MY CIRCLE OF TURKEYS

The Dickman and I have spent a shameful amount of hours arguing over whose family is the most dysfunctional.

Just about the time I feel someone with my familial DNA has reached new levels of cra-cra, he manages to provide proof that, indeed, the Haney side of our union wins the Full Blown Bozo Award. It is impossible to pick a consistent winner.  Both sides are deserving of the honor at various phases of the moon.

Except for Thanksgiving.  When it comes to celebrating Thanksgiving, the Haneys always win.

On any given year, you can bet your pumpkin pie that the turkey on our table will be surrounded by a cast of characters that are, well... just a few giblets shy of the gravy.

This Thanksgiving was certainly no exception.

For the past 20 years or so, Dickie's cousin Faron has been the Most Honored Guest at our table of thanks.  Faron is special to us in more ways than I could ever explain. If Forrest Gump and Rain Man had a son, he would almost be as fabulous as Faron. He is a uniquely precious man -- only a few years younger than Dickie -- born with mild cognitive disabilities and autism. 

Blessedly, Faron lives in a small town full of wonderful folks who have become his family and guardians since the passing of his parents. Although he does an admirable job of caring for himself, it is those champions who maintain a protective and watchful eye on Faron's naivete and innocence so that he is able to live alone.

According to my calculations, Faron spends about a third of the year planning for Thanksgiving.  It's not exaggerating to say the invasion of Iraq required less planning than Faron's annual turkey trek to Amarillo. Multiple phone calls are exchanged between various involved parties and watches are synchronized to the nanosecond, as Faron is absolutely literal in his communication.  (Which, in spite of the precise planning, has led to a few misunderstandings through the years.)

The very first year Faron drove to our home, Dickie gave him instructions to drive to the Love's station on I-40 just inside the city limits. About an hour before their designated meeting time, Dickie received a call from Faron proudly announcing, “I AM HERE ! I AM CALLING YOU FROM THE PAYPHONE AT LOVE'S !!!”. Dickie hopped in his truck and drove to Love's... only to discover that Faron had indeed stopped at the first Love's he had come to, it just happened to be in another town. Forty miles away.

Faron is a Giver. He always comes to see me with a truckload of gifts, unique and practical gifts... in bulk.  One year he gave me 40 rolls of toilet paper.  The next year... a dozen giant-sized bottles of Palmolive dish soap. This year... ? I am the proud recipient of eight rolls of aluminum foil. "Why foil?" you ask.  Because Faron remembered that I ran out of foil last year while wrapping his leftovers. 

Our Leading Lady for the last Thursday in November is, of course, the Divine Ms. Dora B, Matriarch, Mashed Potato Queen.

This has been a difficult year for Dickie's Mama. While she struggles to remember the names of her grandsons, learning new information has become almost impossible. Last week, she told me that she would not be able to help with Thanksgiving.  She had thought about it and prayed about it, but just didn't think her arthritic hands would be able to peel a pot full of potatoes anymore. She hoped I understood and would not be upset. I assured her that I loved her more than her famous mashed potatoes and we would somehow find a way to carry on.

Rounding out the Cast of Characters this year, complete with assorted quirks and social improprieties, and in no particular order:

THE ONE-ARMED DICKMAN | significant other; recovering from shoulder surgery.
 

ROBIN IN DA HOOD | myself; lisping through a brand new pair of front teeth / crowns.
 

LUCAS THE FERTILE | firstborn; in full Duck Dynasty Mowvember mode.
 

MAMA CASS | dil; gestating while still lactating.
 

M-1, M-2, M-3, M-4 | my four adorable grand-nuggets; chock full of kinetic energy and an endless supply of snot.
 

JACOB THE INTROVERTED | last-but-not-least progeny; intolerance for large gatherings outweighed by love of family and free food.

[Missing were Dickie's brothers and their wives, who always kick things up a notch.  But you get the idea... One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest meets the Griswolds joined by the Duggers. Just enough dysfunction to make ol' Norman Rockwell put down the paintbrush.]

