The Sunday before
Thanksgiving was a cold snowy day that made you think of the previous summer
and wonder if the sunshine would come out before another week passed. I
guess it was one of things that made living in Michigan a challenge. The
ever changeable weather! As we gathered around the table to eat that
afternoon, we were making our plans for Thanksgiving dinner and who was
bringing what. We always tried to invite a new family from church over,
thinking perhaps they would be alone on Thanksgiving in a new area.
"Mom,” our youngest son said, “did you notice Mrs.
Mitchell sitting in church today? She was blowing into her handkerchief and
wiping her eyes."
Our daughter said she thought it must be because
her son had just passed away. I was stunned. My husband and I looked at one
another and asked how she knew about this—we hadn't heard a thing! We knew
about her son, but only that he had been wounded in the war and didn't live
in the area.
"I guess she hasn't seen him for a while; he lived
some place in another state, and I only knew about it because René's dad was
helping her with the burial arrangements," our daughter finished.
I thought about the prayer chain that was used for
everything from an illness with a newborn to someone who had been diagnosed
with cancer, and yet nobody had shared a thing about Mrs. Mitchell and her
son. As the meal ended, I spoke with my husband, and he said he would call
René's dad and talk with him.
I knew Mrs. Mitchell wouldn't be at the evening
service that night, as she hardly ever ventured out after dark, but
something was telling me I should stop by to see her. My husband agreed; he
said his telephone conversation had assured him that her son had been in and
out of the hospital a number of times, and last week Mrs. Mitchell received
a call from the authorities that he had fought his last battle.
"Oh dear,” I exclaimed! “How could she handle this
alone? I'm going over to see her right now," I told my husband as I reached
for my keys, purse, and coat. "I'll take some of these brownies and tell her
I was thinking of her and just wanted to stop by."
The snow was still coming down as I rang the front
door bell of the old Victorian house on Main Street. Mrs. Mitchell had been
widowed for over 10 years, and yet she was a sweet and loving lady, always
ready to help out when she could.
"Hello, dear," a smile appeared on the kindly
wrinkled older face. "What on earth are you doing out on this cold night?"
She asked, ushering me into the foyer.
"I was thinking about you today, and one of the
boys said he saw you in church and thought you might have a cold. I just
wanted to bring some brownies by to see how you were feeling," I gently
said.
She invited me in for some hot tea, and we talked
about some of the coming church functions. Then she said she'd like to share
something with me. I prepared myself to listen to a mother's heart as she
bravely spoke.
Her son had been a Vietnam veteran and was
battling some type of disease and emotional problems from his years during
the war. He was in and out of the VA hospital in the state where he resided.
She had sent him a card inviting him to have Thanksgiving and Christmas with
her, as she was all alone. And then she received the call from the hospital
about his death. She knew she couldn't make the trip, and she and René's
father made the arrangements with the Veterans Administration the week
before. She said he had been to see her a few months ago, and they spoke on
the telephone often; but his battle had been a hard one, and she remembered
their last conversation and how he looked when he had been home. She would
carry that memory of him in her heart. He would be laid to rest next to her
late husband.
"I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Mitchell. I only wish you
had told us. We would have been over to help you in any way we could." I
felt it seemed like such a weak thing to say in view of the situation. "I do
want you to plan to be with us on Thanksgiving, this Thursday—please plan to
come. I don't want you to be alone at this special time of year."
"You know," the silver-haired lady smiled happily,
"I would love it if you and your family would be my guest and come over and
have dinner with me on Thursday. When my husband was alive, we used to have
several families from the area share that day with us, and I would enjoy
thinking about the dinner, making pies, salads, cakes, and the turkey. Will
you say yes?—it would make me so happy." She was practically gleaming with
excitement. I could see her mind was reliving memories that were special to
her.
"Well, we have invited a new family from the
church to come to our house for dinner, but I know they'd enjoy sharing the
day with you too—and we certainly would. But are you sure you're up to this
crowd?" I was thoughtful of her doing too much.
"Of course, I am. I've entertained all my life and
will enjoy doing this too. And it will give me something happy to think
about. Actually, I'll be ‘thankful’ to you for joining me on Thanksgiving."
I knew what she was saying; and after talking a few minutes more, I said
"goodnight" and told her I'd be in touch.
When I arrived home and told the children about
going to Mrs. Mitchell's for Thanksgiving dinner, they were all happy. Our
oldest son said she had a great hill for sledding, and our daughter loved
her big, old house and said Mrs. Mitchell was like a grandmother. I thought
about our small home, but am always happy to share with anyone who could
come, and how happy Mrs. Mitchell looked when thinking about her
Thanksgiving plans.
Later that evening as my husband and I were
talking, I said it would be different not to get up early in the morning and
put a turkey in the oven, but how Mrs. Mitchell had actually said she would
be "thankful" if she could host the dinner at her home. I was grateful that,
at a sad time in someone's life, having a crowd for Thanksgiving dinner
would help. Even in the cold snowy weather I felt the warmth from an older
woman who, in the face of loss, was reaching out to share with others.
Diane Dean White Thelamb212@aol.com
Diane is a freelance writer, an author, columnist and the editor of HeartCatchers. She and Stephen have been married for over 35 years and reside on the Carolina Coast. They are the parents of three grown children and three grand-gals. You may visit Diane's website at www.DianeDeanWhite.com
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