They [in the northern country] had, as well, invented a holiday called Thanksgiving, which Ruby had only recently got news of, but from what she gathered its features to be, she found it to contain the mark of a tainted culture. To be thankful on just the one day.
― Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain

The mark of a tainted culture–thankfulness contained to just the one day. Oh Ruby, if only your words were just the ignorant claims of an uneducated fictional daughter of the Civil War! If only Thanksgiving were not the much anticipated pumpkin-pie-eating prologue to Black Friday (which has now become Black Thanksgiving eve)! If only the obligatory prayer of gratitude wasn’t dusted off but once a year! If only. . .

There is something decidedly frightening about how Halloween and Christmas have squeezed Thanksgiving into such a small and singular holiday role. In the whole holiday pie, Thanksgiving is not even a sliver. It is a crumb, an afterthought shoved between the aisles of clearance Halloween candy and Christmas tinsel. It is an excuse to smother your sweet potatoes with an entire bag of marshmallows and your pecan pie with real whipping cream. Too often, it may be a table with too much food and too little gratitude.

In Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Christian Community, Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

In the Christian community thankfulness is just what it is anywhere else in the Christian life. Only he who gives thanks for little things receives the big things. We prevent God from giving us the great spiritual gifts He has in store for us, because we do not give thanks for daily gifts. We think we dare not be satisfied with the small measure of spiritual knowledge, experience, and love that has been given to us, and that we must constantly be looking forward eagerly for the highest good. Then we deplore the fact that we lack the deep certainty, the strong faith, and the rich experience that God has given to others, and we consider this lament to be pious. We pray for the big things and forget to give thanks for the ordinary, small (and yet really not small) gifts.

Bonhoeffer’s accusation that we dare not be satisfied with the small measure of spiritual knowledge, experience, and love that has been given to us is, sadly, a sign of the very tainted culture that Ruby Thewes described. It is, indeed, counter-cultural to be grateful for small measures of things. Too often, we expect super-sized measures of everything from french fries to love to success. Perhaps out of our perceived scarcity, we’ve learned to live like squirrels, stuffing our cheeks with more acorns, storing up stuff in every conceivable nook and cranny. We buy more Rubbermaid totes and busy ourselves with storing up our treasures here on earth, girding ourselves with more of everything.

As I’ve aged, I’ve begun to realize how small my world is becoming. I have no children to raise, no mounds of laundry to sort, no lunches to pack or permission slips to sign. I have no work place to go to or colleagues to work with, no meetings to attend and no projects to complete. These worlds often seemed so big to me as they lay solidly on my shoulders like a giant yoke. I pulled and I pulled, my eyes fixed on the possibilities and challenges before me. For the greater good, I pulled. For a lasting legacy, I pulled. For what was right and true, I pulled. The great expanses of what might–and should– be shone on the horizon, and I pulled.

But now, I often feel as though I could pull my world with one finger. It’s a world whose perimeter is closer, as if my life were tucking itself tightly around me. But within this perimeter are such ordinary, small (and yet really not so small) gifts. And I find myself grateful–so very grateful–for this small measure that has been gifted me daily.

When my grandson flings the front door open, kicks his boots off, and hangs his coat on the small hook designated just for him, I am grateful that I live 50 yards from this toothless boy who has grown to regard my house as his second home. When my granddaughter places the Sorry board game before me and declares, with feigned optimism, that I actually might win this time, I am grateful, so grateful, to lose again to this blue-eyed girl who is blossoming into a young lady right before me. When my children gather around our family table and laugh long and hard, recalling shared antics and stories from childhood, I am grateful beyond measure. When I hear my mother’s voice through the phone which brings us together across the miles, I give thanks for her very presence which continues to sustain me. When I read my father’s words and remember how these words were often born as he walked the alleys of my hometown with a small, blue notebook in his pocket, I give thanks.

In the end, Bonhoeffer was imprisoned and later executed as a political prisoner during the Holocaust. His world shrunk to the size of a prison cell. His circumstances were evil, but his gratitude was endless. He writes:

How can God entrust great things to one who will not thankfully receive from Him the little things? If we do not give thanks daily for the Christian fellowship in which we have been placed, even where there is no great experience, no discoverable riches, but much weakness, small faith, and difficulty; if on the contrary, we only keep complaining to God that everything is so paltry and petty, so far from what we expected, then we hinder God from letting our fellowship grow according to the measure and riches which are there for us all in Jesus Christ.

