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Kristen Anne Glover

Five in Tow

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In Defense of Black Thursday

In Defense of Black Thursday

It’s that time of year again when people give thanks with one breath and complain about retailers in the next.  It seems there’s always something to be unhappy about when it comes to the people who sell us our stuff, especially around the holidays.

This year, most of the grumbling has been about the latest scandal in retail.  Not only are more and more stores opening for Thanksgiving, but businesses are luring honest-to-goodness Americans away from their family dinners with Black Friday prices.

Black Friday prices on Thanksgiving?  What is the world coming to!

Apparently, there are many reasons we should stand strong against this trend.  One of the loudest arguments is the fact that no one should have to work on Thanksgiving.  Everyone deserves a day to spend with family, and those greedy corporations are robbing their employees of their turkey rights just to make a buck.

That’s a lovely sentiment.  I do not think any worker should be obligated to come in on Thanksgiving when the turkey is roasting away at home.

It’s just too bad we’re so inconsistent about it.  We get ourselves in a tizzy over the fact that Walmart employees have to work on Thanksgiving while we sit at home flipping through the channels of football on TV.  We watch the Thanksgiving Day parade and the half-time shows as if none of those people are working or away from their families on Thanksgiving.

Well, that’s different, we say, because that’s not commercialism, and really, that’s what we’re against.  It’s the commercialism.  We don’t want anyone sacrificing family in order to make money.

Really.

Why do you think Al Roker sits out in the cold and broadcasts the Macy’s parade every year?  Why do you think the football coaches and players and cheerleaders and hotdog sellers and bathroom cleaners get up and make sure the big game goes off without a hitch?

They do it for money, on Thanksgiving, away from their families, and we support them all the way.

But it’s different, we say, to actually go out and shop on Thanksgiving!  That proves that some people are more interested in getting a deal than spending time with their loved ones, and that’s just terrible.  They’re probably not even grateful. 

Pumpkin arrangement

Well, I’m convinced.  I’m not working on Thanksgiving.

I mean, I’m not getting paid to slave away in the kitchen with a cold bird.  I’m also not planning to shop (I’ve got a date with the aforementioned cold bird, after all).  I’d feel really good about that except for one problem:  I don’t think my Thanksgiving choices make me any more of a grateful, family-centered person than the woman who hits Walmart at 3 am. 

Nor do I think Americans are going to turn into the Monsters of Materialism because they get an extra shopping day.  Most of America is already there. 

It seems to me that we’re all overacting a little bit about this whole shopping-on-Thanksgiving thing.  It’s not like Thanksgiving is a sacred institution (it was ordained by Congress, after all).

Don’t get me wrong.  Thanksgiving is a good day, and a lovely idea, but it’s not gospel, and we shouldn’t treat it like it is.  You’re not going to earn extra gold stars in your heavenly crown if you stay home and eat turkey and think thankful thoughts this Thursday.  I dare say, you could even celebrate on Friday instead of Thursday and remain just as holy.

Conversely, standing out in front of Best Buy for a few hours before the kids wake up in order to get a good deal on a TV does not necessarily make you a bad person, any more than sitting in front of your TV on Thanksgiving makes you a bad person.

It kind of depends on what’s going on in your heart (FYI: always).  You can have a pretty ugly heart while mixing up the cranberry sauce.  And you can be perfectly joyful and godly while shopping on Thanksgiving.

Pumpkins

Maybe we should all settle down a little bit and stop equating Black Thursday with a moral apocalypse.  After all, our world is crumbling under the weight of bigger problems—bigger moral problems—than retailers who slash prices for Thanksgiving and the people who fall for it. Maybe, if we let go of our turkey-induced legalism, we will notice.   

That is what Thanksgiving is all about, isn’t it?  Noticing.  We should be so grateful for what God has done for us that it overflows into actions for others and shows up in how we treat our family and how we love our neighbors.  Even the shoppers.

But too often, we care more about how people spend their holidays than with what’s going on in their lives. 

“It’s just wrong to shop on Thanksgiving, and all the people who do it are bad.  The end.”

We don’t consider the veteran who needs to work on Thanksgiving just to pay the bills or the mom who has to spend Thanksgiving alone because her kids are with their dad.  We don’t think about the fact that sometimes, holidays at home are hard and it’s easier to spend the time walking a store aisle than navigating the eggshells around the dinner table.

What if that guy in line at Best Buy is there because his apartment is lonely this time of year, and for all the church people he knows, not one of them invited him to share the day with them?

Sure, some of the shoppers are materialistic jerks.  But before cluck our tongues and say these people have their priorities mixed up, maybe we should think first.  Maybe the Thanksgiving shoppers aren’t the ones with the problem.

Maybe we are.

Pumpkins in a row

 

Faith 22 Comments

Odor and Other Potent Stuff

Reasonably cool socks

 

The odor was pervasive.  It wafted through the room, drifting up over the book I was reading to the children.  It obscured my senses until I could no longer concentrate on the printed words.

“What is that smell?” I asked the kids.

“I don’t know,” Faith said.  “It’s awful.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Jonathan shrugged.

But there was definitely something to smell.  “Did anybody step in something outside?” I questioned.

“No,” came the unanimous reply.

“It smells rotten.”

“It smells poopy.”

“It smells dead.”

We looked behind the couch.  We looked under the love seat.  We checked behind the ficus tree where the cat sometimes leaves us signs of his cooling affection.

“Hum.  I don’t smell anything,” Jonathan said again.

“Jonathan, you don’t smell anything because it’s coming from you!” Faith exclaimed.  She leaned over and sniffed the air around him.  “Oh!  It’s your feet!”

