31 Rocket Hot-Side Red
Nov. 22nd, 2007 11:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldI always feel a little funny, sitting at the Thanksgiving dinner table, when someone says "grace" and invokes "God" or "Lord" or any other references to omnipotent deities.
"Grace" is a relatively sacred ritual, though, for those who believe in it. So while I gather with my fellow thanks-givers and eat under the protection of their prayer, I am careful not to pretend I believe when I do not; I simply sit politely, eyes open with my hands on my lap and my head bowed ever-so-slightly. That is my moment for personal reflection.
This year, J. and I are hosting a small Thanksgiving dinner for my mother and father. I don't know if there will be any pre-meal devotionals, but my mind will be on football.
You see, my father was a highly regarded high school athlete, earning local accolades as a running back for the Charlotte High football team.
During a game in his senior year of high school, he was tackled by a linebacker who picked him up and threw him to the ground with such force that it resulted in a slight curvature of his spine. He was never really the same athlete again.
This effectively precluded any scholarship offers he might have received. It also saved him from military service; in 1969 he was drafted, but failed their physical because of his back and was released from obligation.
So he went to a small state college and met my mother. Then a lot of romantic stuff happened, and on November 22, 1976, I was born.
There are times when I wonder if Fate or Destiny somehow posessed the body of that linebacker, who then tackled my father, setting forth a sequence of events designed to bring me -- or my theoretical future granddaughter, or this LiveJournal entry -- into the world. If not for that linebacker, you'd be reading something else right now, and your haircut might be totally different.
And of course what are "Fate" and "Destiny" but shorthand for "God?" No, it's not proof of anything, but there's still a kind of magic in it.
As it unfolds, the thought gets too big, so I have to shrink it: Small things, even and especially things that seem awful and shitty at the time, can make all the difference. So maybe the moral of the story is to embrace those things. Make the best of them. Give thanks for them.
This Thanksgiving, embrace the linebacker. And have a happy holiday.
"Grace" is a relatively sacred ritual, though, for those who believe in it. So while I gather with my fellow thanks-givers and eat under the protection of their prayer, I am careful not to pretend I believe when I do not; I simply sit politely, eyes open with my hands on my lap and my head bowed ever-so-slightly. That is my moment for personal reflection.
This year, J. and I are hosting a small Thanksgiving dinner for my mother and father. I don't know if there will be any pre-meal devotionals, but my mind will be on football.
You see, my father was a highly regarded high school athlete, earning local accolades as a running back for the Charlotte High football team.
During a game in his senior year of high school, he was tackled by a linebacker who picked him up and threw him to the ground with such force that it resulted in a slight curvature of his spine. He was never really the same athlete again.
This effectively precluded any scholarship offers he might have received. It also saved him from military service; in 1969 he was drafted, but failed their physical because of his back and was released from obligation.
So he went to a small state college and met my mother. Then a lot of romantic stuff happened, and on November 22, 1976, I was born.
There are times when I wonder if Fate or Destiny somehow posessed the body of that linebacker, who then tackled my father, setting forth a sequence of events designed to bring me -- or my theoretical future granddaughter, or this LiveJournal entry -- into the world. If not for that linebacker, you'd be reading something else right now, and your haircut might be totally different.
And of course what are "Fate" and "Destiny" but shorthand for "God?" No, it's not proof of anything, but there's still a kind of magic in it.
As it unfolds, the thought gets too big, so I have to shrink it: Small things, even and especially things that seem awful and shitty at the time, can make all the difference. So maybe the moral of the story is to embrace those things. Make the best of them. Give thanks for them.
This Thanksgiving, embrace the linebacker. And have a happy holiday.
Amen
Date: 2007-11-27 03:32 am (UTC)