“Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within
me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.”
The morning is dark; the day will be cold. Northwest winds will make any foray outside
something of a chore. But we’ve had a
beautiful fall, and no one is complaining.
Winter is coming. Squirrels
scramble across our lawn and up our trees in anticipation, but they’re fat like
hedgehogs.
It’s Thanksgiving Day, and, upstairs, the kitchen is full of
empty bowls and pans and all kinds of food ready to be ladled, poured, mashed,
and baked. In the fridge, the naked turkey
sits, a fourteen-pounder, queen for a day.
That may be overstatement, and it certainly is if you’re the turkey.
Years ago already, after reading an interview with Garrison
Keillor, I began to take some time each day to give thanks for something—that my
Dell works, for my glasses, for Walden,
for the cat across the room, snoring right now. I started a daily-thanks
business, betting on Keillor’s idea that we could be better folks if we started
our days with gratitude to God, who doesn’t need our thanks as much as we need
to give it.
Still do occasionally, years later. If you follow this blog,
you know what I’m talking about. I’m not as disciplined as I once was, but I
still try to get some in once in a while.
So here’s the lay of the land this Thanksgiving. My son-in-law has a new job, my daughter is
happy, and the two of them love each other and their kids. Our parents, all
three of them, despite their age, are doing well, as well as can be expected.
Lots of darkness is behind our son; he’s married now and delightfully happy. And
did I mention those grandchildren?—they show up here and I giggle. My wife and I love each other, and take our
coffee every morning in the great room of our new house.
Here’s what I’m thinking this Thanksgiving morning: I’m thankful that there’s always something,
always hope, always the dawn.
And I’m thankful that I’m David, in a way, because I know as
he does that no matter how dark the day or cold the winter, no matter how
impossible life might look, there’s always hope, there’s God the rock. He’s reason alone for Thanksgiving.
Psalm 42 is a major psalm, maybe the most famous song of
lament in the whole collection. What’s
here is brokenness and despair, and I’m thankful for whoever penned this poem
because he’s written our story too, for all of us.
All that wailing doesn’t appear on anyone’s Christmas list,
but at one time or another in all of our lives it hides somewhere behind the
tree, ready to spring. And then does. I can’t imagine any believer who doesn’t
feel the despair of Psalm 42 at some point or another in life—“why so disturbed
within me?”
But even in his despair, the poet who blessed us with Psalm
42 is a pit bull: “I will yet praise
him, my Savior and my God.”
I’m thankful for that double-fisted determination, thankful
that my faith, while maybe not a pit bull is at least a mutt with attitude. I
don’t know why, but God has blessed me with a light in the darkness that is very
capable of growing dim, but for some mysterious reason, undouse-able.
It’s the gift of faith, a gift of love, for which I am—this Thanksgiving
morning especially—deeply thankful.
Psalm 42 is a song of triumph, even in our deepest
anguish. Psalm 42 is a song about
faith.
__________________________
*Today is not Thanksgiving, and this meditation wasn't penned yesterday. But I'll stand by what I said--except for this: our parents are still doing well, but they are, all three of them, gone. It's not a Dell I'm working on, but a Lenova--big deal. The picture is from out back, just yesterday. That having been said, I'm just as thankful as I was when I wrote this little morning meditation--and there are two more grandchildren!
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