海角大神

Thanksgiving 1958: It was grand. The house smelled like real butter 鈥� we were a margarine family the rest of the year 鈥� and the whole family was together. Usually it was just my folks, my sister Bobbie, and me, but this day David and Margaret, who were old enough to be living on their own, were home too. That meant fun, and love, and raucous laughter. Especially because of Margaret.

Margaret was an event.

At that point, I was the only person smaller than she was. Margaret didn鈥檛 top out anywhere near 5 feet, due to polio as much as parentage. All I knew was that she was completely packed full of joy and hilarity, and she could detonate at any time. Bobbie and I had dibs on the wishbone from the turkey, but with everyone around one table, we couldn鈥檛 come up with anything else to wish for.聽

I鈥檓 all grown up now, sort of. Real butter is bubbling in the pan. My husband is mincing garlic for it, and I鈥檓 pouting like a child.

鈥淚 wish I could find the discipline to practice piano every day like I did when I was taking lessons,鈥� I whine, as though that were an impossible thing. 鈥淚 need a routine.鈥�

鈥淭ell you what,鈥� Dave says, flipping the butter and garlic in a neat parabola. 鈥淲hy don鈥檛 you sit down to play every night while I鈥檓 cooking your dinner?鈥�

Two thoughts spring to mind. One, that would totally work. Two, I might be the most fortunate person in the world. An alliance developed between Schumann and garlic frying in butter. It is the smell and soundtrack of rapture. It鈥檚 no great thing that I feel gratitude a dozen times a day. It would disgrace me if I didn鈥檛.聽

Grace has billowed over me my whole life, none of it earned. It鈥檚 not that I don鈥檛 deserve it. It鈥檚 that no one ever does 鈥� that鈥檚 not how it works.

I should be able to learn the entire Schumann canon in the leisure given to me by a respectable pension from the United States Postal Service. There are those who would say that I earned that time with my 32 years in a postal uniform. In a small, unimportant way, I did. But the world is full of people who have worked harder and done greater things who don鈥檛 enjoy the particular freedom I do. I have been blessed.

My sister Margaret, though, lived with daily challenges and struggled to remain hopeful. She knew an abundance of hardship and friendship, never failing to find the flecks of gold in her pan of black sand.

She brimmed with gratitude! She was on fire with it. Gratitude is not fickle. It鈥檚 as wide as the world and as deep as we make it.聽

Margaret鈥檚 signature phrase always made us laugh: 鈥淭his changed my life!鈥� she鈥檇 exult, and she might have been referring to a jar opener, a portable carrier for her oxygen tank, or a potato salad. Oh, we lined up 10 deep to help change her life, for the same reason flowers track the sun. That鈥檚 how much shine she had.聽

But that鈥檚 the thing about shine. It doesn鈥檛 stay within its source; it gives itself away. Somehow, Margaret鈥檚 grace amplified our own. We yearned to be as wonderful as she already thought we were: She allowed us to bloom into our best selves. How about that? It turns out gratitude is a collaboration.聽

There鈥檚 not a Thanksgiving Day that goes by that we aren鈥檛 grateful for the gift of Margaret鈥檚 memory. After all, it鈥檚 as good a day as any to give thanks. And that means 鈥� Margaret would be the first to point out 鈥� every other day is good for that, too.