Chaos ensued at the buttcrack of dawn on Thanksgiving morn. I had barely stumbled out of bed and into the Keurig when I was greeted by a much too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Faron. He embraced me in one of his loving-but-awkwardly-long hugs. I happen to be a big fan of hugs and am hardly ever the one who stops hugging first. But seriously, nobody can out hug Faron.  I have learned to simply hold on, count slowly to 30, give him a sweet pat, then gently pry myself loose.

I had almost counted to 30 when Dora joined us in the kitchen. I deftly removed myself and quickly inserted Dora into Faron's arms before he even knew what was happening. When he realized he was hugging his Aunt instead of me, he just laughed and squeezed harder. Thankfully, Faron is an equal-opportunity  hugger.

Just in the nick of time, the cooking cavalry arrived in the form of Cassie & Mandie Lee.  But not before I had learned everything I never wanted to know about the past 24 hours of  my mother-in-law's bowel motility.  (Which frankly had me second-guessing the massive amount of boiled eggs and onions going into the dressing...)

Simultaneous with the premature popping of the turkey timer, Lucas and his three little boys burst through the front door in a cavalcade of tempestuous testosterone. M3 immediately ripped off his shirt, kicked off his shoes and spontaneously morphed into a snotty-nosed Spider Monkey. M2 began rapping and beatboxing for his sister who was executing perfect cartwheels in her sparkly tutu. M4 came toddling up to me with a beautifious dimpled smile. I scooped him into my arms just as he sneezed straight into my mouth.  Yep, smack dab onto my shiny new front teeth.  I set him down on the floor and watched as he picked a glob of hardened Cheez Whiz off my pants leg... and ate it.  As I was drying off my new crowns, I spied Jacob trying to sneak in the door with a variety of sporting equipment for his nephews and niece. He was tackled to the floor before his butt even cleared the threshold.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, our spectacularly disorganized culinary efforts reached a memory-making moment when I pretended to forget proper potato mashing technique and begged Dora B for help.  Here is Sweet Cassie acting as her lovely (and oh-so-patient) assistant... 

But even that wasn't the very best part.

Because the Very Best Part of any Haney Thanksgiving is the family prayer. It's simply amazing how, in the midst of the madness, we end up together in an unruly circle of old and young...  grabbing for hands while sharing giggles and growling tummies.

And just for a moment I am swamped by the divine blessedness of it all, this circle of hands joined together by love and memories.  By heartache and faith.  By loss and laughter.

The prayer always begins with Dickie and ends with Faron. This year, our little ones joined in as well.  M3 asked Jesus to keep him out of trouble... M2 was thankful for the sweet tea and the mashed potatoes and pecan pie and the salt shaker and forks... M1 thanked the Lord for her whole entire family.

As I listened to their sweet voices, I couldn't resist sneaking a peek at these faces I loved. M4 caught me peeking and waved to me from his Daddy's arms.  I made a face at him and he chuckled. His Daddy tried to shoot me a stern look, remembered I was his Mama and smiled.  

Already my heart was filled to brimming.  Then Faron began to pray...

I wish I could find words special enough to express the awesomeness of Faron's prayers. His face turns red, his voice deepens into what I imagine Moses sounded like coming down from the mountain, and his eyes become moist with emotion.

He always begins by thanking God for our military, the warriors that protect our country. And ends by honoring Cousin Bill, whom he misses every day.  He always makes me cry.

In truth, it's not so much what Faron says; it is the heartfelt emotion he puts into each and every word. His prayers have the innocence of my G-babes, but are more humbly sincere than any I've ever heard.  I have a feeling God waits all Thanksgiving morning in anticipation of our Faron's prayer.

And it is his prayer that reminds me – in the scattered busyness of the holiday – that it is not the turkey in the oven that matters.  It's these turkeys in my circle for who I am truly thankful.

Giblets be danged.

HANEY BOYS, COUSIN FARON AND DORA B.

MASHED POTATO QUEEN AND HER COURT

We All Belong To Each Other

 

My three year-old G-boy is fascinated by the fact that all of his favorite people seem to be connected to each other.

