Thanks -- a lot

Thanksgiving 2009 is just about over, but I'm still mulling over the things in my life for which I am grateful. One is a growing awareness of how gratitude itself can transform the way I look at life in general and my own life in particular.

Once, while attending a memorial service for a young person who had died tragically -- and what young person's death isn't tragic -- I heard a priest say that spiritual living is grateful living. It seemed an unusual thing to say at a moment such as this, when gratitude was probably the furthest thing from the minds of those who loved this boy the most.

But the more he talked about it, the more I came to realize the healing power that gratitude can have, especially at a time of great loss. Gratitude can turn the mourning of our losses into celebrations of what we once were blessed to have.

In my own life, gratitude has proven to be a powerful antidote to anxiety and regret. I'm pretty good at brooding over the past, so I need all the antidotes to that tendency I can find.

Gratitude seems almost too simplistic, but it can be a powerful force. Instead of fretting over what I don't have, I try to think of all I do have and all the things I've gotten to do -- things that, as a young person, I only dreamed of doing.

Sometimes it's enough to think of that young boy and to recognize how blessed I've been just to be given the gift of time.

11/22

I can't see that date without being thrust back into an eight-grade math class, the place I happened to be when the voice of the school principal came over the PA system and announced that the president had been shot. We were immediately sent back to our homerooms and told to pray in silence. I remember thinking that if the president died, nothing would ever be the same again.

The nun who was my homeroom teacher sat quietly at her desk as we filed in, her eyes brimming with tears. Time seemed frozen as we sat there and waited for the news we all feared would come. And when, at last, it did, they sent us all home.

I recall thinking that normal television programming would likely be pre-empted for much of the afternoon. I never imagined that four the next for days I would be riveted to the TV set, watching events unfold: the swearing-in aboard Air Force One, Mrs. Kennedy in her blood-stained suit emerging from the plane, Oswald's death, the funeral cortege and that incessant beating of the drums as the president's casket slowly made its way to Arlington.

A few years ago, while helping my mother empty out her house, I came across some school papers she'd saved. One was a spelling test. I figured she'd kept it because I'd gotten all the answers correct.

Then I noticed the date I had neatly written at the top: November 22, 1963.

I tucked the spelling test into a folder to take back home with me, to remind me of a time before life changed. Forever.

Thinking of home

A week from now I'll be well on my way to Ohio to be with my family for Thanksgiving, the first time I'll have been there for that holiday in years. As I sit here thinking about that trip, I'm listening to Judy Collins sing about her grandmother's house, which is "still there, but it isn't the same."

My own grandmother's house is still there, back in Ohio, still owned by my family, though hanging onto it hasn't always been easy. It was built by my great-grandfather, a German immigrant. My grandmother and my mother were born there. My grandfather spent some of his last hours there.

But, as the song goes, it isn't the same.

My brother lives in the smaller of the two houses on the property. The other, the main house, is occupied by tenants, good tenants who pay the rent on time. But it just isn't the same.

I make a point to drive past there when I make my way home to Ohio. And, as Collins sings, I wish the others who drive by it could see what I see: a porch full of people on a warm summer evening, rocking, swinging, talking and laughing, while the children look for buckeyes in the tiny yard or roost on the porch steps and count the cars passing by.

But that was a very long time ago. My grandmother died in 1980. Her beautiful things have been dispersed throughout the family (though my brother still dreams of one day filling the house with all its original furnishings). And while the house doesn't look bad -- in fact, it looks well for its age -- I've come to accept that it is, after all, just a house.

Thank goodness for memories that don't dim with time. Because when I want to, I can put myself there, on that porch, on a warm summer evening with the nighthawks screeching overhead, watching cars -- and time -- pass by without a care in the world.

Lights on

I saw my first neighborhood Christmas light display a couple of nights ago. The folks who live in a tiny house down the road had decorated their backyard shed, complete with lights, to usher in the holiday season.

Never mind that it's 65 degrees in our part of upstate New York at the moment. These folks are ready to party.

Given how dark it was at 5:15 p.m. yesterday, I can hardly blame them -- even though I usually don't unpack our Christmas lights until the first of December. This time of year, we need all the light we can get.

