Thanksgiving

There have been a few times in my life that I can remember being brought to my knees and completly humbled by the generosity of strangers. This is one of those times.

I am sixteen. My heart is softly breaking and growing, slowly wrestling it's way out of the cocoon. This will be the first of many Thanksgivings away from home, but that only makes it harder. I live in Argentina with a sweet, although strange, host family. Their generosity overwhelms me at times as they read into the little spanish I know and surprise me with gifts or food they think I'll like. I try and become family, while keeping a safe distance from becoming "hija."

I told them about Thanksgiving in one of first, flooded weeks I was there. I barely remember how I described it all--with many hand gestures and drawn pictures I assume. I talked about turkey, giving thanks, and cranberry sauce. They thought the whole combination of food was strange and didn't seem to go together. They were incredulous that we ate turkey of all things for a celebration. Why eat turkey when you can have asado?!

I spoke to my family back home earlier in the day and spent the rest of it hiding in my room and running to the bathroom for random waves of tears and sadness. I shared a room and I couldn't let myself cry in front of my host sister. To let anyone know that I was hurting would be an absolute breach of the tough outer shell I was busy cultivating.

I remember feeling bad that I didn't help with dinner so when Mama called for dinner I sheepishly wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen.

There was an entire, traditional Thanksgiving feast laid out before me.

There was cranberry sauce, a brave attempt at stuffing, fresh bread from the market, mashed potatoes, and a giant ham.

Mama's first words were "We couldn't find turkey anywhere so we had to get ham."

Choking back tears, I managed "It's beautiful, I have to go wash my hands," and booked it into the bathroom, locked the door, and melted into a pool of teenage tears. Incredibly homesick and sad that I wasn't with my "real" family, extraordinarily awed and humbled by the gift this family had given me. They barely knew me yet they were doing everything they could to make me feel welcome, to make me feel home. I was crying for happiness, for sadness, for the simple overwhelming presence of Grace and the sweetness and safety that has always found me. The world has taken care of my in the most tender ways and I have the utmost respect and gratitude for this.

I eventually wipe my eyes, apply even more black eyeliner, and stick my chin up. It is time to say thank you.

I come back to eat and we hold hands and give thanks. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And we ate ham for the next week.