Holidays

The Smells of Thanksgiving

I love Thanksgiving. I always have. I remember growing up that Thanksgiving Day was different from any other day of the year. On most Thanksgivings, the air in our neighborhood hung heavy with the smell of roasting turkey coming from almost every house.

I loved the sound Thanksgiving always made: the sound of rakes scratching at leaves; the sound of talk about life as men leaned on their rakes and watched the leaves burn. I loved the smell, too; the smell of burning leaves, mixed with Thanksgiving turkeys cooking.

Like most people, I suppose, I have many wonderful memories about times of gathering with family and friends. We usually had lots of relatives over for Thanksgiving. Our table always looked as if it had been transported from a church potluck dinner just before they said "Grace," totally covered with bowls of good things just begging to be eaten.

I would check the progress of the dinner every few minutes, dipping and pinching and tasting my way into the kitchen. My mother seemed tolerant of my attempts to sneak premature bites of dressing or turkey-tolerant, but not oblivious. At regular intervals she would shoo me out with a reassuring "It'll be just a few more minutes, and then we can eat." My memories of Thanksgiving dinners at home are treasured ones, but one particular celebration stands out from all the rest.

The relatives we usually shared our Thanksgiving with had made other plans and we would be eating alone-just the five of us-my mom and dad and the three kids. When my mother finally called us to the table, we were ready.

We were all seated in our appointed places: my brother Dan and I sat next to each other; my little sister, who was about seven, sat on the end next to my mom. After Mom had taken her seat, we all looked to Dad, who prayed a special Thanksgiving prayer, thanking God for all He'd done and for the wonderful meal we were about to enjoy. But moments after the "Amen," there was a knock at the front door.

"Must be somebody wanting to play," said my brother Dan.

"Candy," said my mom, "will you go to the door and tell them we're just starting to eat. They'll have to come back later." My little sister obediently rose from the table and walked from the dining room through the house to tell the neighbor kid we couldn't play right now.

Within a few moments, she returned from her trip to the front door, took her seat at the end of the table and began filling her plate with savory things to eat. Dan wanted to know who was at the door. Was it Richard Justice, his buddy who lived across the street? Was it Mike Marler, who lived next door?

"No," said Candy. "I think he was a hobo."

Unison is a strange thing. Sometimes, when people hear things they can't believe they've heard, they respond in an unrehearsed unison question of clarification; one or two words spoken by several people all at once, spoken as they lean toward the one who has just uttered the unbelievable. That's what we did.

My brother and I and my mom and dad all spoke in unison, "A hobo?"

Candy looked startled at our question. She stopped spooning candied yams onto her plate, stalled in mid-air as if she'd just been caught doing something wrong.

"I think so," she said. "I think he was a hobo. He said he was hungry, and did we have anything to eat?"

My mother leaned toward my little sister as if the words were coming too slowly, as if she wanted Candy to get to the bottom line-the response. "What did you say, Candy? What did you tell him?" The urgency in my mother's voice made me know that something serious had just knocked on the door of our Thanksgiving.

"I told him we were just starting to eat, and he'd have to come back later. Isn't that what you said to say?" It was a correct answer that was clearly incorrect, an answer from someone too young to understand the irony of her words. Now, my mother sprang to her feet. Like a fireman answering a call, she raced to the front door, threw it open, and looked for the hungry stranger. He was not there. He had gone away. Across the lawn and out onto the sidewalk she ran, looking determined and urgent in her step. We saw him walking, a few doors down from our house, his hands in his pockets, a brimmed hat on his bowed head, his eyes looking down as he walked.

She ran down the street, did my mother. She startled the man, I think, when she grabbed his arm. "Are you hungry? Are you the one who knocked on our door?" The man nodded, almost apologetically.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to have disturbed your Thanksgiving," he said.

My mother did not seem disturbed. She seemed benevolent. She seemed resolute and understanding and . Christian about what to do when a hungry someone knocks on your door on Thanksgiving.

"Come with me," said my bold, four-foot-eleven-inch mother, as she guided the hungry man back to our house. My dad ushered him toward a seat in the living room and visited with the stranger as my mother disappeared in the kitchen. I listened to their conversation. My dad spoke to the man with dignity and genuine interest, ignoring his unkempt appearance. I do not remember the content of their conversation, only its warmth and concern. My mother soon reappeared from the dining room where she had set another place at our table.

"Please join us at the table," she invited. "You are welcome here, and we have more than enough food to share."

The hungry man ate with dirty hands, but he cleaned his plate. After he finished, he politely thanked my mother and said he needed to be moving on. She had prepared a sack lunch for him, and she and my dad walked him to the door and wished him well as he went on his way. I remember peeking out the front window as the stranger left. Even though I was just a little boy then, I have never forgotten watching him walk down the sidewalk and disappear into the anonymity of the city streets. And I've never forgotten the example of my parents on how to extend hospitality to someone who happens by.

My wife and I have had a parade of people go through our home during the course of our marriage; some of them came on Thanksgiving Day, and some of them came on ordinary days that we chose to fill with thanksgiving.

Some were single moms with kids. Some were elderly people with no family. Orphans and refugees have graced our table. All of them have had one thing in common: They all needed love and understanding.

God's blessed most of us with more than we need. We don't have to wait for Thanksgiving to express our gratitude. Every day, lost people walk by the neighborhoods of our lives; people starving for answers; longing for rest. We need to leave the doors of our lives standing wide open. If the people walking by smell the Bread of Life, who knows?

Maybe they'll walk up to the Door, join the family of God, take a seat in the household of faith.

Originally published in When You're All Out of Noodles ©1993. Ken Jones is formerly senior pastor at Alamo Christian Center in Alamo, California. He is a published writer who lives in California with his wife Randee.