Thanks

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I had the privilege of spending time with this woman's family. Residing a recently remodeled, two-room beauty, Big Bear stands as a somewhat last vestige of natural beauty amongst the San Gorgonio mountains. The recent influx of seasonal skiers and renters leave hundreds of new homes built, with little addition to the city year round. The little, 6,000 person town swells to over 50,000 residents during ski season, though the weather has refused to give any decent snow so far. One more reason to be thankful, I suppose.

The cold was a welcomed change, steaming breath escaping with every sentence spoken in our party. I enjoyed the realization that weather actually happens in places during the fall. Not everywhere wakes to a morning of sun, 65 degrees, and workers maintaining their lawns. The cold reminded me that I am in a new place, in a memory to be known through the jackets and thick socks that don my person. Some thoughts on cold...

The winter weather
Hits my bones like a cold hug
How I love these thoughts

I wish to wear plaid
Don the lumberjack garb and
Remember fondly

A day to recall
All that we are thankful for
And cover with love

How I wish to tell
Speak of all the love I have
Too awesome for words

The local Vons was the vista for my view of Big Bear. Though the sun's retreat was early this time of year, families still gathered with cold weather gear, mismatched and tightly ziped plaid, striped, and waterproof jackets swishing their ways down the frozen foods aisle; the delightful chaos of families on vacation, of newcomers and old citizens of Big Bear. Frank and I liked it so much, we managed to make a few return trips (forgetting the bread and other small items before...).

After a meal of year-old spaghetti and freshly baked bread, conversation abounded. It was a moment in time I can never forget: the wisdom and love of a beautiful woman's family spread so generously over the toast of my life. A truly persistent memory that will accompany me forever.

The drive North, to the jewel of the Central Valley that is Modesto, was quite a change of pace. You see, I needed to take the 18, winding down the mountain, meet up with Bear Valley Road once I passed through Victorville, connect to the 395, slice east on the 58, and finally get dumped back onto the 99 like so many ants along a trail of sugar. As the road lumbered on ahead of me, consistencies changing from smooth and easy to riddled and jarring, clouds collided with the crowded hills, the trees hidden in a deep fog of rain and frost. Switch-backs sliced beside the mountain, which stood tall and translucent behind the fog and diffused sun. Soon, fir and pine gave way to oak, and eventually the Joshua and low, dry, crusty scrub of the desert floor. The lone freeway of the 395 seemed to float atop the arid landscape, pounded every thirty miles or so by harsh showers that seemed to jet sideways from the sky. Somehow, the ugly beauty of the desert marveled me; how some brown and barely green landscape, looming with purple and blue hills in the distance, could so masterfully show the fingerprints of God.

Thanksgiving in the valley was quite small this year. Usually associating with mobs of family, this feast was met with almost quiet reflection. The meal had started long before I arrived, but a steaming plate awaited me as I entered the house. The tones of home seemed to take on a warmer hue, conversation, a fuller and more colorful verse, and food, a deeper and richer feeling. Somehow, God met me with the family and food for the best Thanksgiving yet. Though the one I care about the most is thousands of miles away, I was complete that day. Full, warmed, and loved, I fell into the "food coma" of annual yore and slept off the six and a half hours of driving.

It was truly a time for thankfulness: though I miss many in my life, am unable to spread myself around to enjoy the company of those I love, and long to see them all, I feel the love of God around me this day. Looking back on the memories from this time, I am awestruck at the grace of the Lord and how in His infinite wisdom has seen fit to not only acknowledge my life but fulfill it so fully everyday I breathe and move. How great is the God I serve.

Thanksgiving is not a day, but a lifestyle of constant observance of the outpouring of grace from a loving and devoted Father.

O LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
above the heavens.

From the lips of children and infants
you have ordained praise
because of your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.

When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?
Ps. 8:1-4