Even when there is much weakness, small faith, and difficulty, when our lives are so far from what we expected, Bonhoeffer reminds us that we must gives thanks to God for the measure and riches which are there for us all in Jesus Christ. This is a tall order for most of us who find ourselves continuing to strive for the lives we expected–and still expect. A tall order, indeed, for those of us who, in spite of ourselves, want a larger measure of everything (and a standing order for more, in case we run out).

If it were possible, I would invite both Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Ruby Thewes to Thanksgiving dinner. And then, I would invite them to stay. Thanksgiving should be an ordinary, daily discipline, a gratitude for the small measures I have been given, and I could really use a pair of good mentors.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. Psalm 100:4

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.  Thorton Wilder

Seconds before he would succumb to anesthesia for his tonsillectomy, my grandson, Griffin, looked intently into his doctor’s eyes and asked, “Could I just have a moment?” A few weeks earlier, he had three baby teeth pulled, and he wore the trauma of this experience like an albatross. Teeth extraction and now surgery? At six years, how much more could a boy take? He just needed a moment.

Oh, I’ve been there in those circumstances when I was desperate for just a moment. Sitting at my desk, waiting to give an assigned speech; crouching in the starting blocks, waiting for the gun to begin the 400 meter run; lying on a hospital bed being prepped for a D & C which would remove any traces of the life I’d hope to carry for nine months; standing in a visitation line, rehearsing what I could possibly say to the bereaved family. Just a brief respite, the chronology of my life stopped and frozen in a single frame, a space in which to breathe. Could I have just a moment? Please.

In her novel, Nineteen Minutes, Jodi Picoult writes:

Do you know how there are moments when the world moves so slowly you can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that no matter what happens to you for the rest of your life, you will remember every last detail of that one minute forever?

As my daughter and I sat with Griffin awaiting his surgery, he pleaded in earnest: Let’s just go home now. We should go home and reschedule this. I’m really scared, so we should go down the blue hallway and leave. For nearly an hour, he talked in hopes of creating a moment of blessed relief, an assurance that–at least for today–he could keep all of his body parts. It was almost more than I could bear. I could feel his mind tumbling, his six-year-old world unraveling, the loose ends of it lying spent on the antiseptic hospital floor. I wasn’t sure if he would remember this for the rest of his life, but I was quite certain that I would.

And yet there are other types of moments. In The Age of Reason, Jean-Paul Sartre referred to these types as little diamonds. American author, Catherine Lacey, claims these moments are the ones you wish could stretch out like a hammock for you to lie in. These are the good ones, the keepers. Fleeting as they may be, these are the moments that you store in your treasure chest and take out, like keepsakes, to admire again and again. We live our best lives in the sanctuary of such moments, and they often sustain us through dark and barren times.

Years ago, I read the account of a POW captured and imprisoned by the Viet Cong. For months, he lived in a cage about the size of a large dog kennel. He recalled how one day stretched painfully into another. With no one to talk with and nothing to do, he could only wait for execution–or rescue. He recounted how he spent his days golfing his favorite courses, imagining each hole, living through the moments of each drive and putt. Philanthropist and entrepreneur Alex Haditaghi writes: Life is not made up of minutes, hours, days or years, but of moments. Nothing is permanently perfect. But there are perfect moments. This POW lived in the perfect moments he had experienced, and those he hoped to experience, on golf courses all over the United States. These life-saving moments made the agonizing months of captivity and torture bearable.

Poet Gwendolyn Brooks writes:

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.
And be it gash or gold it will not come
Again in this identical disguise. [Annie Allen, 1949]

The moments of our lives may be gash or gold. They may wound us deeply or bless us abundantly. We may long for them to delay what we fear and dislike, or we may wish for them to grow exponentially, increasing what we love and admire. Either way, they will not come again. In the Sanctuary of Moments, we have shelves of these moments, gash and gold, which define us.

The uncannily adult request for just a moment will define my grandson, I’m afraid. As he approaches new experiences and events, he will undoubtedly see courses of action play out in his mind. And these will terrify him more often than not. I know this because I, too, have suffered from such an imagination.

These days, however, I find myself pleading for more moments. As American playwright Thorton Wilder writes, I want to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. I am acutely conscious of my treasures, even those heart-wrenching moments when I would give anything to keep Griffin safe within a beautiful bubble like the one in the photo. Inside this bubble, there would be no tonsillectomies or public speaking or break-ups. Inside this bubble, one could string life’s wondrous moments like shiny pearls. But even when I find that I can do little more than hold a trembling boy before his surgery, I am conscious of these moments, too, which are treasures nonetheless.