The sign read, “Thanksgiving is for giving thanks.” Driving by it on the way to work, I thought … that message is an understatement; it’s too obvious. I could have come up with something better.
Waiting for a red light near the sign, I glanced across the street into a hospital parking lot and saw a family loading a child into a van. Imprisoned for life in a wheelchair, the boy’s legs had atrophied to little more than pants with nothing in them, his arms flailed aimlessly, his head weaved from side to side, and his eyes were fixed in a hopeless, upward stare.
I’d finished another week’s work, but still had a few hours’ of drudgery ahead of me — completing the weekly forms providing information that is logged into the database of the community college where I teach. The paperwork has to be accurate, it takes a good bit of time to complete, and must be reviewed carefully for errors before being submitted.
Getting started is the hardest part of any job, and as I sat in an inertial state, unwilling to begin, I read a few of the sayings that I’d taped to my computer over the years.
My eyes fell on a quote by American poet and educator, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “The everyday cares and duties, which men call drudgery, are the weights and counterpoises of the clock of time, giving its pendulum a true vibration and its hands a regular motion; and when they cease to hang upon its wheels, the pendulum no longer swings, the hands no longer move, the clock stands still.”
The saying, along with the sign I’d read that day, and the sad scene in the hospital parking lot, put me in a pensive mood. I began to ponder the real nature of thankfulness.
How thankful would that little boy be if he could perform the everyday cares and duties that I consider drudgery? How happy would he be if he could control his legs and arms, as I control mine? How sad is he when he sees other children playing with each other, knowing that he will never play?
How thrilled would he be if he could sit in one of my college classrooms, take notes, ask questions, and be thrilled to study and learn — tasks that many of my students consider drudgery? How blessed and thankful would he be if the weights and counterpoises of the clock of life gave his existence a regular motion?
I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and made a confession to myself and to the God who made that little boy and me: I take too much for granted; I’m not thankful enough. If I were, I would view the drudgery of life as necessary — nay, vital — to the true vibration and regular motion that measures life.
In a sadder and wiser frame of mind, I realized how complete, how profound, how perfect the message on the sign is: Thanksgiving is for giving thanks.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