“My Daddy is your son,” he tells me on a regular basis, waiting with a smile for me to claim his Dad as my own.

“He sure is. And your G-Dad is my Daddy.”

He used to fall for that one, much to the chagrin of the Dickman.  Now he just laughs and says, “Silly MiMi! G-Dad belongs to you. And Poppy belongs to Nana. And Mama belongs to Daddy. And I belong to everybody!” 

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I was much older than my grandson when I realized our connectedness is not only with those who share my name or Daddy's stubby fingers or Flodie's pug nose.  It took me awhile to understand that the connection extends to every single person we meet.

It's simple deductive reasoning:  If I belong to God and you belong to God... then we all belong to each other.  Right?

And it's all fun and games until you realize that 'everybody' includes the street-walking bum carrying all his worldly possessions on his back.  Even him.  He belongs to you and me.

But wait, it gets worse!  Those yahoos up in Washington who call themselves our leaders?  Sigh.  Hard as it is to accept, even they belong to us.  Just think of them as the creepy uncle you have to deal with every Thanksgiving.  The one that picks his teeth at the table and scratches his crotch way too much.

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The Dickman and I were  driving west on I-40 when we noticed a small army of vehicles with lights blinking just ahead of us. As we drove closer, it became obvious that a horrific accident had just occurred. A mangled, twisted ball of metal lay between the two lanes of traffic, unrecognizable as a car. It was unimaginable that anyone might have survived such a catastrophic wreck. I pulled my attention back to the road and Dickie started talking – saying anything to try and distract me.

The tears just started flowing. I couldn't hold them back. It was a visceral reaction, knowing that someone had died, realizing that a soul was in transition.  It didn't matter if  I knew them or not.  I was softened by sadness for a life that had ended in such a violent way... grieved for those who would truly be affected by this tragedy.

Later that evening, the deceased was identified on the news.  He was a stranger to me, yet I carry his name in my heart.  Because you see, for a short moment in time he belonged to me.

We all belong to each other.

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The wife of my new patient greeted me at the door, eyes wide with concern. “Oh! I'm so glad you are here. My daughter is on her way over. Something is wrong with him... he's not making sense. He's hurting so bad.” She led me through the tidy home and introduced me to the elderly man slumped in his recliner, obviously in distress.

“Hey buddy... I hear you're having a bad day.”

He raised his head with difficulty and tried to focus on my face. Glaucoma had left him totally blind in one eye and with only minimal vision in the other.

“Yes,” he rasped, “A bad day. Am I gonna die?”

Looking at him, I was afraid he just might.  I glanced up at his wife and saw the same concern mirrored in her faded blue eyes. I gently put my hand on his shoulder and mustered a bright smile.

“No, sir!  At least not today. Okay...?”

He gave me a long, discerning look, and the corner of his mouth turned up just the tiniest bit.

As I assessed his vitals, I threw up a quick, silent prayer...

“Hey Jesus, in case you didn't hear... I just told this sweet old man that he wasn't going to die today. I probably should've checked with you first, but I really, really hope you'll work with me here.  Please, please don't take him today.”

After consulting with his nurse and doctor, EMS was called. The paramedics loaded him onto a gurney as his wife and daughter ran around the house, preparing for an impromptu trip to the hospital. I stood with them as  our sweet man was loaded into the ambulance, knowing their anxiety and helplessness, their hopes and prayers were riding in that ambulance with their beloved. I gave them both a squeeze and promised to keep them in my prayers.

As I drove away, I once again found myself fighting back tears. Not so much for my very sick patient, but mostly for his bride of six decades, for his worried daughter. I hurt with the ones he belonged to.  Because we all belong to each other. 

My prayer was brief.

“Sweet Jesus... you know. Before I speak, you already know what needs to happen here. I pray for healing while trusting  your will. These people need you, Jesus... please blanket them with your comforting presence, give them the peace that only you can give.”

My prayers were for them, yet His comfort reached me, too.  My soul was filled with peace... that blessed peace that only comes from belonging to Him.

 

Because we all belong to Somebody...