Some things are remembered by the taste of a meal. Others are remembered by the love that went into making them.
Back when I was growing up, Thanksgiving at our house was no small production. It was an event, and I do mean an event. Mama ran the show from beginning to end, and heaven help the poor soul who dared to wander into her kitchen once preparations were underway. There were rules, although I don't remember anybody actually writing them down. The first and most important was simple: Stay out of Mama's way!
A few days before Thanksgiving, she'd make her pilgrimage to our local grocery store. Back then it was called Foodtown, although it's Thriftown now, for reasons I'll probably never understand. She'd return with a 12- to 15-pound turkey that looked large enough to feed the entire congregation, a huge bunch of collard greens, a bag of cornmeal, a dozen eggs, milk, butter, and a couple of cans of pumpkin for her famous pie. I'm fairly certain she could have fed the entire county with what she brought home, but Mama wasn't one to take chances. You never knew who might show up, and in our family, an invitation was apparently an open-ended suggestion.
Mama believed Thanksgiving dinner didn't just happen. It required elbow grease, careful timing, and a generous helping of determination. She didn't want help, and we knew better than to offer. I loved watching her wrestle that enormous bird into the roasting pan, working butter underneath its skin as though she were tucking it in for a long winter's nap. In the wee hours of Thanksgiving morning, while the rest of us were still enjoying the luxury of sleep, that turkey went into the oven. Mama was already up and at it, making sure everything would be ready when the hungry masses arrived.
A day or two before the big event, she'd tackle the collard greens. Now, I realize collard greens are a Southern delicacy, and plenty of people consider them a gift from heaven. I wasn't one of those people. I couldn't stand the smell! It would settle into the curtains, the furniture, and just about every corner of the house. I'm convinced that if somebody had walked through our front door three days later, they could still have identified our Thanksgiving menu without ever seeing the kitchen. But everybody else loved them, so I learned to breathe through my mouth and mind my business.
Then came the cornbread. Mama would gather her ingredients and mix the cornmeal, eggs, and buttermilk in that big glass bowl of hers. Her little hands moved quickly and confidently, as though they'd been given a special assignment from heaven. Before long, that mixture would become the golden foundation for her dressing. I remember her hands being red from washing them in water so hot it could probably have peeled the paint off the kitchen cabinets. I often wondered if that was her secret ingredient. A little cornmeal, a little buttermilk, and a whole lot of determination!
By the time Thanksgiving arrived, the kitchen was a sight to behold. The oven was working overtime, pots were bubbling, and the smells of turkey, dressing, and all the fixings filled the house. Mama would eventually call one of us children into the kitchen to set the table. Of course, we never knew exactly how many places to set because Mama had a habit of inviting half the neighborhood and any stray cousin who happened to be within a fifty-mile radius. Her philosophy was simple: The more, the merrier. And somehow, no matter how many people showed up, there was always enough food to go around.
When it came time to bless the food, Mama took charge. Daddy wasn't particularly fond of praying aloud, but he certainly had no trouble getting involved when it came to the wishbone. After dinner, he'd challenge us children to a little contest, which he called settling things the old-fashioned way. We would each grab an end of that poor turkey wishbone and pull with all our might. Somehow, Daddy always managed to win. Looking back, I suspect the rules may have been slightly in his favor!
Now, I don't know about you, but I always thought the wishbone was simply one of those Thanksgiving traditions that somebody, somewhere, had made up to give children something to do after dinner. Turns out, there's quite a history behind that little bone, and it goes back a whole lot further than Daddy's annual competition.
The wishbone is actually called the furcula. It's the bird's collarbone, and it helps support the wings. Chickens, turkeys, and all other birds have one. After the bird has been prepared for dinner, the bone is usually set aside to dry so it will break more easily. Then two lucky participants each take hold of an end, make a silent wish, and pull until the bone snaps. According to tradition, whoever walks away with the larger piece gets to have their wish granted.
Apparently, this custom has been around for more than two thousand years! Historians trace its roots back to the ancient Etruscans, who lived in what is now Italy. Around 300 B.C., they used chickens in rituals to predict the future. The birds would peck at scattered kernels of corn, and spiritual leaders interpreted their movements as signs. Afterward, the bones were saved, dried, and used in good-luck rituals. The Romans adopted the practice, carried it into England, and the English eventually developed the familiar tradition of breaking the bone in two, with the person holding the larger piece considered the lucky winner.
When the custom made its way to America, the Pilgrims adapted it to the birds readily available to them. Instead of chickens, they used wild turkeys. And so, somewhere along the way, the Thanksgiving wishbone became part of our American holiday traditions.
Who knew? All these years I've been participating in a tradition with roots reaching back to ancient civilizations! I wonder what those Etruscans would have thought about Daddy and his determination to beat a bunch of children at a turkey bone competition. Something tells me they would have been impressed.
Of course, there's one important difference between wishing on a bone and placing our hope in the Lord. A wishbone may offer a little entertainment and a good excuse for some family competition, but it cannot promise us anything. Our faith isn't built on luck, superstition, or which end of a dried turkey bone happens to land in our hands. Our hope rests in a God who knows us, loves us, and holds our future.
