My First Thanksgiving

I'm forty-five years old and I just cooked my first turkey. It's about time, don't you think? This was a special thanksgiving for me. It was the first time we celebrated in our home and the grandparents came to us. Planning the details of the meal and getting the house ready added extra excitement to the holiday. I wasn't stressed about making the food. The grandmas were bringing pies, salad and rolls. Besides, my years of cooking mass quantities for football players made this event seem less daunting.

The only thing I wasn't sure about was the turkey. Since I had never cooked one before, it felt like a mysterious challenge to me. Maybe it was the literal size of the task. More likely, being up close and personal with a animal carcass was the reason I had avoided it over the years.

I did my homework and spent some time researching the easiest way to cook a turkey. I didn't really comprehend the benefits of soaking the bird in brine, and the the health related cautions about cooking the stuff inside the bird scared me off. I decided to keep things as simple as possible and use our electric roaster.

As I wrestled the bird into the sink, I questioned Perry's decision to buy a 21 pounder. I grabbed the sprayer, considered that cold, pimply-looking carcass, and wondered where to begin. The dogs sat at my feet, probably feeling relieved that someone else was getting a bath for a change. I washed it off, careful to lift its little wings and apologetically rinsed under the little armpits.

The cavity search just about did me in. I groped inside and shuddered as my hands closed around it's slimy neck. I chucked in the garbage in disgust, reconsidering my childhood thoughts of going vegetarian. I knew there was a little baggie of other unwanted "parts" but no matter how many times I plunged my hand back in there, my fingers couldn't locate it.

Finally, I gave up and hoisted the turkey into the roaster. I grabbed Perry's jar of "Butt Rub", a seasoning Perry uses when he smokes pork loin, and grimaced as I gave the bird one last massage. Just as I was closing the lid on the roaster, I spotted the corner of a little bag peeking out of the other end of the bird. Two openings to search...Who knew?

Shortly after that, it started to smell like Thanksgiving in our kitchen. Perry was especially concerned about how we'd know when the turkey was cooked. A couple hours later, we lifted the lid and saw that the bird was no longer intact. It had apparently fallen apart while it cooked. Perry pulled the drumstick which came off in his hand. As we lifted the turkey out of the roaster, it essentially carved itself. The red pop-up button thingy was floating in the juices at the bottom of the pan. I took that as a sure sign that the bird was done.

So, I survived my first attempt at turkey making. It didn't resemble anything from a Martha Stewart magazine cover, but it sure tasted good. It wasn't pretty, but we must have done something right.

Breaking Ground

I have never been so glad to see heavy machinery and mounds of dirt in my whole life! Our church has finally broken ground and after many years, we will have an actually church building.

We started attending Grace about seven years ago. It was a little nondenominational start-up church that didn't have a building but it had everything else we needed in a church. We've grown together and become a real church family but the years have not been easy.

We meet in our high school every Sunday morning and hold worship service in the auditorium. All the supplies are hauled in a trailer and people have to set up everything...from the speakers and sound system to the toys for the nursery. Most of the materials are packed and repacked in huge plastic totes each week. The children meet for Sunday school at tables in the school commons. Not an ideal environment for the kids or the poor teachers. Our adult Sunday school classes meet in the science classrooms. It's kind of funny to look around at beakers, bunsen burners and biology displays while we are having discussions about the bible. Our worship services get pretty colorful when there is a school play coming up. The pastor and worship band stand in front of the set's backdrop and maneuver around the cardboard walls of scenery to conduct the service. A morning after a high school dance is always an adventure. Streamers and other decorations litter the commons as we enter the building for church. The regular attenders have learned to look past the fact that we're in a school. We just focus on each other. But I always wonder what visitors think on mornings like that.

Even though we haven't had ideal conditions, our church has thrived and grown. We have a huge youth program, lots of bible studies, and many from Grace are active in mission activities in Latvia.

Now that we've broken ground and the construction has begun, I can't wait to have a building to hold all the "stuff" of our church. I'm so happy that the volunteers that unload the trailer and repack it every week will have extra hours in their week for other things. The Sunday school teachers and nursery workers will actually have walls around them to contain the noise and activities. We will no longer be Rubbermaid-toting-vagabonds, but our church will have a home.

There's an old song running through my head as I begin to type this: The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is a people...

I don't particularly like the song. It's tune isn't all that catchy. But it sticks in my head because I think the words are so true. I hope and pray that with the construction and building activity, I will not lose focus on what has really made us "a church" all this time.

People are Funny

Now that my drive to school takes 6 minutes instead of two, I feel like a commuter. (I know all my friends in the city are rolling their eyes and shaking their heads at my ignorance.) No, it isn't the length of time that I drive; it's the people along my route that I can set my watch by, the predictable (and quirky) behaviors I see that give me a smile as I head to school in the morning.

As I drive along one of the main streets of town, there is a crossing guard at her post, waiting for youngsters to arrive on their way to school. She doesn't sit in her car like most crossing guards I see. This woman takes pride in her work and brings a broom with her. Most mornings I see her sweeping the edge of the street, clearing leaves and construction dirt away from the area. I want to nominate this lady for citizen of the year. Seeing her gives me hope for the day and and an optimistic feeling about people.

My school is near a nursing home, and drive along the narrow street that borders the home. Rain or shine, warm or cold, there is always a group of "health care professionals" from the nursing home outside having a smoke break. They stare vacantly as I roll past, apparently waiting for the nicotine to kick in so they can return to their duties inside. Several times a week, I see my favorite employee. She brings a lawn chair outside for her smoke break, and sets it up in the street! Chatting with her friends and inhaling deeply, she casually ignores the cars that have to maneuver around her just to drive down the road.

As I park my car at the school, I glance across the street at one of the school's "neighbors". It makes me giggle to see the sawhorse with the PRIVATE PROPERTY sign stationed at the end of his driveway. Apparently, this individual is so bothered by cars that may use his driveway to turn around in before parking, it became necessary to craft this blockade. I imagine this man carrying the sawhorse out to his driveway twice each day to protect his property from invaders.

I don't know any of these people personally, yet they are part of my morning "commute", and I'd wonder about them if their routines varied. These folks show me a glimpse of the good and the not-so-good in this world... an interesting way to start the work day.