RELEGATION

The cheap seats, back of the line, general admission, the bench, boarding group C, looking in from the outside... Sometimes we might feel like we have been relegated to something "less than". But hold on to your dinner roll a minute.

Tis the season; a trip in the grocery store and the first displays to greet you are the boxes of Stove Top, the cans of yams and bags of marshmallows, cranberry sauce and of course the trifecta of key ingredients for the green bean casserole. Besides the turkey these are the key fixin's on every Thanksgiving table--or should we say "tables"--plural. Just as the pilgrims before us, at any family gathering there will be the lowly Kid's Table. And, by lowly, I mean literally, physically lower than the big table; and also low enough to create a sense of longing to see the day when we can move up. But maybe the Kid's Table has gotten a bad rap and/or rep. Maybe it's not the place of relegation it appears to be. Maybe it's not a bad place to be.

Look at it: there's little chance of walking away from the kid's table stuffed. You've probably only had to eat "just one bite" of something. The only thing you're eating for sure is the big dollop of Cool Whip from the top of your pumpkin pie, or if you're lucky (as our grandkids are), you'll have a spray can of something akin to whipping cream which you can shake vigarously and squirt directly into your mouth.

As for discussion, the Kid's Table talk is free of politics and religion. The most heated conversation I've heard lately at a Kid's Table was the one between our two grandboys ages 8 and 5: Is fishing a sport or not? The 8 year-old who loves fishing is firmly on the side of definitely a sport. The 5 year-old, who had a successful T-ball season says "No Way!" He also doesn't feel that cheerleading is a sport. Luckily his older sister the cheerleader wasn't at the table.

This week, on November 17, our oldest Grand turned 17, her "golden" birthday (the calendar day of her birthday matches her age). I asked her about being the oldest at the Kid's Table. "When does one promote to the Big Table?" She said "Maybe 18?" with a hint of innocence lost in her voice. So this year will be her last at the Kid's Table. The little ones will miss her. The grown-ups will still be the grown-ups.

As kids, my brother and I, along with our parents, would make the pilgramage to a little town in Louisiana where our Dad was born and raised. Our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were there, as was the Kid's Table. We knew our place. We were reminded of what that meant on the long roadtrip "over the river and through the woods". "Eat a bite of butter beans and try the duck. Remember to say yes sir and yes ma'am. Asked to be excused from the table when you're through eating."

It seems like in the deep south, knowing and staying in one's place was a sign of respect--respect for tradition and acknowledging social and familial status. It was also expected. And, in the 50s and 60s, those expectations could have an air of relegation to them.

Remembering the One from whom all blessings flow, with a counting of some of those blessings, a deep breath or two of fresh air and grace, all of the tables become important, they all become the same height, they are all in the same room, the same significance and fraught with the potential to listen and learn and love.

Maybe there's something we can discover from the Kid's Table. Are there grateful little hearts at that table? YES! Sometimes gratitude is most evident in joy. Watch the joy and fun radiating from that little table. Maybe when Jesus talked about being like the children he was pointing to the Kid's Table. Maybe if Jesus were to come to our house for Thanksgiving He would sit at the Kid's Table. Maybe I should too.

THE V WORD

IN THE CHURCH OF MY YOUTH, we observed a couple of ordinances: baptism and communion, which we called “Observing the Lord’s Supper.” These ordinances are pictures, and to this day I love them. They are metaphors for remembering. In fact, at the beginning of the communion sevice, the elements—the bread and the “wine”—were set on a table at the front of the sanctuary. Engraved in the front of the table in a sort of gothic typeface were the words of Jesus, “Do this in remembrance of me”.

At the end of the observance, the pastor would read Matthew 26:30, a verse in the narrative of the last supper:

“And when they had sung an hymn, they went out into the mount of Olives.”

In the church of our tradition that song was the first verse of “Bless Be The Tie that Binds.”

Blest be the tie that binds
our hearts in Christian love;
the fellowship of kindred minds
is like to that above.

It was written by John Fawcett in 1782, although I would guess that many of the old saints of my childhood probably would have insisted that it is the exact song that Jesus and his disciples sang together at that first Last Supper.

Maybe you know the hymn from reading Thornton Wilder’s "Our Town” in high school where the song makes several appearances including at a wedding and at a funeral.

Do we still have ties that bind? If so, are those ties too fragile, too frayed? Have they been reduced to a thread to which we are barely hanging. What is it that is tearing at the fabric of our society and even our families?

Vaccinations? Surely it’s more than that. But I know people who have secretly gotten the vaccine because their family are so strongly anti-vax that could have severed family ties. And what about Jeffrey Allen Burnham from Maryland who killed his brother, a pharmacist. Burnham allegedly said, ”that his brother was 'killing people with the COVID shot.”

As the days click closer to Thanksgiving Day, it seems uncertainty still looms. The fraught questions will not be white meat or dark (WHITE), roasted or fried (ROASTED), should the offal go into the gravy or not? (NOT) Pecan or pumpkin pie or both? (PECAN) Sweet or unsweetened? (UNSWEETENED) Lions or Bears? (BEARS)

Some are asking should we gather together or not? Maybe rather than having seperate tables for adults and kids we can have tables or seperate rooms for the vaccinated and the un. Or, maybe a table in the garage or backyard for old people like myself. These days I’m a part of the oldest generation at our family gatherings. That puts me in the “Covid will probably kill me if I catch it” category. It also means I’m more likely to be cranky and less sympathetic with those who hold differing views of stuff.

A year ago, we didn’t have the vaccine. It was around this time of year that the long term care facility where my mom lived was shut to outsiders. We did get to have a couple of visits outdoors with her but that didn’t last long. At some point, even with the quarantine measures in place she was infected, and shortly, Covid took her life. Thus, I’m puzzled by the arguments, denials, or theories of the militant anti-vaxers; an emotional response on my part for sure. I do have empathy for those who truly are not able to be vaccinated for various reasons or have already had Covid. See, it’s narrow-minded people like me, who are afraid of death by suffocation that are gnawing away at the binding ties. Still I’m puzzled and saddened by how deep the divide is. I wish I knew what to do.

My Amazing-Missus reminded me that there was a time that the divide in our nation was worse. It was during that time, specifically in 1863, President Abraham Lincoln, at the height of the Civil War, established Thanksgiving Day in a proclamation entreating all Americans to ask God to “commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife” and to “heal the wounds of the nation.”

Pass me a heaping helping of what President Lincoln is serving up.