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.
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.'
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