traveling {feasting; and on our way to the Feast}
We will travel a long way to be with family.
Dark as pitch in the pouring rain, lights reflecting on the wet road, and our kids settle in with pillows and blankets—two wide-eyed; one quickly asleep again. I grip a tumbler full of coffee–black and murky like the night sky–in my chilled hands, preparing myself for stiff knees and bags pressing against my legs; for quick, careful trips into public restrooms, for everyone passing me their trash and asking for snacks. We will drive nearly all day, a day that will be a third longer for the early hour in which our journey begins.
They say it took many of the Wampanoag two days to walk to their harvest celebration with the Pilgrims at Plymouth. And after they arrived, they erected their own shelters. The Pilgrims had only managed to build a few homes. So instead of squinting past light-glare on black snaking roads, maybe they felt the rain on their shoulders, heard it splattering the leaves of trees. Instead of feeling bags against their legs, maybe they packed what they needed against their weary (and wary) parent-backs. Travel has long precipitated the grateful savoring of blessing. But this really wasn’t the first Thanksgiving. Human beings have made these journeys, celebrating harvests, for an eternity.
The Israelites traveled “home” to Jerusalem at least three times a year for holiday celebrations, and each of these to be with Family, to commemorate God’s generous, gracious giving—God giving freedom, God giving His words, God giving shelter when His children still had no homes. They sang the Psalms of Ascents (120 to 134)—as in ascent to the mountain of Jerusalem—as they traveled in wandering crowds, marrying their voices with the sound of footfall and wind. Their blended voices reached up, needy:
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;
the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;
the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore (Psalm 121).
And so too, before we pulled out of the driveway, we bowed our heads in the dark, reaching needy. First Adam prayed—his words quick and halting—because he believes every prayer is his to begin, then Kevin, asking safety, watching over; the Lord as our shade, keeping us from harm. In place of electronic screens, signs (and the alphabet game—but did the mothers and fathers still perhaps contrive some happy sight-hunt for the children?), even books, they offered prayers–the songs of steps, of pilgrimage—in wavering harmony.
The pilgrimage accomplishes much. It reorients and clarifies, requiring first a collection of daily gifts—clothes, food—and among them now a few extravagances I often blindly take for granted. Packing always makes me sigh, because it seems always an activity of great haste. My mind floats back to collected treasure, as I recognize that Passover—the most important of the Israelite pilgrimage holidays, the celebration of freedom—commemorated the hasty departure of the Israelites from Egypt, where they had been enslaved. They slathered the blood of sacrifice all over the doorframes of their homes and consumed the sacrifice with their cloaks tucked into their belts, their sandals on their feet, their staffs in hand. The bread did not have time to rise as they rushed away from slavery, taking not only the essential, daily things, but the plundered extravagance of Egypt gathered from God’s open palm (Exodus 12). In haste, they packed. In haste, they ate. In haste, they traveled away from opression with God as their provision, their guard, their freedom, their lives. This journey began a pilgrimage home that lasted only longer—lifetimes—because they stumbled, believing more in what they could see than in what God would do (Numbers 13).
And so our lifetimes are pilgrimage, as He transforms us–over hours and miles and much difficulty—into people who believe in what He will do instead of what we see.
It took Mary and Joseph four days to travel to Bethlehem, and she full pregnant with our Hope. Ask any mother close to laboring: there’s a burning instinct to stay close to home. But Mary would, by Grace, come to know a thing or two about faith, about living out what God can do instead of what she sees—a weary journey, government forced for the census, and nowhere to weather the gripping birth pains except a stable, smelling heavy with the scent of animals. I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said,” she’d told the angel (Luke 1:38), but she might have imagined the birth of a King would happen a little differently than this hurting in a barn and her baby wrapped and sleeping in a feeding trough. She would journey a lifetime—sometimes in great haste—learning to store up God’s promises, His words, His will instead of the limits of her own soul-pierced view (Luke 2:35). It’s almost Advent, and I remember.
God’s people have lived as Pilgrims, traveling to celebrate the harvest of His Grace, since humans departed from faith, from His shelter, from Eden. We have since been returning, reaching up to Him, needy; giving thanks for His provision even as we ask. And we have been told to admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in [our] hearts (Col. 3:16). It’s the activity of Pilgrims bent on trust.
Outside, snow falls in fat flakes. Just hours past sunrise, and the trees, the road turn treacherously white. But oh, it’s beautiful. We gasp—our first sight of snow this year—gathering up the glittering, elegant. White as snow. Though your sins are as scarlet—(black-red with the blood of sacrifice slathered over)—they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be as wool (Isaiah 1:18). Come now, let us settle the matter, God had said. He would settle this thing that sent us traveling. He would be the settling, the sacrifice, the reason we exchange our filthy rags (Isaiah 64:6, John 11:44) for white robes (Zechariah 3:4, Luke 15:22)—the clothes of holy priests and pure brides. All creation testifies (Romans 1: 20). Every time I see snow, I see redemption. I see Him bringing us home.
We will travel a long way to be with Family.
And so pilgrimage precedes the holy days, and God says “go forth and come to Me,” and the dark winding roads and the rain and our weary bodies and desperate need all eventually help us learn to trust in Him instead of ourselves as we ascend to His mountain. And along the way, we give thanks. Because somehow, He satisfies, though not in just the way our human, limited minds conceive. He is not so limited. He still humbles us and feeds us. He still disciplines us as children, because He loves us. And somehow, these new, white, grace-plundered robes He gives don’t—and won’t—wear out (Deuteronomy 8: 3-5). And without thanks-giving, there’s only futile thinking and foolish, darkened hearts, and exchanging the glory of God for idols that can and will never really satisfy us (Romans 1: 21-23).
So, He beckons us—instead—to travel toward the Feast:
Observe the commands of the Lord your God, walking in obedience to him and revering him. For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land—a land with brooks, streams, and deep springs gushing out into the valleys and hills; a land with wheat and barley, vines and fig trees, pomegranates, olive oil and honey; a land where bread will not be scarce and you will lack nothing; a land where the rocks are iron and you can dig copper out of the hills.
When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the Lord your God for the good land he has given you (Deuteronomy 8: 6-10).
Every so often, one of the children–following our trip on their digital maps—calls out the hours left. Every hour brings us closer to Feast and Family, to history and embrace, to new joy and celebration, to remembrance and the shared observance of Grace. I am ready to get there.
This Thanksgiving, when we have eaten and are satisfied—stuffed, even—we will continue our praise to the Lord our God for the good He has given, and the greater glory coming, because every mile of the pilgrimage draws us closer to Him.
