warmth {and Thanksgiving}

Clouds, faintest gray, blanket the sky thick, like fleece smoothed with an efficient hand.  From the window, I glimpse fiery trees, tall in the brisk wind, the first drops of rain gathering on their leaves like gem stones.  And I give thanks for the trees on fire but not burning, the reminder of warmth against an icy sky.

I pause just a moment to whisper thanks, cradling a steamy mug in my hands, my thoughts turning again to warmth.  I am crazy for warmth, addicted, as should be any girl born and seasoned in the humid Lowcountry heat.  In my stolen moments at home, I go about kindling comfort—blankets tucked smooth and draped, ready for wrapping about the legs; candles flickering, spicing the air; apple cider simmering, a clove-studded orange tossed in the rolling boil; light, glowing gold—lamp light, festive mini-lights shining like stars.  I set out pumpkins in jewel tones, pine cones that smell of cinnamon.  I love this about Fall and Winter, the ensconcing, the celebration of warmth; warmth of heart, warmth of soul, warmth of body. I must have listed these details multiple times on my lists of gifts, the wealth of God poured out by grace, scattered and freely given by hands scarred, hands faithful, hands warmed by mercy.  I feel continually sheltered, embraced by those hands.

The bluest jay I’ve seen soars against the sky—sky cold, like steel—and rests in a blazing tree.  I am mesmerized, lost thinking about the elegant beauty of those blue feathers—so many shades artfully blended, blue like the sky without her covering.  I stand on tiptoes to see beyond the tree, to count more jays in the grass, hopping in chase.  And I give thanks for the seeing, for artistry–all His, for bird flight.

In Fall, I start wearing multiple layers of socks.  Keeping my feet warm requires effort, something that maybe signifies poor circulation or some economy on the part of my body to keep the heat inside, deep, away from my extremities.  I bounce on my toes, giving thanks for something as simple as warm, soft socks.

So many gifts—of all types and sizes and shapes and personalities—so many that giving thanks continually will never quite cover it.

Thanksgiving isn’t just for a season, not just for a holiday, stuffed and carved and satisfied.  Gratitude glows warm, kindling deep, burning through the coldest shadows.

I don’t like to be cold.

God touched me deep, and a slow ache settled in the pit of my stomach, a hurt, His pain, a sore bruise that never goes away anymore. I think about the way the cold seeps into my bones after a time, how nothing short of the hottest water will chase it away and stop the teeth-chatter.  And then I whisper truth: There are people who always feel cold—cold skin, shivering, the chill seeping, numbing; cold, empty lives, the lonely shadowing everything gray; frozen hearts, paralyzed by fear, scarred by pain.  I can’t stand in my warm home anymore, ensconced, wrapped in grace, and not care about those who feel cold.  God has cut away the calloused places of my heart.  He has seared me, hot, with His Spirit.  It’s time to do something.  The refiners fire is a fire given to spreading.

And because it hurts Him, it now hurts me to know that many live blind to His gifts, unable to feel His love, untouched by His hands.  It isn’t His absence they mourn, it’s the walls we’ve built, the way we stand apart.  And these days, I ache, wanting everyone to feel warmth, the flame of Him indwelling, filling, blazing past the shadows.  He is light, and in Him there is no darkness at all (1 John 1:5).

He prepares me to do something, and I wait, listening hard, watching, asking Him for eyes to see.  This I know already, this is the truth that throbs:  I can’t list my gifts without wanting to share them.  I can’t live warm without caring for the cold.  This giving thanks isn’t about reveling.  It isn’t about storing away.  It isn’t about God loving me comfortable, satisfied, numb.

This always-Thanksgiving—even as the cold threatens to settle, even in the gray of shadow (1 Thessalonians 5:18)—opens my eyes to see the wealth of grace given me that I might be generous, that this generosity might bear the fruit of still greater Thanksgiving, greater glory to the Giver.

We give thanks to bear Kingdom fruit, to spread warmth in this cold place.

 You will be made rich in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God.

 This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of God’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God. Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, men will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone else (2 Corinthians 9: 11-13).

Christ has no body on earth but yours,

no hands but yours,

no feet but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which 

Christ’s compassion for the world is to look out,

yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good,

and yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.

~Teresa of Avila