Ancient History

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Thanksgiving Day is Dependance Day.

I acknowledge I cannot do it on my own, and for that I am thankful.

I was not created to abide alone, rolling around the sun with a stick in one hand and a shield in the other. Survival can be a scrappy thing, clawing and biting to the top of anonymous heaps of humanity.

It’s bewildering and humbling that my hand doesn’t grow curled in a fist because so many people around the world have nothing, nothing, nothing and it could be me and it could be you.

Without the outstretched hand, doom.

Dependance is community, dependance is fellowship, dependance is dignity in being caught in the net while being a link in the net. How strong are you?

I think beyond our borders today, past the tiptoe-edge of the feast laden table to other shores where Thanksgiving is something experienced in every single drawn breath, dusty Thursday, 2009, and the water well is 3 miles away.

A mother takes a step in that direction.

I am struggling with gratitude because it has been a hard year. I must constantly remind myself I am standing on what used to be a horizon I spied a year ago. We made it by the grace of God but not by the seat of our pants.

We are all the way down to our frayed cuffs.

That’s okay, I tell myself on the morning of Dependance Day when homemade cinnamon rolls are in the oven and my children are laughing with their beloved grandparents. Our lives have been pared back with a tiny knife, slice by slice, until the core has been exposed.

It’s a good core.

Look at all those seeds.

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