Name Them One By One

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Giving thanks for abundance is greater than abundance itself. ~ Rumi

I love Thanksgiving. It's Christmas without the endless to-do list. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the tree-decorating, light-hanging, mall-shopping, card-sending, present-wrapping, stocking-stuffing frenzy, it's just I'm usually in a coma by the time the work is done. Visions of sugarplums dancing in my head are often trumped by exhaustion. But, gathering for one day with family and friends, pausing the frenetic doing to simply give thanks for our cornucopia of blessings? Nothing could be better.

I grew up in the Mormon Church.

Sunday mornings found my family sitting on long wooden pews in the midst of a large congregation. My favorite part of church by far was the music. Raised by musicians, I've been singing since I could talk. From an early age lifting my voice in a joyful noise has been a wholly (holy), trans-formative experience. Although I no longer subscribe to the religion of my youth, the songs from childhood still sing to me. Hymns in 4/4 time still evoke the visceral memory of breathing in the Old Spice emanating from my father's freshly-shaven jaw, his neck encircled by a white collared shirt and tie. No matter the season he wore a full suit. I'd lean my head against his strong shoulder, the fabric rough on my cheek, his solidity my fortress. In that place, I was rooted. A lifetime later, the melodies trigger deeply embedded emotions, both poignant and comforting.

One hymn in particular plays in my mind this time of year. A rousing favorite, written at the turn of the century, Count Your Blessings is a lively tune that bounces along with words of advice to rival any 'keep-your-chin-up' Disney song sung by cute little animals. The message is emphasized by a dramatic ritardando (slowing) and fermata (hold) at the end -- 'name them one . . by . . one . . .' -- and brought home with a snappy happily ever after -- 'count your many blessings see what God hath done.' The simple but profound truth rings clear: hope is possible, even in the darkest of times, through gratitude.

The world is in pain.

People are suffering on levels I have never known and most likely, never will. War rages the globe over. Innocents are killed. Cities are destroyed. Brutal terrorist attacks in Beirut and Baghdad, suicide bombers in Paris, Syrian refugees with nowhere to call home; despair is rampant. Homelessness, poverty and domestic violence crush the human spirit. In my comparatively safe and prosperous life, lamenting hardships feels selfish and insensitive. Yet, adversity is a human experience, no matter our circumstances.

Viktor Frankl, author of Man's Search for Meaning, said, "... a man's suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber. Thus suffering completely fills the human soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering is great or little. Therefore the "size" of human suffering is absolutely relative."

It's been four months since my mother died.

I've been told the all firsts are difficult, and this Thanksgiving may be particularly hard for me. Mom didn't have an easy life and towards the end of her 71 years, she experienced more pain than joy, and more loss than fulfillment. But she taught me that being free of suffering isn't the point. Life is a journey of contrasts: heartaches and frustration, contentment and bliss, and to be human is to feel all of it. Viktor Frankl also said, "The meaning of life is to give life meaning." Even as we suffer, finding what is good and right and redeeming -- that is our salvation. Shining a light on our blessings warms the cold night and illuminates the dark.

My mom started a family tradition around the Thanksgiving table. Holding hands, each person takes a turn to name what they're grateful for. Both light-hearted and poignant, through laughter and tears, our abundance becomes brilliantly clear with each link in the chain.

Today, I count my blessings out loud. Holding hands with all the world, I take my turn.

I'm thankful for the aroma of coffee that greets me, just roused from sleep. For the radiance of the full moon in a dark sky at 5:00 am, the world utterly still and hushed. For the clean bite of cold air drawn into my lungs and the vapor as I breathe out.

I'm thankful for my hands; their age spots, like a tree's rings telling the story of years spent holding and touching. For feet that carry me, moving ever forward. For the rush of endorphins surging through my bloodstream during exercise, my heart a steady drum, beating the never-ending rhythm: I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.

I'm thankful for my mind; my intellect, and the ability to reason. For my sense of humor and the personality that's uniquely me. And for maturity and evolution, that I've traveled the roads bringing me where I am today.

I'm thankful for money enough to pay our bills. For water and electricity, for heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer, for appliances and furniture and clothes. For insurance and medical care and pharmaceuticals. For technology that makes life easier and more fun. For reliable transportation that won't leave me stranded. For a full tank of gas.

I'm thankful for connections that reach across distances; a Facebook message from my son, a sweet text from my daughter, a phone call from my best friend far away. For the love of my parents and brothers and sisters spread all over the country. For plane tickets. For cheesy peas and cinnamon rolls made from my mother's recipes. For tradition.

I'm thankful for the million things money can't buy, for a mother who loved me ferociously and without restraint, who remains a part of me I cannot separate, and whose lilting voice I hear in my head. For my mother-in-law, gone two years now, and the memories of her unconditional love and acceptance that live on. For my grandson and his new brother coming very soon. For daughters-in-law and gay marriage. For divine love in the universe that I believe will prevail over conflict. Because it must.

I'm thankful for the companionship of my husband, the sudden belly laughs he provokes, and his arms that wrap me up; a fortress. For the sweet sound of my daughters' voices, singing loudly from the back seat as I angle the rear-view mirror to glimpse their faces. For their clingy bed-time hugs as I tuck them in. For the words, "I love you, Mama."

I'm thankful for the glorious sun as I turn my face up, eyes closed, to catch its rays. For our home -- the place we go out from and come back to, for the sustenance we find in that shelter, our basic needs met and nourished. For a meal waiting at the end of a long day; for the contentment of belonging to each other.

I'm thankful for my pillow and the bed that cradles my body, formed by the years I've slept there, my husband by my side. For the warmth of his calf as my foot finds him. For his arm that instinctively draws me close. As I go to sleep, I'm thankful for one more day to draw breath.