which to be Thankful” and “Over the River and Through the Woods”.

When we went back to school I asked the boys and girls to pretend they
were at the first Thanksgiving in Plymouth. If you made a Thankful
list there what would it say?

The room was quiet as the children looked at the lists they had made
earlier. I heard their pencils making changes. . . Cross off new car,
nice homes, grandma’s coming, etc.

Finally, a seventh grade boy looked up, “On my list only God is left,”
he said. “Is it still Thanksgiving?” I asked.

Yes, when God is there, it is thanksgiving!

Written November 27, 1982