A Place at the Table

The 14-pound turkey sat ready for the oven. On the night before Thanksgiving, the plates were already stacked—11 of them—and the knives, forks and spoons were laid out neatly on the white lace tablecloth.

I mentally ticked off the serving dishes and counted the glasses and napkins—cloth ones I'd have to wash and iron. But this was a special Thanksgiving, and paper napkins just wouldn't do.

My life was settling down after the loss of my husband in a plane crash four years earlier. The emotional scars were healing. I'd just become engaged, and I was looking forward to giving thanks for my new fiance, Rudy.

I'd even written down a short blessing to say: "Dear Lord, on this Thanksgiving Day, let us bless your name without ceasing, for we know that all things good and lovely and loving come from you. Amen."

As I stood at the sink scrubbing pans, I began to feel chills. Just tired, I thought, continuing to work. The chills did not let up. I put on a sweater, turned up the heat. The chills got worse. My teeth were chattering and now my throat was sore. My head felt hot.

All of a sudden I felt so tired I could no longer stand up. Oh, no, not the flu. Not now. Not when I've planned everything and counted on having everyone here.

I dragged myself up the stairs and crawled under the quilt on my bed, fully clothed except for my shoes. But the chills wouldn't stop. Finally I picked up the phone and, with a wobbly voice, called off my special Thanksgiving dinner. "No visitors," I told my mother. "I'll just have to stay in bed and get over this."

We arranged to have the turkey picked up; my sister-in-law would have the dinner. My fiancé, a widower, would have dinner with his children. A wave of sadness swept over me. My plates, glasses and serving dishes would go unused. God would go unthanked in this silent house.

Thanksgiving Day I lay in bed with my golf-ball throat and my fever, alone in the house except for my dog. I reached down and stroked her thick black fur, then let her out. Tired and out of breath just from negotiating the stairs, I settled back on my pillow.

Some Thanksgiving. We were supposed to thank God for our afflictions as well as our joys, but I didn't feel like thanking him for the flu. I tried to remember what our prayer leader had said in church about coming closer to God when you least felt like it. She'd said, "You have to practice the presence of God. Pray as you can; don't pray as you can't."

Still angry and full of self-pity, I closed my eyes and tried to pray silently, willing my mind to center on God. But my mind rebelled. I thought about how I would have to take off the white lace cloth, put away the plates and serving dishes. I thought about the wash. About buying dog food, I thought about myself, and how awful the flu made me feel.