The kitchen was hot from the oven working overtime, the windows were fogged, and the house was filled with the sound of conversation and laughter. Plates were piled high with turkey, dressing, greens, and all the other Southern necessities. There was no such thing as counting calories that day, and if there was, nobody bothered to mention it. We ate until we were full, visited until we were tired, and somehow found room for a piece of Mama's pumpkin pie.
Those were special days, although I doubt any of us children stopped long enough to recognize just how special they were. We were too busy enjoying the food, laughing at Daddy's antics, and trying to stay out of Mama's kitchen. We didn't realize that one day those ordinary moments would become extraordinary memories.
As the years have passed, I've come to understand that Mama wasn't simply preparing a Thanksgiving meal. She was creating something that would stay with us long after the last dish had been washed and the tablecloth put away. She was passing down traditions, demonstrating love through service, and reminding us that family was worth the effort. Her kitchen was more than a place to prepare food. It was where memories were made, stories were shared, and love was served up with a generous helping of butter.
I wish I could step back into that kitchen one more time. I'd probably complain about the collard greens just as I did when I was a child, and Mama would probably tell me to hush and get out of her way. But I'd give just about anything to hear those words again. I'd watch her little hands working that cornbread, listen to her moving around the kitchen, and take in every familiar smell, even those collards I once thought were a punishment from above.
Time has a way of changing our Thanksgiving tables. Some chairs that were once occupied are now empty. Some familiar voices have grown quiet, and some of the people who made our childhood holidays so special are no longer here to celebrate with us. I've lost loved ones whose presence I once took for granted, and I suspect many of you know exactly what that feels like. The holidays can stir up memories that make us smile and, sometimes, bring tears before we even realize they're coming.
But perhaps that's part of gratitude, too. We can be thankful for what we have today while holding close the memories of what we once had. We don't have to choose between missing someone and being grateful. The two can sit together at the same table.
Scripture reminds us in Psalm 107:1, "Give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever." I love that this verse doesn't tell us to give thanks only when life is easy or when everything around us is exactly as we'd like it to be. God's goodness doesn't depend on the number of people gathered around our table, the size of our turkey, or whether every chair is filled. His goodness remains constant through every season of life.
And 1 Thessalonians 5:18 reminds us, "In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you." Notice it says in everything, not necessarily for everything. There is a difference. We can give thanks even when our hearts are heavy, even when we miss someone terribly, and even when the holidays remind us of what has changed. Gratitude doesn't erase our sadness. It simply reminds us that sadness isn't the whole story.
Perhaps this Thanksgiving, we can take a lesson from Mama's kitchen. We can make room for one more person at the table, invite someone who might otherwise spend the day alone, share a favorite family story, or prepare a dish that reminds us of someone we love. We can laugh about the old days, shed a few tears if we need to, and thank God for the people and moments that have shaped our lives.
And let's not save our gratitude for one Thursday in November. Every morning we wake up is another opportunity to recognize God's goodness. Every conversation, every shared meal, every hug, and every ordinary moment is a gift. We may not always have the people we love sitting beside us, but we can carry the love they gave us into the days still ahead.
I think Mama understood something that took me years to appreciate. Thanksgiving was never really about how much food was on the table. It was about making sure there was a place for everyone, and that nobody left hungry for love.
So this year, when you gather around your Thanksgiving table, take a moment to look around. Appreciate the hands that prepared the meal, the voices filling the room, and even the little inconveniences that come with getting everyone together. One day, those may be the very things you wish you could experience all over again.
And if you happen to be the one in charge of Thanksgiving dinner, remember Mama's rules: Start early, use plenty of butter, make more cornbread than you think you'll need, and for goodness' sake, don't let anybody mess with your kitchen!
As for me, I'll keep holding on to those memories. And I have a feeling that somewhere in heaven, Mama is busy preparing another Thanksgiving feast. I can just picture her bustling around that heavenly kitchen, making sure there's enough for everybody. I only hope Daddy has finally learned to share the wishbone.
After all, we don't need a lucky bone to remind us that we are blessed. We have a loving God, precious memories, and the promise of a hope that doesn't depend on luck or chance. And one day, because of His grace, we'll gather again around a table where no chair will ever be empty.
**Some traditions are simply too good to leave behind, but the greatest blessing of all is knowing that the love of God—and the promise of eternity—will never pass away.**
Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of family, for the memories that make us smile, and for the people whose love continues to shape our lives even after they've gone home to be with You. Thank You for the mothers and fathers who worked behind the scenes, often without recognition, to make our holidays special. Thank You for the hands that prepared our meals, the voices that filled our homes, and the traditions that remind us where we came from.
Lord, I know that Thanksgiving isn't an easy day for everyone. Some will come to the table with empty chairs, tender hearts, and memories that bring both laughter and tears. Wrap Your loving arms around those who are missing someone today. Help us recognize the blessings that remain while being thankful for the ones we've carried in our hearts. Teach us to extend kindness, make room for others, and never take an ordinary moment for granted.
May our gratitude extend far beyond one day on the calendar. Help us recognize Your goodness in the big things and the little things, in the answered prayers and the unanswered questions, and in every new day You give us. Remind us that our hope isn't found in luck, wishes, or traditions, but in You alone.
And Lord, when we reach that heavenly home, I hope there's a kitchen filled with familiar faces, plenty of butter, a beautiful turkey, and a table big enough for everyone. Just one small request: Could You please keep Daddy away from the wishbone?
In Jesus' precious name, Amen.
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