Thanksgiving

A Reflection on Grace

Dad, Mom, Grandma, Papa & Me.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Since I was young, it held something for me, though I never fully understood why. As I’ve gotten older, I think I understand it more. Or, maybe I am just ready to write something about it. I have learned that what I think I understand often changes. I guess that is called growth. It’s best not to draw hard lines in the sand in life. I started thinking about this in my meditation class today and could not shake it throughout the morning.

When my parents moved, in high school, from the house I grew up in on Race Street, I was devastated. I’d been deeply attached to that house, and I’m actually writing a YA novel now that takes place there. I am supposed to be working on the ending chapters of that today, and I did a little of that. But I am giving myself a break and working on this instead since it is on my mind. Back to my childhood home. So many memories lived in those walls … the usual - the good, the bad, and the ugly. But what I loved most was being there from October through January. Halloween in our neighborhood was super fun, and my mom and dad made it magical. But really, it was Thanksgiving that did it for me. Christmas was neat, and I loved our church at Christmas, but it also caused me great anxiety and still does in some ways. Thanksgiving was simple. I liked Colorado during that barren time. The leaves no longer on the trees, the cold air starting - it wasn’t quite winter yet. There is a beauty in the nakedness of the world. I miss it, actually. I used to sketch the trees and write all sorts of poetry about them during Thanksgiving - I thought about that today, too.

My grandparents often came from St. Louis before heading to their Florida home, spending a little time with us. Marie Louise Wetzel (formally Lee), my namesake. I have her exact first and middle name. Even though that is not my first name. I was born something else entirely. I am glad it was her name that I was given when I was brought into the family. She was a tough cookie. She didn’t marry until late in life for the times and dated my grandfather during the aftermath of the Depression- bathtub gin parties and gatherings on the Mississippi. She told me to always have my own money and keep an updated passport. She was aghast that my parents married so young (my dad was still in college and my mom had just graduated). She announced to my ex-husband and me on a visit that there should not be two chefs in the kitchen; a “sous chef” was needed. That made me laugh at the time, but she wasn’t all wrong. Alfred (Al) Wetzel was my grandfather, Papa. He was one of my favorite people. Kind and ethical, and he would sing Engelbert Humperdinck songs to me and always made me laugh. It’s funny because I’m not all that German; I am, in fact, very Hungarian and a multitude of other things, including Italian and other Eastern European countries. I know that now. I knew it then (inside), but I loved them. I took German, in fact, for many years just because of that. Who knew that Spanish would be the language I’d work on in my adult years, and that I would eventually be a Gonzalez through marriage? You can’t know all that when you are just a kid. You assimilate to what you know, and you try to fit in. I was good at that.

Back to Thanksgiving of my youth. I loved watching everyone cook and talk, football humming in the background, the fire going as the weather turned cold. It wasn’t about gifts or church or obligations. It was simply sharing stories and being together. We played sports out back, took long walks with the dog, and watched fun movies that were airing on TV. Having my grandparents there made it almost magical. They always wanted me close. They asked questions, told stories, and made me feel so loved. They were amazing grandparents. I know they could be hard parents (I watched that, especially my grandmother), but that is the gift of grandparenting: you get a do-over, and you soften. I often felt unseen at times at home as a kid. That wasn’t any one person’s fault, I don’t think. It was me. It was how I came into the world and the family. My dad saw me the most, but life could be stressful, and being five years younger than my older brother, I could just get lost in the shuffle. Maybe being the youngest makes you feel that way; maybe being the adopted one, too. That feeling still echoes for me in life. I am reframing that in a way. It wasn’t all bad to fly under the radar. To be on my own. To be me and lost in my little world. I still like that. I crave it. I try to recreate it, so it must be comfortable. Maybe it was a gift. I am trying to see all perspectives now.

At the same time, I remember feeling profoundly lonely, something that surfaced again in meditation today. I used to sit in a big formal chair at the side of our dining room, the one only pulled out when we extended the big table, where everyone also went around the Kitchen corner to talk on the corded phone for privacy. I lived on that chair in my junior high years. During the holiday, I’d perch there listening to the voices in the kitchen: my brother and mom discussing holiday recipes, my father trying to get everything done, and sometimes arguments about the turkey. And I remember looking down at my black patent leather shoes and white tights, wondering where exactly I fit into all of it.

As a former history teacher, I know the complicated truth of Thanksgiving. I know how it’s not the simple, wonderful celebration we’re taught. But I still appreciate that we take one day to sit with friends or family, or both….or, to possibly help others. I know people who volunteer because they don’t have family to go to, and I wish we carried that spirit all year long. It’s hard to maintain, I guess. But every year I vow to give more. I used to do so much volunteer work, and I need to bring that back into my life. That realization hit me over the head in my class today. Mother Teresa’s words came back to me (something I had on my wall when I was young): “A life not lived for others is not a life.” That’s the truth. I even have a tattoo of my favorite Gandhi saying, “Be the Change,” on my wrist. But am I actually living it? I know more joy will come when I do. It always did. These are the ‘Thanksgiving’ thoughts swirling in my head today. The ones keeping me from finishing some chapters.

