thorns and thanksgiving
The American myth of Thanksgiving is one of religious freedom, peace, and prosperity. On the eve of Thanksgiving, the news brings stories of a polygamist on trial in Utah, airlines pulling folk for being “Muslim while flying”, and the countdown of St. Louis’ 100 Neediest Cases. In truth we know it never was so rosy or so simple. The Pilgrims were in search of religious freedom for themselves but not as a general concept, the Wampanoag people were largely destroyed by the immigration, and even our prosperous nation has never known a time when hunger didn’t plague our most vulnerable. But still we cling to the myth of smiling family gathered and peace amongst all.
No single artist has captured the myth more nostalgically than Norman Rockwell. Rockwell’s own life, however, was not quite so mythical. Both he and the women he loved battled with depression and some of them lost. Real life for Rockwell was laced with grief, demons, and compromise. And still he painted pictures of an elusive myth.
The abiding gift in Rockwell’s pictures and in our Thanksgiving story are not in their historicity but rather in their in their hope. From the ground of reality, with the bramble of thorn strewn rose buds, we chose where to write our story. The thorns are every bit as real as the roses, we cannot have one without the other. To celebrate the rose is not to deny the thorn, but rather to chose to write about hope. Rockwell chose hope, so did the story tellers who framed our Thanksgiving story. Hope is vulnerable and risky, but it is the invitation of this amazing season. Hope beckons.