Come, Ye Thankful People, Come!

NOVEMBER 1999

I can still sing the entire hymn, at least the first two verses, from memory. I can hear the harmonies, all of them, and the pipe organ gloriously supporting the worshipful human voices. I can remember no Thanksgiving in my youth that did not include singing this hymn, whether at church, or at home or both:

"Come, Ye Thankful People, Come! Raise the song of harvest home;
All is safely gathered in, 'Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God's own temple, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home.

"All the world is God's own field, Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown;
First the blade and then ear, Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we Wholesome grain and pure may be."

Different editions of different hymnals show variations on the lyrics. Sometimes the last line is sort of a reprise: "Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home!" Whatever the words, though, it was moving and wonderful. Everyone sang it with such gusto! Many of us, I'm sure, were sincere in our gratitude. I know I was. Of course it helped to remember that as my family left for church services the whole house was already filled with the magnificent aroma of stuffed turkey, patiently roasting in the oven. I can still smell it. You know, stuffing is not really stuffing unless you have one, not two, but one diced green apple in it. Thankful indeed. I really was. Being young, healthy, and financially better off than most, why wouldn't I be?

I did not realize then, in those golden years of innocence, that over half the world's population just barely had enough to eat on a daily basis, and a horrific percentage didn't even have that. I do wonder why my parents, both kind people, didn't tell us more about that. My very first inquiries into the subject were greeted, as most of my questions were, with a brief, impatient look to the skies, as if to say, "Can this child really be mine?" Young as I was, my questions soon earned the moniker, "Judy Question."

My inquisitive young mind was always bursting with the desire to know things (which hasn't changed since) and as I presented my always-urgent requests for information, my parents would roll their eyes and say, "Another Judy Question!" Which is really strange when you consider that they were both very bright, very well-read, every Saturday being library day, and they encouraged discussion and reading in all three of us kids. But I guess I didn't have the decency to keep my questions less controversial. I always, without fail, would see the weak spot in any answer and press for more information.

Looking back, I guess I was a bit of a pain. Even my siblings would get tired of my questions. But I couldn't help it. I just wanted to know things. I was never satisfied with half-answers or evasions. Lying was, to my own young mind, a Truly Deadly Sin, which is probably why I was so horrified when I learned that my parents had been lying to me about Santa Claus. I can still remember the day I found out about it, and the awful feeling of betrayal. Hmmm. Anyway, one holiday at a time, huh?

So there I was, all warm and toasty in our lovely church, while outside the rain was beating down on the stain glass windows. I was singing songs of Thanksgiving in a church filled with joyfully singing people—and a stuffed, roast turkey was waiting back at home. Does it get much better than that? I don't think so. So what do I do when we get back home on this particular Thanksgiving in my memory? I start asking questions. You know, as I write this, even I am getting tired of my constant questioning! But, I just had to ask….

"Do all the kids all over the world get turkey and stuffing like us?" That is definitely a Judy Question. You'd have thought I had just broke wind during services. Our guests, Chuck and Marie Heinitz, were having Thanksgiving dinner with us and we were all in the living room. The adults were talking and laughing and I was lying on my stomach on the floor, coloring a picture of a giant turkey with psychedelically colored feathers, when I popped what was, to me, a fairly simple question.

Well, talk about a sudden silence! Instantaneously the room was pin drop quiet as my question hung in the air, along with the mouth-watering aromas wafting in from the kitchen. I can still remember looking around, finally, wondering what I'd done wrong. Both of my parents rolled their eyes, which was a rare occurrence—like a lunar eclipse. I realized instantly that I had asked another one of those questions. But I couldn't help it. I wanted to know. I was happy and secure, and I wondered if all little children felt the same way on this day—since this was such a special day and all. God, I was young.

To this day I can't remember the answer I was given. I guess I was too traumatized by my social faux pas to remember what kind of answer I got. I realize now I was raining on their parade, but there was no malice aforethought. None at all. And, remembering the kind of answers I got to that type of question in later years, I'm pretty sure I know what I was told on that special, aromatic Thursday: "Well, some little children are not as fortunate as you are, which is why you should be grateful to God for all your blessings." Sounds good at first blush, doesn't it?

But as I got older, that answer satisfied less and less. I kept pressing, trying to understand why I (or anyone) should be so "fortunate" while others (any others) should be so "unfortunate." What the hell was God doing up there? Why couldn't we all have turkey and stuffing? I still find this a reasonable question.

As I learned to read more than the funnies in the paper, I began to get a glimpse, without the rose-colored glasses, of the world I lived in. It was not a pretty place. The National Geographic was especially an eye-opener for me. Those little foreign kids in the pictures, who wore hardly any clothes, looked hungry. I now know it's because they were. Hungry. Very, very hungry.

I don't mean to sound like some high-minded bleeding-heart who could never enjoy a mouthful of food for thinking of the world's starving masses. I dug in like everyone else. Every year. But, truthfully, with every year the inequity of it all bothered me more and more. Something was out of whack in my world, since I believed in an all-powerful, benevolent God who was watching over us all. All. That's the word that didn't fit. All. The hymns, sermons, Bible verses, and my own parents, said it was all. God watched over us all. Fine. I liked that. But then why did all those foreign kids in the magazines look so hungry…..uh, oh! Here comes another Judy Question.

The first ever column that I wrote on the Internet was in November, 1996. Titled, O, Give Thanks, it illustrates my conflicting emotions on many a Thanksgiving Day. (It is in "Previous Columns.") I never got over that feeling, and I know I never will. Unfairness has always bothered me, even though I know there isn't always anything anyone can do about it. It's called life. But it still bothers me.

My parents were good people. They taught me what they believed, and I believed with them—for a while. But finally my Judy Questions kind of took over, and I searched for my own answers. I would never presume to even hint that I have found "the" answers. There aren't any, really. But I still think, in defense of the youngster I was, that such questions should be asked; and that this world might be a much better place if we all asked such things. Often. 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

© 1999 Judy Meyer Hayes

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