He said his name was Melvin.  I was walking along the Seattle waterfront one grey spring afternoon, heading for the boat I would take home.  This wasn’t my usual route.  Usually after working a few hours for my friend Susan in the Medical Dental Building on 5^th Avenue I would take the light rail train from the Westlake Center to Tukwila to meet my husband, and then wait for him to finish his work day before heading home together across the sound.  But today I was heading back a little early to go to a meeting.

I finished my work and wandered down to the Pike Place Market to look for a bouquet of flowers in the stalls.  The Market was blooming with cut flowers, as usual, and I considered several of the bouquets.  But then I remembered that it would be several hours before I got home, too long for the flowers to keep, so I changed my mind.  I had a ten dollar bill in my pocket but I decided to just keep it.  I took the elevator down from the Market to the waterfront level of the parking garage, crossed Alaskan Way by the Seattle Aquarium and walked past the giant Ferris wheel on the way to my boat.  I was in no hurry.

A street person approached me.  He asked me if I would buy him some fish and chips at Ivar’s.  I don’t know why he appealed to me: his clothes were dirty and tattered, and I don’t usually like pan handlers, but then I’m usually in some awkward place when they approach me.

“Sure”, I said, without hesitation.  “What’s your name?”

“My name is Melvin”, he said.

We walked together to Ivar’s, where there’s a take-out window.  No one was in line.  Melvin ordered the biggest meal on the menu, but it was over $10 so I told him he could order whatever he wanted as long as long as it was $10 or less, and he placed an order of fish and chips and I paid.

Melvin was a tall, lanky black man with bad teeth.  He was probably 50 years old.  I spent only a few minutes chatting with him, but there was something about him that made him memorable to me.  Maybe it was that he walked in a loose-limbed gait like my late brother Jim.

Jim wasn’t a street person, but I remember going to a movie with him downtown one time, and when we came out, he seemed to know all of the street people by name.  There’s a lot I didn’t know about my older brother, but this impressed me.  Maybe he knew all of them from going to the local bars, or maybe he knew them from passing them by on his way to work every day.  But whatever it was, it struck me that Jim was far kinder than I ever thought of being.  He recognized every one of these marginalized people and addressed them by their proper names.

I was glad that I hadn’t spent my cash on a bouquet of flowers, and could instead use the money to give someone a meal.  I never saw Melvin again, but when I think about him I know it was my own soul that I needed to feed.

In November of 1621, the pilgrims celebrated the fact that they had survived:
survived on the new continent for a year.
Their generous indigenous neighbors had welcomed them,
Their crops had produced enough to feed them,
including new world crops, like corn and sweet potatoes
and they had new world game to eat, like turkey.
Thanksgiving was a celebration of survival.

400 years ago, the pilgrims were not celebrating.
They were praying.
They were planting.
And they were wondering if they would live or die during the months ahead.

This year we are not as much like the celebrants of 1621,
as we are like those who worried about their survival in 1620.

This year, in November of 2020, we’re in the middle of a pandemic.
In order to survive this year, which many already have not,
we have to stay away from each other and wear masks when we’re out in public.
We have to avoid our dearest family members
and give up those traditions we feel so attached to,
even as we wonder if our businesses and our healthcare system
and our entire economy will remain intact.
Even as we worry about our society as a whole,
our democracy,
our justice system,
our system of checks and balances,
our right to fair and free elections,
and human decency, for God’s sake.

Even in the midst of this, it is our very lives we must consider.

This year as we hunker down for the approaching winter
as we take stock of our many blessings
let’s also take stock of our risk factors,
and the safety of our family, friends, and neighbors.
Let’s choose to survive, rather than demanding to have our pie together
out of a deep sense of tradition and entitlement.

Let’s remember
Thanksgiving wasn’t even a national holiday until 1863.
(Thank you, President Lincoln.)

Personally
I’m hopeful that we’ll have many things to celebrate next year:
a new era of hope and justice,
new medicines and vaccines to keep us safe,
an end to the pandemic, globally, and a restoration of our economy,
and a restoration of our dignity among the nations of the world.

I’m hopeful that we will have:
new and reformed laws to protect our citizens against violence and oppression,
restorative justice for those who have been persecuted or taken from their families,
a surge of new jobs in clean energy and improved infrastructure,
and many new laws and reforms to support social and environmental justice.

This year let’s call it “Hopesgiving”
Hopes-giving
Because we’re in a time of hoping and waiting
in order to survive,
but what we can GIVE each other this year is hope.

Let us learn to live and let live, literally.

I hope that you, your family and your loved ones are safe.
Happy Hopesgiving.

Why didn’t you tell me that you called him?

I did.  I just told you.

No, I mean, back then.  Back when I was 16 years old.

(she shrugs)  I didn’t want you to feel bad.

