There
are few times in our busy, overstressed world where we all come
together, but this week is one of them. It matters little whether
you are religious or not, but Thanksgiving is a universal holiday.
Other nations may have differing dates, but most countries and
cultures have some sort of communal celebration for a successful
harvest, a time of feasting.
I
want to give thanks to my Father in Heaven for his gifts and
blessings. I acknowledge his hand in my life, and I am grateful for
so many things.
I
am grateful for this place he found for us to live.
Leaving
behind the home where we had lived for more than thirty years, and
where we had raised our children, was hard. The timing was forced on
us by circumstances that were not of our choosing, but he carried us
through.
I
give him thanks often that we were able to have a house, and were not
stuck in a small apartment. This little house isn’t fancy, and
it has its quirks and shortcomings. Nothing is truly level, or
square, and maintenance on the outside had been rather lacking. The
kitchen is certainly old.
But
there are fruit trees that hang over our fence that we have had the
picking of, because the people behind us don’t care. We had no
idea, until we saw fruit forming — but he knew.
The
property, though tiny, is situated so that its orientation is optimal
for growing a garden, which has been both a balm and an adventure for
me. Since it sits on a corner, the southern exposure is not shadowed
by another structure but is open, and gets the sun.
In
fact, I love the light in this space, and the vestibule window that
fills with flowering trees through the spring, and now with golden
leaves that have yet to fall. That’s my glorious view when I
sit down with a book.
I’m
grateful for family.
I’m
grateful that my parents are still living, and that I grew up with
testimony and service as examples of how to live my life. Even
before them, I was given a legacy of faith and devotion.
As
I expressed once to a friend, all my family stories are gospel
stories. What a difference that has made. I cannot separate my
identity from my faith, which is as essential to me as breathing. I
have learned truth through my own experience, but the beginning point
was here.
My
brothers and sisters and I all enjoy being together, which doesn’t
happen as often as we’d like. There are no estrangements, for
which I’m grateful. We are on good terms as well with each of
our children, and that’s a blessing not everyone has.
I’m
grateful for friends. I have kindred souls to love, who love me as
well. I get great hugs. What a remedy that is for loneliness.
I’m
grateful for wonder.
I
love to share discovery with little children. It’s such a
delight to spark an eye-widening, smile-spreading moment on a young
face, or to observe one that comes without any need of me. The whole
world is new for them, and new again to us as we simplify our
attention away from our demanding, jostling, grown-up world.
There
is wonder in the power of stories, as words on a printed page become
events and characters that reach right into the heart and linger long
after the book is closed. They might also unfold on a stage or a
screen, and become real and sometimes transforming.
Or
the alchemy of notes marked on a score, where ink and paper adding
fingers or pushes of air on the instruments become sound that may
weep, or rise in majesty, or contemplate many emotions; or voices
which bring music and words together as one.
There
is such beauty and variety in this world, and I love that. There is
the wonder of created line, shape and color. There was an extensive
exhibit of Thomas Moran paintings in Seattle several years ago, and
to stand in a final room filled with enormous canvases, Yellowstone
landscapes as large as twelve feet wide by eight feet tall, was to be
immobilized by awe.
I’m
grateful for an enduring marriage.
We’ve
passed the forty-year mark now, which is a pretty good start on
eternal togetherness. I’m married to a good man who is
patient, dedicated, and has a generous heart.
I
am the rare person who got to keep her first real love forever. We
have been through trauma, heartbreak, joy, help, and all the
craziness of life, but we share an unbreakable testimony. We have
received and raised six children, survived the transition to an empty
nest, and life together now has quietly become sweeter.
I
have so much to be grateful for.
Matthew
relates that when the multitude gathered, too intent on hearing Jesus
and too far from home to gain food, he collected the seven loaves and
a few fishes that his disciples had with them. They didn’t
understand how so little food could answer such a great need, looking
at the vast numbers who must be fed.
He
took what was there, and gave thanks; then broke the bread and pulled
the fish in pieces and sent them out to distribute it — and all
were fed. Not only was there enough, there was more left over, after
everyone had taken what they needed, than what had been in hand
before the miracle.
We
may never have such a miraculous occurrence in a physical, tangible
sense, but Christ himself demonstrated the principle that in stopping
in the middle of our anxious concerns, and giving thanks, we open the
windows of heaven. We trust him and open our hearts to see his hand
blessing and watching over our lives.
Even
in difficulty — for he also, at that last Passover, took the
cup and gave thanks — thanks (I think) that they were gathered
in momentary safety, thanks for the purposes he knew were soon to be
accomplished, notwithstanding that he was about to go to the agonies
he had promised to bear for us, though in that moment his apostles
knew it not. All was under the hand of his Father.
“Give
thanks in all things.” (1Thessalonians 5:18) This is the
admonition found in every book of scripture. Giving thanks is a
universal counsel; gratitude is a universal strength and help. It
opens up our lives.
I
give thanks for his tender patience and numerous miracles in mine.
As we travel tomorrow to spend our day of thanksgiving with close
friends, I hope every one of us can discern his gifts and offer
gratitude for them, whatever they might be.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.