A week ago my folks were telling a very compelling story about how the have stars aligned for them as they scored the largest marked-down turkey (a monstrous 15-pounder) at the grocery for Thanksgiving dinner.
Thanksgiving. November. Another year ends, again!
I panic and buy myself a shabby piece of internet real estate. And, yay, that’s all the energy I have for an intro story 🙈
My name is Tzaddi.
My Hebrew name does kind of make my descent sound unplaceable. My ancestors never had to cross the Atlantic to seek refuge from persecution.
(Before you get creative, I am all Filipino.)
And even if I wished it as a kid, I could not be in any way related to Pocahontas neither. Still on every fourth Thursday of November my family fusses over Thanksgiving dinner like the rest of America.
Admittedly, it’s more of a quirk than anything religious.
Though in essence, my family does have reasons for thanks as any pilgrim come to the New World; liberty to practice one’s own faith.
Earlier this year my sister was married by a pastor from our Church in front of all our relatives, Catholic and Muslim.
Growing up, we’ve always kept Sabbath discreetly out of love and respect for our Muslim grandfather than anything else. He’s always known but out of love, in turn has never made it his business.
Anyway, I’m only coming to appreciate how wonderful it is for that part of ourselves to be openly acknowledged, especially not having to apologize for it.
It is this one overlooked gift I’m glad my family has thanksgiving day for.