The days leading up to Thanksgiving were a whirlwind of activity at my house when I was a kid. As host of our family’s fall feast, my mother oversaw preparations for the perfect holiday. She bought groceries, prepared the food, made sure leaves were added to the dining room table, counted dinnerware/flatware/and glassware. She gathered the serving pieces and enlisted our help to make sure that the house was cleaned within an inch of its life.
“I know they come to see us and not the house, but I still want it to look good,” she often said.
My brother was in charge of rounding up additional seating, cleaning out the coat closet, and ensuring the bathroom gleamed. I dusted everything that did not move, made place cards and was forced to break up four loaves of bread into the tiniest pieces imaginable for HOURS so that she could make her homemade stuffing and I was not allowed to eat a single slice. (I know you are feeling my pain on that one.)
As for my dad…well, his contribution to this operation was to stay out of everyone’s way, which meant he remained holed up in his basement workshop until 10 minutes before the guests arrived. At that point, he would come upstairs, change into his “good” jeans, a fresh polo shirt and then regale our guests with his witty tales until it was time to eat. After dinner, he might turn on the football game for those who wanted to watch or get out the Trivial Pursuit board and start a round. I can still see him asking my cousin “Who did Jesus love more than she would know?” (Answer: Mrs. Robinson.)
Dad was Mary to my mother’s Martha and although neither one of them complained about this arrangement (especially not Dad), I cannot recall my mother having the chance to sit back and enjoy her holiday. Sure, she and my great-aunts would chat while she mashed the potatoes, carved the turkey and filled our goblets with iced tea or water. And of course, they always helped with the cleanup (we didn’t have an automatic dishwasher) but it wasn’t the same. She had a bunch of half conversations wedged between chores.
Both mom and dad are gone now and I am in charge of the annual turkey bash each year. I have continued the tradition of cleaning the house as if Martha Stewart herself might stop by and I spend a good portion of the week getting things ready, but I take a few shortcuts as well in order to keep from going crazy. I use Stovetop instead of breaking bread for homemade stuffing. I buy readymade pies and I encourage my husband not to disappear on me until our guests arrive. I do the lion’s share of the cooking but my adult children help clean up and we all enjoy breaking up into teams to play games such as “Can you name them all?” “Scattergories” and “Catholic Trivia.” (Tip: If you decide to play the latter one, don’t invite a nun to the party unless you want to get your butt kicked.)
I am neither Mary nor Martha. I am someone who believes it’s important to strike a balance between work and rest. It’s best to compromise rather than complain and that there is a time to worry and a time to be still…and be in the presence of God.
Today’s readings for Mass: EX 24: 3-8; PS 50: 1B-2, 5-6, 14-15; JN 11: 19-27 or LK 10: 38-42