“Jonathan, is that awful smell coming from your feet?”  I looked down at his socks.  “Did you step in something?”

“No.”

I looked closer.  I couldn’t see any dirt because his socks were black, but the scent was unmistakably corpse-like.   How could he trample on a dead body and not know it?  “When was the last time you changed your socks?” I demanded.

“Uh…”

“Jonathan!”

“I mean…”

“Jonathan, you have to change your socks every day.  It’s like underwear.  If you don’t remember, then it’s definitely been too long.”

“But Mom, I only have one pair of socks!” he moaned.

“What?  No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.  All my other socks are getting holes.  Remember?  I told you that.”

A little sticky-note in the back of my brain seemed to corroborate his story: “Jonathan needs new socks.”

Bother.

I’m not good at remembering the little things, like brushing hair and clipping toenails.  I usually only think of such things when we’re all sitting together in church and I notice with horror that my daughter has enough dirt under her nails to qualify for a farm subsidy.

“Well, listen,” I said, trying to distract him from my obvious oversight.  “Take off those socks and put them directly into the washing machine because there is no way I’m touching those with my bare hands.  Then wash your feet.  And your hands.  With soap.  Lots of soap.”  I threw in that last part because it sounded like the responsible thing to do under the circumstances, and I was suddenly interested in being more responsible.

Jonathan came back with clean feet and a much fresher smell.  Together, we investigated his sock drawer.  Besides a dozen rocks, two pocket knives and a wad of rubber bands, we found three pairs of hole-free socks.   Whew.  Probably I wasn’t the most neglectful mother on the planet.  Probably.

Still, I was going to have to buy him new socks.  A child who owns only four pairs of socks means a mother who is going to have to do laundry, well, way more often than I do.

That week, I showed up at the department store with a $10 merchandise coupon I’d gotten in the mail.  I went in with the singular purpose of getting that kid some socks.  I did not even look at the cute fall blouses or the shoes…dang, there are some cute shoes…but went directly to the boys’ section.

They were having some obscure BOGO 50% off sale, which meant I had to do math right in the middle of the day in order to figure out which package of socks was the best deal.  I wanted cool socks, the more the better, but not Tony-Hawk-cool.  I mean, really.  I was not about to pay an extra $5 a package—wait, make that $2.50 a package—to have “Hawk” written on the bottom of his feet.   I settled for some sturdy-looking Gold Toe socks with charcoal heels.  Cool enough.

That night, when Jonathan got home from a day at Nana’s house, I told him, “You have a surprise up on your bed.”

“What is it?” he gasped and ran upstairs like it was Christmas.  Probably I shouldn’t have used the word “surprise” in reference to socks.  Probably.

I was kind of surprised when I heard him squeal.  “New socks!  Wow!  Thank you, Mom!  Thank you!”  Jonathan clipped off the tag and put them on immediately.   “Faith, Kya, boys, look!  New socks!  Aren’t they cool?”

“Yeah, weawy, weawy cool,” Micah agreed, hands in his pockets like he was the ultimate authority on cool.

“Look, I can slip across the floor!  Whoa!  These are the best slipping socks!”

The other kids writhed with envy.  “How many socks did you get me, Mom?”  Jonathan asked, noticing their agony.

“You have eight new pairs.”

“Oh!  Can the other kids try them on?”

“Sure!”

A cheer went up as Jonathan passed out socks for everyone.  They all evaluated the slippery-factor for themselves, which, scientifically speaking, can only be measured in contusions, head-on collisions and possible concussions.  Turns out, these were really great socks.

Soon it was time for bed.  The socks had to go away, but I heard Jonathan babbling on about them when he was supposed to be brushing his teeth.

My goodness, I thought, they’re just socks.  I mean, I kind of owed him socks, being his mother and all.  And they weren’t even special Tony Hawk socks.  They were just plain, practical mom-socks.

But Jonathan delighted in those ordinary socks.  His gratitude was powerful and infectious.  It transformed our home as night crept in.  Where there may have been squabbles and bedtime drudgery, there was happiness.  Where there might have been sibling envy and strife, there was appreciation and selfless sharing.

Odor-free and happy

It gave me pause to think, and I realized gratitude is potent stuff.

It has the power to see the hand of God in the ordinary, the breath of the holy in the daily bread.  It lifts our eyes off the dirt and ground from which we were made and turns them up to heaven where we belong.  Gratitude reminds us that we are always and ever the recipients of many good gifts, sprinkled liberally into our lives by the very fingertips of God.

Most of the gifts are ordinary.  Mundane.  Even expected, like a package of plain white socks.  But gratitude awakens us to the evidence of the Divine in our lives.  Suddenly, even difficult situations or frustrations give way to thanksgiving.  A traffic jam reminds us that we have a car and a job.  A cold reminds us that we are most often healthy.  A mortgage payment reminds us that we have a home.  Is there anything I have that God has not given?

When I let gratitude reign, I find I have no room for rights.  Gratitude knows I don’t deserve most of what I demand, and my perspective shifts from my lack to my abundance.  I find myself grateful for the simple things like fresh-picked grapes from our arbor, a beautiful harvest moon, and a chance to talk to my husband who is far from home.  If I think about it, I could probably even be thankful for the odiferous socks that started it all.  Probably.

 

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth!

Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs. 

Know that the Lord is God. 

It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.  

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;

Give thanks to him and praise his name!

  For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;

His faithfulness continues through all generations.  —Psalm 100

 

Humor 16 Comments

I believe you can find grace for the mother you are and help to become the mother you long to be—a mom who has the freedom to choose the better things and enjoy her kids right now.

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