THINGS MY FATHER TAUGHT ME
By Mary Morrell
Freelance columnist
The feasts of fall: Gratitude and praise
May you always have walls for the winds, a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire, laughter to cheer you, those you love near you, and all your heart might desire. — Irish blessing
Recently, during one of the first real weeks of fall, I found it necessary to take several days off from work because of a painful flare-up from a herniated disc. The first day was spent in a robe and bare feet, doing no more than getting up occasionally to make a cup of tea, and looking disgustedly at the cleaning that was piling up around me.
The pain made me cranky and I lay in bed, tossing and turning in a futile effort to get comfortable, while my favorite time of year seemed to pass me by.
The stuff of fall has always held a special emotional meaning for me — crunching leaves, geese flying south, caramel apples, bonfires and blankets — and memories of loved ones who once shared those times with me.
Pain has a way of leading us to focus on the sadness and losses of life. So, in my crankiness and through God’s wisdom, I prayed.
On the second day I decided to throw open the windows so I wouldn’t miss fully another beautiful fall day or the smells and sounds of October, and I discovered my spirits were lightening. Soon, as the pain medication began to really work, I found myself slipping into a routine of a little housework, a little reading, a little cooking and lots of music. I love music, and I seemed to have my own traveling tympani section because everywhere I went in my carpet-bare house the tap, tap, tap, of eight little dog paws went with me.
When I would stop, they would stop; when I walked, they ran; when I sat, they sat — on my feet, on my lap or on the cats that tried to muzzle in on some attention. All I could do was laugh.
On the third day I realized, in the middle of a load of laundry and with a chatterbox squirrel yelling at my cat from a nearby tree, that I was singing and smiling and feeling very much at peace in my aching body and my not-so-tidy house.
As I sat down that afternoon on the deck, keeping off the slight chill in the air with a cup of hot chocolate and the cozy robe my son had given me for Christmas, I realized that my singing and my laughing and my sighs of contentment were expressions of gratitude and praise for the God who had given me such simple but profoundly meaningful gifts.
As I sat there I remembered the times, when my parents were alive, that the fall marked a happy journey for my family — a trip back home to Albany, N.Y., for Thanksgiving with my mom and dad.
From the moment we began getting ready, even trying to stuff six boys into the back of a station wagon, it was a journey of gratitude — for the old but running car that got us there, for the laughter and silliness of the children who left candy wrappers and crayons all over the back seat, for the beautiful drive and wonder of the Catskills, for the love and presence of our family, for the friends and the food and the house that held us all, and another profound moment to remember the generous gift-giver who gave it all out of love. It was a long journey, but even with a car full of cranky, sticky children there is not one moment I would not retake if I had the opportunity
And even now, though that journey to Albany is no longer planned and loved ones are gone or distanced, the journey of gratitude will be still undertaken for the endless blessings that remain, and even for the struggles, which remind me that apart from the kingdom of God, nothing can be perfect or without pain.
Such is the journey of faith — built on an awareness of God and God’s blessings, filled with memories and traditions, love and hope and trust that the God who loves us this much will make the most important journey a feast to remember.
*The attached/referenced article was originally published in The Catholic Spirit, the official newspaper of the Diocese of Metuchen, and is protected under U.S. and international copyright law