THANKSGIVING IS UNIQUELY AMERICAN

For a number of years I have kept a sporadic journal, reflections on life and living, you might say. A few days ago, while rummaging through some papers, I came across a part of my journal that I had misplaced sometime back. Much of what I had written here tended towards the poetical. And, although I was proud to have written what was inside, the writing was often murky and dark.

The following piece is one of the few which had a beginning and end, and which was happy. On this Thanksgiving day, I thought you might enjoy it.

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Moscow:16 November 1989

Two friends and I returned to our room famished from not having eaten all day. In the dining hall at breakfast we had found only burnt, cold macaroni and a drink that most closely resembles fermented prune juice (compost still floating generously within each cup; "Fetal brew" it is called by the Brits).

In our 20-minute break for lunch we were stuck behind an endless line of students and had to return to class before even seeing what was offered.

After class we hurried to a nearby "pizzeria" (calling what they served pizza is like calling a 7-ll store's microwave hamburgers filet mignon). But it was closed for sanitation day.

To make matters worse, when we stopped at the state grocery market to buy some bread and cheese, the lines there were curled a hundred deep – from the cash register (though the actual calculating is done on an abacus) past the pigeons roosting in the flour section to the rain puddles in the back of the building. After 20 minutes of waiting, the store ran out of bread. We gave our loaves to a bent grandmother and started back to the Institute.

Returning home, we found that they had closed the dining hall early. Thus, hungry, frustrated, exhausted, we stepped into our room. And there was one of our German roommates trying to hide a jar of peanut butter and loaf of bread that he had bought at a hard currency store. Seeing our faces, however, he thought better of it and held the jar out to the two of us.

We buttered three slices. Then, holding the prizes high above our heads, we danced around the room and sang, "A feast. A feast. Tonight we have a feast."

In thanks to Jacob, from Wittenberg, I did his laundry for him in the bathtub. There was no hot water, of course.

* * * * *

Three years later, not much is better in what was then the Soviet Union. The food situation, in particular, continues to be frought with hardship. And inflation has been well over 12 percent per month for the past year.

My friends there worry about the Nationalists and the Anarchists. It seems these two groups draw the attention of young people like no one else. Still, my friends have hope, and they persevere.

They admit that better order is needed, but they also quickly say that they know few who want to return to where the state owns and runs everything. They are angry with the current government, however. And they hope and expect that President Yeltsin will make a political sacrifice of his acting prime minister, Yegor Gaidar, before the winter is over. It is necessary for Yeltsin to make such a step, they say, or there will be uprisings.

All of this reminds me of how fortunate we are in the United States. There are clouds which darken our skies, of course. But burning through these is the bounty of a nation blessed. We, indeed, are a land of continual sunrise, of crops sown and harvests reaped. In contrast with those in Russia, Armenia, Romania and Bosnia, Somalia, Haiti and Liberia, our burdens are light.

Think for a minute, Thanksgiving is unique to America. No where else does a whole nation celebrate such a holiday. Today I pray for my friends abroad. And I pray for a resolution to the troubles here at home. But I will also stop and reflect on the glory of the Lord, who has given us so much.