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It's the Sunday before Thanksgiving in America. My husband and I will have our family over on Thursday: sons, daughters, daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, grandchildren, nephew, grandniece, and anyone else who cares to join us.
My husband is in charge of roasting and stuffing the 22 pound turkey (thank God!). I help peel, slice and fry up sweet potatoes and yams that then bathe in an orange juice, brown sugar and butter sauce as the dish bakes just before we eat. Various side dishes and desserts are supplied by the rest of the gang. We've turned Thanksgiving dinner into more of a pot luck than a hosted dinner. Everyone tends to bring whatever their signature dish has become over the years, although people can bring whatever they like. I try to keep track of what people are bringing so we won't end up with all desserts and no side dishes, but it's a pretty loose arrangement.
So by now we have the menu figured out and I've grabbed the "company" tablecloths out of storage. The turkey is ordered and will be picked up Wednesday morning. My husband and I also figured out where the furniture should go in the living room to make the most of the space we have and create places for the appetizers to live other than the top of our huge, ridiculously-expensive upholstered ottoman (which was a splurge and by definition, impractical).
On the To Do list:
- Put clean sheets on the twin bed and the trundle since we'll have overnight guests
- Shop for groceries
- Prepare the groceries (Weds. and Thursday morning)
- Make sure the portable tables are clean and ready for prime time
- Clean bathrooms
- Make sure I take time to think about everything I'm thankful for (this exercise tends to get lost in all the busyness at Thanksgiving, but will be easy this year as I have a lot on my list!)
That's for starters.
(C, this poem is especially for you)
A little bird I am,
Shut from the fields of air;
And in my cage I sit and sing
To Him who placed me there;
Well pleased a prisoner to be
Because, my God, it pleases Thee.
Naught have I else to do;
I sing the whole day long;
And He whom most I love to please,
Doth listen to my song:
He caught and bound my wandering wing,
But still He bends to hear me sing.
My cage confines me round;
Abroad I cannot fly;
But though my wing is closely bound,
My heart's at liberty;
My prison walls cannot control
The flight, the freedom of the soul.
Oh! it is good to soar
These bolts and bars above,
To Him whose purpose I adore,
Whose providence I love;
And in Thy mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom, of the mind.
I found this poem in the book "A Step Further" by Joni Eareckson-Tada (check out Joni's website, she has an amazing story!) This poem was written by a French noblewoman named Madame Guyon who was arrested in 1688 and falsely accused of heresy, sorcery, and adultery by jealous church officials. She spent ten long, lonely years in prison after being convicted, and wrote the above verse during her confinement, which, Joni writes, "...is an eloquent expression of the strength God will give to the suffering heart that waits on Him."
I read this during a particularly difficult time of my life when I was suffering both physically and mentally. I was in so much anguish, day after day, month after month, that each day I woke up I wished it could be my last. I wasn't suicidal, I just wanted the pain to be over, longing for God to take me. When I read, and then re-read (many times) this poem I sensed my whole perspective on pain and suffering changing. "Well pleased a prisoner to be because, my God, it pleases thee." That is a point of view that never would have occurred to me on my own. My mind just doesn't work like that, but I was able to see the beauty of it, and I wanted that conviction for myself. As I claimed this poem as my own prayer, my life slowly began to change. I know this isn't always the end of a person's story, but I was eventually able to find the medical help that I needed to drastically reduce the amount of pain I was having to deal with.
I'm much healthier now and, when I think back on those difficult years I realize I wouldn't trade them for the world. I never thought I'd be able to say that the suffering was a "gift", but it was. Would I still be able to say that if my pain level had remained high these past couple of years, had I not been able to find medication to help me? I'll never know. I'd like to think that I would, but I'm sure the jou
rney, if graphed, would be a line going up and down continually.
I know my suffering in this world is not over. Somewhere along the way I will experience more - it's part of the human condition, and I know I won't like it or necessarily be able to embrace it as I learned to do before. In fact, I'll probably have to start all over again in the process, but I'll have the memory, the experience of my previous victory over discouragement to draw on.
At the beginning of "It's a Wonderful Life" with Jimmy Stewart, the angels are talking and Clarence, the guardian angel, asks if George, our hero, is sick, and the other angel responds saying, "No, it's worse. He's discouraged." May God help all of you with your own personal discouragements so that you can also say, "My prison walls cannot control the flight, the freedom of the soul."
Have a truly happy Easter!
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