May your stuffing be tasty May your turkey plump, May your potatoes
and gravy Have nary a lump. May your yams be delicious And your
pies take the prize, And may your Thanksgiving dinner Stay off your
thighs!
The year has turned its circle, The seasons come and go.
The harvest all is gathered in And chilly north winds blow. Orchards have shared their treasures, The fields, their yellow grain,
So open wide the doorway, Thanksgiving comes again.
Dear Lord, Every single evening As I'm lying here in bed, This
tiny little Prayer Keeps running through my head: God bless all my
family Wherever they may be, Keep them warm and safe from harm
For they're so close to me.
And God, there is one more thing I wish that you could do; Hope you
don't mind me asking, Please bless my computer too.
Now I know that it's unusual To Bless a motherboard, But listen
just a second While I explain it to you, Lord.
You see, that little metal box Holds more than odds and ends;
Inside those small compartments Rest so many of my friends.
I know so much about them By the kindness that they give, And this
little scraps of metal Takes me in to where they live.
By faith is how I know them Much the same as you. We share in what
life brings us And from that our friendships grew.
Please take an extra minute From your duties up above, To bless
those in my address book That's filled with so much love.
Wherever else this prayer may reach To each and every friend, Bless
each e-mail inbox And each person who hits 'send'.
When you update your Heavenly list On your own Great CD-ROM, Bless
everyone who says this prayer Sent up to God.com Amen
Venison for stew and roasting, Oysters in the ashes toasting,
Geese done to a turn, Berries (dried) and wild grapes (seeded)
Mixed with dough and gently kneaded~ What a feast to earn! Indian
corn in strange disguises, Ash cakes, hoe cakes (many sizes),
Kernels roasted brown... After months of frugal living What a
welcome first Thanksgiving There in Plymouth town.
Pilgrims move among us. Silent, their gray lips mouth
prayers for the bountiful fields of autumn. Feathered Indians
stand tall in quiet corners invoking harvest home in a
strange tongue. This is our Thanksgiving. Gathered together, we
are visited by the grace of old guests.
Ages upon ages ago, says the German grandmother, when angels used to
wander on earth, the ground was more fruitful than it is now. Then the
stalks of wheat bore not fifty or sixty fold, but four times five hundred
fold. Then the wheat- ears grew from the bottom to the top of the stalk.
But the men of the earth forgot that this blessing came from God, and
they became idle and selfish.
One day a woman went through a wheat-field, and her little child, who
accompanied her, fell into a puddle and soiled her frock. The mother tore
off a handful of the wheat-ears and cleaned the child's dress with them.
Just then an angel passed by and saw her. Wrathfully he spoke, 'Wasteful
woman, no longer shall the wheat- stalks produce ears. You mortals are not
worthy of the gifts of Heaven!' Some peasants who were gathering wheat
in the fields heard this, and falling on their knees, prayed and entreated
the angel to leave the wheat alone, not only on their account, but for the
sake of the little birds who otherwise must perish of hunger.
The angel pitied their distress, and granted a part of the prayer. And
from that day to this the ears of wheat have grown as they do now.
A Thanksgiving in France
The first Thanksgiving after moving overseas, I decided to treat my
family to a traditional turkey dinner.
I went to the closest store, which happened to be French-speaking, and
approached the area where a variety of meats were laid out. Not being fluent
in French, I looked and tried to determine on my own whether the large
poultry breasts I saw were turkey or goose.
The butcher indicated that he was ready to help me. I asked in broken
French if he spoke English; he replied, 'No.' I tried again, asking if he
spoke German; again, he replied, 'No.'
I pointed at the poultry breasts, then tucked my thumbs in my armpits,
flapped my arms, and said, 'Gobble, gobble?' The butcher broke into a smile
as he replied, 'Oui.'
Embarrassing, sure, but I ended up with a turkey and the butcher got a
laugh!
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, And remember what peace
there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, Be on good terms with all
persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; And listen to others,
Even to the dull and the ignorant; They too have their story. Avoid
loud and aggressive persons; They are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, You may become vain or bitter,
For always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy
your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own
career, however humble; It is a real possession in the changing fortunes
of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, For the world is full of
trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; Many
persons strive for high ideals, And everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about
love, For in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, It is as
perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, Gracefully surrendering the
things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden
misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many
fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, Be gentle with yourself. You are a
child of the universe No less than the trees and the stars; You have a
right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, No doubt the
universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, Whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, In the noisy confusion of life,
Keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
It is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Footnote: This is one of Will and Guy's favourite
poems written by Max Ehrmann in 1927. We think it is applicable to all
Thanksgiving celebrations.
It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell Upon the
days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; But thinking of
them now I wish somehow that I could know A simple old Thanksgiving
Day, like those of long ago, When all the family gathered round a
table richly spread, With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at
the head, The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.
It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day We're too
much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; Each little
family grows up with fashions of its own; It lives within a world
itself and wants to be alone. It has its special pleasures, its
circle, too, of friends; There are no get-together days; each one
his journey wends, Pursuing what he likes the best in his
particular way, Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving
Day.
I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad To meet
the way they used to do when I was but a lad; The old home was a
rendezvous for all our kith and kin, And whether living far or near
they all came trooping in With shouts of 'Hello, daddy!' as they
fairly stormed the place And made a rush for mother, who would stop
to wipe her face Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.
Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they
told; From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the
old; All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, The
struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through; We
gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly- It
seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye. Those
were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew When
relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.
Poem by Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959
Will and Guy were struck by the tiny word 'of' in Poems of Thanksgiving.
William Arthur Ward captured the thought with this sentence, 'Feeling
gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving
it.'
Footnote Please send us your poem of Thanksgiving
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