Entrances, Exits, and Empty Chairs.
In 2016, we had the privilege of having my 91-year-old mother-in-law with us for Thanksgiving. We knew it was a privilege. We knew it might not happen again. We seated her next to the fireplace so she could keep warm. She told us stories about Thanksgiving when she was a little girl. We took as many four-generation photos as she could stand to pose for. She couldn't remember everyone's names, or some of the faces, but she seemed content and comfortable, just the same. I'm grateful we had that time with her, because we lost her in September last year, and the opportunity to place her at our Thanksgiving table, with her.
There were many years when my husband and I packed up our little kids and made the four-hour drive to where we grew up so that we could celebrate Thanksgiving with our parents. We literally went over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house for pumpkin pie. It wasn't a horse-drawn sleigh, it was a minivan, but most of the time it was through drifted snow. The trek was always worth the bad roads, because we were returning to our seats at the family table. And every year, as the holiday ended, we left with tears, because we didn't know if it would ever be the same again. My mom was first to go. Then my brother. My brother-in-law. My father. Another brother-in-law. My niece. My grandson. And now my mother-in-law. We were right. Each Thanksgiving was special. And never the same.
Just a month before we lost my mother-in-law, we lost our infant grandson to anencephaly. He was only 23 weeks into his 40-week gestation. His due date was planned for Thanksgiving week. We thought we would have a Thanksgiving grandbaby. My amazing son and daughter-in-law have taught me important lessons this year. They have set amazing examples. I stand in awe at their thoughtful parenting and faithful strength as they remember their beautiful baby boy, William. He joined the family in the middle of the night, and stayed with us for almost two hours. His little spirit filled the room. I was privileged to hold him. That is when I learned that miracles can weigh ten ounces. He yawned. He had perfect tiny toes and fingers. And a nose like his brother. We may not have had him long enough, but it was long enough to cement his place in our family. In our hearts. He may not have made it to Thanksgiving like we had planned, but there will forevermore be a chair for him at our table and in our family.
I've been thinking about the entrances and exits we all make in this lifetime. They are inevitable. We each made an entrance, and at some undetermined point, we will each exit, too. I don't understand why my mother-in-law had 92 years in between her entrance and exit and William only had 92 minutes in between his, but I do understand that it is up to each of us to make the most of whatever time we are given in between.
Rather than mourn the fact we've added two more empty chairs at our Thanksgiving table, I'm choosing to be grateful that we had the time in between. I'm grateful for the 92 years. I'm grateful for the 92 minutes. I'm grateful for my own 53 years, and I'm grateful for each of your years in between.
As you sit around your Thanksgiving table this season, take a moment to see the empty chairs there. Thank Heavenly Father for the entrances and exits those empty chairs represent, and for the lives in between that weigh so mightily upon our own.
This year, I will imagine a matching feast in heaven, where those we have lost will take their heavenly seats. I will imagine our little Will, surrounded by his heavenly family. Perhaps they will look around their table at our empty heavenly chairs, and look forward to the day those chairs are filled again.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for empty chairs on both sides of the veil, and all that happens in between.
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