Thanksgiving changed as I formed my own family. We visited my parents in Colorado, or they came to us in California. Sometimes my mother-in-law and family from Mexico City came too, and we’d gather in our little Los Angeles house. After my divorce, I had to remake the holidays entirely. My son was in seventh grade, and suddenly, I didn’t always have him on Thanksgiving. I had to learn to do things differently. The years I had him, we went to my parents’; the years I didn’t, sometimes I still went. That felt strange. A couple of times I traveled. I even got engaged to my new husband on a Thanksgiving weekend in Mexico. I’ve been a pescatarian for years, but we found a place that served turkey…and I had a bite of my husband’s. It was a great time. I tried to live in those moments and not be flattened by the loss of my family. It was still there. It was just different. I will admit, it was hard. Growth is hard. Change is hard. I think that is why the good moments feel so good. The hard ones can level us.

I know the holidays can feel lonely for so many, and they did during those times for sure. They do now in their own ways, too, without my parents and without being with my larger family, biological or adopted. I know during those divorce years it was hard on me, on my son, and probably on my ex-husband too, as we navigated sharing time. We tried to do something together, but those years were hard. I know friends going through that now.

My son is now a grown man, my ex-husband and his partner have their lives and have for many years, and we have ours - going on fifteen. A whole other lifetime. But we still come together at Thanksgiving. A few years ago, we started that new tradition. A bit by accident, or maybe it was an experiment. At first, it was at our house on the Central Coast, even my former sister-in-laws came from Mexico City. Now we go to their place in Los Angeles, and lots of different people join. My son and his girlfriend, and others. I call it our “Modern Family Thanksgiving”...because that’s truly what it is. We’re still family. We’re grateful to be friends. At least I am. Our family expanded instead of breaking apart. There’s so much to be thankful for, even alongside sadness and heartbreak. In fact, I love all of them, and it is a new family of its own.

Looking back today, deep in my thoughts in class, I started to wonder. I wondered if I became a pleaser because of the Thanksgiving rituals in my childhood home. Not just Thanksgiving, but the social rituals. My parents were big entertainers. I’d go around hugging everyone goodnight or giving kisses-even when I didn’t want to always. I just did it. Some people made me a bit uncomfortable, but I still gave the side hug. I was “cute as a button,” as they used to say, and maybe it made others happy. “Oh, how nice,” like Liesel in The Sound of Music. I always hated that part of the movie. It really didn’t make me happy. These are the things you grapple with when you look back. I think everyone has those. Those strange memories that send your mind into a spin cycle.

And if it sounds like a Hallmark card, it wasn’t. There were fights. There were hard times. There were money struggles, especially in my younger years. There were a lot of misunderstandings in my life, and I’m guessing, in my brother’s too. We’re not biologically related, but we relate on many levels. He is five years older, and we really have so many different views of our childhood, and we both had our struggles. I will miss him this Thanksgiving. I am thankful we are in each other’s lives. I didn’t always know if we would be. I think he feels the same.

​​Still, I like thinking about those times. I wish I could go back to the house I grew up in. Not the house we moved to later. I spent a lot of time there until my parents passed. I spent high school there, and all the years after college and raising my son. Although I miss it too, it was a home that felt like home, and everyone was welcome. You came through the garage door. It was a place that felt safe, though it didn’t when we first moved. My childhood house was like that, too. I wish I could see it to really picture the rooms. I recently saw it again, from the outside. It looked almost the same. Someone loved it, and it was cared for. I loved my tree there. My “motorcycle tree.” I hid from the world in my upstairs bedroom, the basement, playing on the piano, and in my tree. I always had some little animal; a guinea pig (Spice), a frog I took from 8th-grade biology (Kermie), and our dogs. I hid in nooks and hiding spots behind the formal living room drapes or in my brother’s deep closet with the linens, building forts. I remember sitting on the stairs that looked out to our street for hours. I would watch the snow fall, and during Thanksgiving, I would wait for my grandparents to arrive, excited for the days ahead, just being together and sharing meals and stories.

In meditation today, the teacher, also adopted by the way, spoke purposefully about the things that are hard for her, the things people don’t usually say out loud. It made me think: What are the things we don’t say? What do we keep inside? What won’t we forgive ourselves for? What would we do if we could truly do it?

This Thanksgiving, that’s what I’m focusing on: forgiveness. Grace. Kindness. Of others, and of myself. I have a lot of shame about things I’ve done; we all do, I’m guessing. I’m not mad at anyone anymore. I never stay mad long. I don’t carry a lot of anger. I would probably have better boundaries if I did, but I’m okay with it. An old boyfriend once told me that the thing he liked best about me was that I was fair, that I could see everyone’s point of view, and that I wasn’t reactive unless I was really pushed. I remember that. I remember that more than the flowers or the dates we had. I remember those words. I used to think that made me weak, but I’m looking at it differently now. She asked today, “Why can’t we love ourselves like we love others?” Yes, why? I’m going to try that a bit more. I’m letting go of conflict. I’m choosing to see people for what they can do and to offer grace where I can. I’m also going to offer grace to myself -for what I don’t want to do, and to give myself the OK to go after what I want. To love me unconditionally, and to love others the same. With our flaws. All of us. That is what makes us so great.

Will I be successful at this? Probably not. I have already failed once today. But that is ok. It is. Grace. This Thanksgiving. This year. Grace.

Because giving grace to others ultimately gives grace back to me. And then maybe someone can extend me that same grace. The world does get better, I think. One person at a time. There is something to that.

Papa, my Brother, Mom, Dad, & Me