Jesus, You Know our washer roars like a rocket launch during its spin cycle.
Our microwave’s “done” beep sounds like a threefold BLEEP.
Our car’s alarm probably will never go off amid a theft; no, it brays like a dinosaur-sized donkey whenever my husband dares pull a quarter from his pocket.
OMG, how can I be still and know You
when my world won’t shut up?
Have you already decorated your Christmas tree(s)?
Not me. Pumpkins, fall leaves and acorns still adorn my fireplace mantels and front door.
This decorating delay doesn’t indicate inefficiency on my part — perish the thought! It does reflect autumn’s short season. Thanksgiving items are placed on clearance before kids trick-or-treat.
Given that many hate winter, why do we forget fall so fast? Why not linger in Thanksgiving Land?
It was wild and wonderful, wasn’t it?
Even if I had to shovel out spare rooms and wash sheets.
Even if wrestling the defiant turkey into the oven resembled a Friday Night SmackDown sans tights and sparkles.
Even if appliances didn’t feel blessed. Our disposal rebelled Thanksgiving morning. Worse, our oven adopted a relativistic philosophy, insisting if its controls read “350,” the actual 500-degree temperature was irrelevant.
Even if, having stocked up on dark meat because we ran out last year, I was asked if our turkey was a mutant. Ditto for yeast rolls that resembled trolls.
Even if drains and conversations occasionally clogged.
And I can’t pretend I have six months to Christmas shop. …
Still, with four generations feasting and sharing gratitude to God, our Thanksgiving was a blessed celebration.
Admittedly, the grandchildren’s sugar energy levels could have endangered not only our house, but the entire city block. Thankfully, we all defused at a large community room I’d rented.
No one sent the Monopoly game airborne when he landed on Boardwalk with hotels.
Everyone ate mutant turkey and rolls.
Not only was there enough pie for all 17 diners, plenty remained for Grandma and Grandpa’s post-host-survival celebration.
Despite that, I still can zip my jeans! — and ignore nasty online pop-ups advertising tent-sized attire for New Year’s Eve.
Bottom line: Our family arrived safely, rejoiced, loved, and gave thanks together, then returned home, grateful to again sleep in their own beds.
Can such a rich celebration be considered a mere practice run?
We can correct whatever went wrong at Thanksgiving to improve Christmas gatherings. Hosts can repair the carbonizing oven and replace air mattresses that flattened overnight. Hubby watched a YouTube video that helped him fix the disposal. I might even practice making rolls that look like … rolls.
Soon autumn decorations in our home will give way to poinsettias, evergreens and jingle bells. A Christmas tree will grace our living room window.
But thanksgiving won’t be packed away until next November.
I pray it saturates my Christmas season … and New Year’s … and Easter 2024 … and …
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What are your reasons for thanksgiving, even after Thanksgiving?
O Lord, sometimes I push others’ forgiveness quotas way beyond 70 times 7. Thank You for teaching me to say “I’m sorry.”
Sometimes, though, nagging computer error messages, car warnings and dinging appliances override people. OMG, did I just apologize to my microwave?
One morning, when I shoved a mug of water into the microwave, it lit up like a firecracker.
Hubby came running. “Did you warm your car keys in the microwave again?”
I crept from under the table. “I just wanted some tea.”
He tentatively examined the microwave. “Whatever you did sent it to its Happy Heating Ground.”
“At least, it didn’t leave a crater.” Our son had shared scary dormitory stories of popcorn-popping microwave doom.
Too cheap to buy a new one, I considered repairs. We might even survive without one.
Right.
“How do I do this?” Hubby, holding his mug with deer-in-the-headlights uncertainty, dampened my optimism.
“Easy. Fill a teakettle, set it on a burner and boil until it yells.”
“Sounds barbaric.” He took a step back. “What’s a teakettle?”
I’d given ours away, so I showed him how to fill a little pan.
He said, “Microwaving is the only cooking I do.”
“Perhaps you should return to the simple life,” I said loftily.
“Sure.” A sudden smile broke through. “You’ll do all the cooking.”
Now that sounded barbaric.
But not so primitive as heating water to wash dishes. Our hot water heater, apparently mourning the microwave’s demise, wept all over our garage before gurgling its last.
The plumber came. Five hundred dollars later, he introduced us to an appliance that actually heated water. Accustomed to our decrepit one, I burned my hands whenever I turned on the faucet.
We reset the temperature. Problem solved. But the new microwave and I had issues.
“Someday, I’ll get the hang of this,” I tried to say. The ice bag on my tongue muffled my words.
“Too bad the owner’s manual is in Sanskrit,” my husband sympathized.
After a few trips to the burn unit, we adjusted. But then, the oven’s thermostat malfunctioned.
“Maybe it likes cornbread rare?” I said to Hubby.
The fridge, taking its cue, froze a dozen eggs and melted 27 boxes of popsicles I’d bought on sale. The icemaker swore as if in labor.
The repairman suggested Band-Aid possibilities, but didn’t pull punches with his diagnosis: at best, my stove and refrigerator had six months to live. All we could do was keep them comfortable. Keep them comfortable?
Feeling flatlined myself, I decided to self-resuscitate with enough French Roast to make me lift appliances.
But Mr. Coffee’s performance is weak. His coffee maker innards and mine both have seen better days.
Like all appliances, he won’t live forever, and the guarantee ran out ages ago.
But, praise Jesus, I will, and mine won’t.
When no more replacement parts are available, will you go to the Master Designer for a new you?
If anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! 2 Corinthians 5:17