So you let me think that he came here and took me to the dance because he wanted to.  When he didn’t?  Or did he?  I’ll never know.

I was afraid he might stand you up.

So you called his parents and insisted that he come over and take me to the dance?

Yes.

Crap!  For weeks after that, I wondered why he didn’t seem to like me.  It was so confusing! We’d had a great time, or so I thought.  Why on earth would you DO that???

I did it for you.

So why are you telling me now?

I felt it was time.

Mom.  I’m 36 years old. 20 years has gone by.

I know.

You know?  You have no idea what you did to me, because you interfered.

I just didn’t want you to get hurt.

AUGH!  So you let me make a total fool out of myself. You sabotaged me, you didn’t help me!  You undermined me by letting him look good, by creating a false impression. And you’re only telling me now? NOW?  How could you do that?

(she shrugs)

And what else have you done?

1996

The last time I saw Michael
I thought I would be the one to offer comfort.
Instead, having made peace with his departure,
Michael focused his loving kindness on me
and we talked about my life.

I was on my way to see my father
for the first time in nine years
I was taking him to Utah
to see places where he’d grown up:
Thistle, Winterquarters, Scofield,
and to spend time with an old man
who really had no idea who I was, truly, in my heart.

All those years of silence.
All those years of self-defense.
Years of grief, growing, rebirth,
transformation, release, and ceremony.
I sure wasn’t going to tell Dad all that.
He wouldn’t “get” it, and he wouldn’t care
and I no longer needed him
to see me for who I am.
I had made peace with it.
He was an old man, an old neighbor, perhaps,
to whom I was willing to be kind,
whose transgressions I had forgiven,
and this was his last trip away from home.

Michael listened
Told me that I was beautiful
Told me that I deserved love
Felt sorry for my father and all that he had missed out on.
And I asked Michael why
Why is it that we confuse love
for that which it is not?
Abusiveness, neglect, hostility, avoidance,
selfishness, jealousy, fear, dependency–
these are not love.

Michael’s tears answered me.
He prayed for me, for healing,
and prayed for my father, too.

Michael was not confused.
His skin became translucent.
His love filled the room.

One Christmas Eve a friend was staying with us
because the passes were closed and he couldn’t get home to Spokane.
I invited him to go with me to the candlelight service at the Methodist Church.

The Methodist church had the best acoustics of any of the sanctuaries in the community
and it had a very big choir, too, for our little town, anyway
so it was a perfectly splendid place to go for a candlelight service
to soak in the spirit of Christmas, before we rang the bell
to announce the birth of Christ.

As usual we were running late.
And unfortunately I had forgotten,
not being a member of that church at that time,
that they were renovating the building.

I’d decided to come in through the back of the sanctuary
so that we could slip in as quietly as possible
since the service had already started.

We entered the building near the kitchen
tiptoed through the fellowship hall and quietly opened the door
at the back of the sanctuary.

But:  Surprise!
They had turned all the pews around.
So we were entering right through the middle of the altar,
in front,
with everyone staring at us.

Mortified, we scurried into a pew in the first row
whispered an apology to the minister,
and tried to make ourselves invisible.
(I never did figure out why they’d turned the sanctuary around like this, it was crazy.)
But we settled down to enjoy the service.

Long swags of greenery decorated with white lights hung along the cream colored walls,
a tall Christmas tree stood at one side of the altar,
covered with white, gold and red ornaments, gold ribbons, lights,
and a multi-pointed star at the top,
which beamed down at us from high up near the tall ceiling.
Candles glowed from every window,
and the light reflected in the eyes of all the people seated there.
The church was packed with cheery faces, and I knew at least half of them.

The service was just as lovely as ever.
The choir sang their carols and we listened or sang along when we were told to.

Then, about halfway through the service,
during one of the choir anthems,
my friend leaned over to me and whispered:
“So, does singing in the choir make you go bald?”

I looked over and, sure enough, every man in the choir was bald or balding.
And that’s when I lost it.  I was done for.

I tucked my head down and tried not to look at my friend.
My shoulders were shaking and my eyes were watering
and I was gasping as quietly as possible
desperately trying to just breathe

I’d take a breath, but the exhale would come out again as a laugh
Breathe!  Breathe!  I told myself,
but it was no use.

We could not look at each other.
I could not look at the choir.
I did notice the minister looking at us,
but all I could do was shake my head at him
and keep my head down.
He cleared his throat and continued with the service.

I put my hand over my mouth.
I tried not to snort or stamp my feet
And I could tell that my friend’s shoulders were shaking, too.

Every time I thought I had myself under control,
I’d start back up again.
So I kept my head down
and let the tears roll down my face.

We somehow we got through to Silent Night and Joy to the World.

I’m not sure the minister was very happy with us,
but we had a very merry Christmas.