Which brings me to Iceland, a remarkable place I visited for a week in August. Come this Friday, the sun won't rise there until 10 a.m. I've read that on Dec. 21, the stars will still be shining at that hour of the morning.

The sun is setting in Iceland at roughly the same time it sets here -- for now. Before long, though, Icelanders will be down to just a few hours of daylight a day. I hear they party a lot to ward off depression.

I try to think of Iceland when I find myself grousing about the annual descent into darkness. Sort of puts things in perspective.

Flu footnote

I made a quick stop at a big box store this morning and overheard two of the checkout clerks chatting with a woman who had covered her mouth with the "neck" of her turtleneck.

"You don't really have flu, do you?" one clerk asked the woman -- who proceeded to nod her head yes.

"Where's the Lysol spray?" the other clerk asked. "We need Lysol spray. And those sanitizing wipes."

By this time, the woman in the turtleneck had scurried out of the store. I, standing nearby, realized I'd been holding my breath for several seconds. Deciding I'd do more damage to myself by keeling over than I would by inhaling, I chose the latter.

OK, I did use the hand sanitizer when I got to my car.

You can't be too careful.

Not keeping in touch

Daily news reports about the toll the H1N1 flu virus is taking has me stashing little bottles of hand sanitizer in the various corners of my life. That's on top of the hand sanitizer stations I see around the campus where I teach and at my grandson's day care center, among other places. (I half expect to see one some Sunday next to the holy water font at church.)

As a result of all that hand cleaning, or perhaps in spite of it, I haven't fallen victim to the flu -- yet. I haven't had my flu shots either because there hasn't been enough of the stuff to go around. As someone not considered "high risk," I doubt I'll be able to get those shots any time soon.

I don't even like thinking about the flu and the fear it's ignited (I really should stop paying attention to those daily news reports). I don't like feeling uncomfortable when someone reaches out to shake my hand. I'm not even that fond of hand sanitizer -- which, by the way, stings like crazy if you have a paper cut.

But it is flu season. H1N1 has arrived. And a lot more people are likely to get sick. I just hope this experience leaves people grateful for good health and not fearful of human contact.

So go ahead and hug. Just make sure you cover your mouth when you cough.

And don't forget the hand sanitizer.

Blessings counted

I'm just back from a funeral home where I witnessed a parent's worst nightmare come true. A young man I knew when he was in elementary and middle school with my son had died. I can't begin to imagine the depth of his family's grief.

My son was with me for the calling hours, his first time at a funeral home. He held up well -- better than I did, but I kept wanting to put my arms around him, hold him tight and never let go.

I can't, of course. He's got his own life, his own family. He knows how to take care of himself.

Still.

We humans are so good at taking what we have for granted, and that includes our own families. But how many times have we heard stories of healthy, happy young people heading out the door and never coming home? How many times have we watched news reports of massacres such as the one at Fort Hood -- and, earlier this year, in Binghamton, N.Y. -- and wondered how a day that probably seemed quite ordinary to the victims could turn so deadly so quickly.

Tonight, as I write this, I'm counting my blessings. My children have not always been good to themselves, but they are learning. And they are still with us.

I hope they'll be patient with me if I hug them a lot in the days ahead. I need them to know they're loved. I need them to know how glad I am that they're still here.

... so I won't be scared

We were making our way down the stairs at my grandson's day care center for the annual Halloween party when he paused and said, "Hold my hand so I won't be scared."

I gladly took his hand, but I couldn't help wondering what it was he thought might frighten him. He'd had a few run-ins with a bigger boy in his room. Maybe that was it. And there had been lots of talk of ghosts and goblins in the run-up to Halloween. Perhaps too much talk.

Whatever the cause, slipping his small hand into mine was apparently the solution: When we reached the bottom step he raced ahead of me.

I know the day will come when I'll reach for his hand and he'll pull away, informing me that he's too big to need his grandmother holding on to him. Experience tells me that day will come all too soon.

But not yet. Not while there are bigger boys and spooky spirits to be vanquished. Not while a little boy still believes in the power of a loving touch.