It's easy for me to get lazy when counting my blessings. One. Two. Three blessings and then nothing. I stop counting. I quit seeing God's hand and grace in just the every day.
And then, Thanksgiving happens.
A day to stretch your legs beneath a table heavy with the weight of turkey and dressing, rolls, collard greens and desserts that ought to be illegal. Hours to watch mindless television while stuffing the realization that there are those walking the sidewalk in search of the crumbs that have fallen from your plate as you reach for a second piece of rum cake.
And then your televised football game is interrupted by a young dark-haired mother who is in rehab, her slightly thin husband and a little girl who has large, beautiful brown eyes. They are disppointed because the mother is unable to leave town - this day of Thanksgiving - due to a paperwork error. So, in frustration and desperation the man who loves them both sets out to, at least, feed his family.
In an old beat up truck and from out of town, he explains that for some reason he ends up driving towards your side of town. By the building where your family is inside drinking from a cup that is truly running over. He sees a woman by the door smoking a cigarette and stops to ask where is the nearest McDonalds. And she, just a woman on the sidewalk, tells him that there is room at our table.
And then, it is after this family has been fed, fellowshipped, and long gone do all of you see, scribbled in crayon blue, the note left behind:
"From the Walker Family Thank You All & Happy Thanks Given and are Prayers Go out to you all and Thanks for making my little Girls wish come True."