Thankful Thursday, The Thanksgiving Edition

Yes, I know that it is Advent now and that Thanksgiving is a week old. I'm fairly sure you are aware that I have never been known for my punctuality.

This Thanksgiving I was reminded once again of just how much I have to be thankful for.

For my husband and my children. For dear family and friends. For good food and a warm home. For the security of my husband's job and the ability to afford insurance. For kind police officers. For life itself.

I must be a bit dense, because the Lord seems to use dramatic means to remind me of such blessings. Again and again.

Unlike last November, I was fairly relaxed heading toward Turkey Day. In fact, I was downright relieved. It's been an exhausting semester filled with way too many outside activities, and I relished the thought of five days of relative quiet. Plus, my amazing sister offered to host the dinner this year, and all that she asked of me were pumpkin pies and a sweet potato souffle. How easy is that?

I was feeling so relaxed that I decided to take all six of my gang to a great thrift store on Wednesday afternoon. It's forty-five miles away, way out in the country, but it really is a great thrift store, and on the last Wednesday of the month everything is discounted by fifty percent. Since gas is so cheap these days, I figured, "why not?" Actually, at the last moment, I had second thoughts...I was feeling tired and I did still have to make those pies. But rather than face the horrific reactions of five girls ready to shop, I loaded everyone into the van. I should have listened to those second thoughts.

A few hours later, we were back in the van with a trash bag full of half-price sweaters and corduroys. It was a little past six, already very dark, and the kids started snoozing. I was cruising along, listening to one of my favorite cds*, when BAM...the air bags exploded and the van swerved into the left lane before I was able to regain control and steer us to the shoulder on the right.

We hit a deer. A big one.

Needless to say, it was more than a bit traumatic and chaotic. Steam was rising from the engine through the glow of the hazard lights, and Elena thought we were on fire. As I calmly reassured her that we weren't, my mind frantically wondered if we could be and how quickly I could get all six kids out of the van. The four youngest were terrified and sobbing uncontrollably. Nastia had banged her nose hard against the side window. Thankfully, my cell phone was charged, so I called Jim, my Knightley, who calmly assured me that he would be there in twenty minutes.

Shortly after I called, the most endearing police officer stopped behind us. The kind of police officer who would soothe your nerves with a promise to take care of you in his sweet southern drawl.** The kind of police officer who would ask you for the record how fast you had been driving and you would say, "about 70," and he would say, "about 65?" and you would say, "yes, 65, thank you." The kind of police officer who would drive your husband and two daughters home because you could only fit five in your husband's Scion.*** That kind of police officer, thanks be to God.

We had planned to have Thanksgiving brunch at the home of some close friends and then make the seventy-minute drive to my sister's for dinner. What to do now, since our insurance didn't cover a rental car? Jim decided to drive half of us to my sister's in the morning and then come back to drive the rest of us there. When we called our friends to cancel brunch, they insisted we take one of their cars. That's the kind of thoughtful friends we have. When we left my sister's house on Friday (after a scrumptious Thanksgiving meal, an entertaining game of charades, and a peaceful walk through the woods), she insisted that we trade our car for her van, for as long as we need it. That's the kind of generous sister I have.

I loved that van. It was only five years old, but it had over ninety-five thousand miles on it, miles that took us across America and throughout most of Europe. So many memories locked in that vehicle. Memories of crying babies and laughing children, of beautiful landscapes and desolate highways, of songs sung and rosaries prayed. Trusting our Toyota, we expected to get at least another ninety-five thousand miles out of it. How could I be driving along one minute and then, BAM, the next minute my van is gone?

The instant after I wondered that question, I realized with fear and trembling that it could have been...BAM, the next minute my children are gone. If another car had been traveling behind us (and there had been a fair amount of traffic on that four lane divided highway), it could not have avoided hitting us. If I had seen the deer and braked too suddenly, we could have tipped and rolled. It's going to cost us some inconvenience and a lot of money to replace that minivan...big deal. The precious lives of my children are absolutely irreplaceable. My van may be gone, but my kids are here, with nary a scratch to show for it. What else could possibly matter?

This Thanksgiving I was reminded once again of just how much I have to be thankful for...for life itself and for the lives of those I love.

Thank You, Jesus.


*Sadly, the car battery died before I had the presence of mind to eject my cd. Happily, Elena had previously downloaded it onto the computer. God is good. And so are teenage daughters.

**Elena claims that I slipped into a southern drawl each time I answered that sweet police officer, but I think that she must have hit her head.

***Valya and Nastia were quite excited about their first ride in the back of a police car, especially since every word of their (captivating, I'm sure) conversation was recorded. I told them that their first ride will also be their last ride.