It was a gray week. That I remember. The sky and the ocean. Both gray. And as we drove down Kam Highway, we watched neighbors digging imus in their yards in which they would cook their Thanksgiving turkey (or pig?).
It was just the two of us. We’d been married and in Hawaii for 11 months. We had no plans for the big day. At the last minute, an older couple we knew from Micah’s work invited us to join them. They were going to have Thanksgiving dinner with the students at the local university.
Sure, we said. Why not?
Why not was that it was little more than a cafeteria. And we were the new kids with no friends, no one to sit with. (Our older friends had other older friends to sit hang out with.)
I don’t even remember eating any of the mashed potatoes from a box before we went home.
It was a long, lonely day. We talked to our families who sounded like they were having a great time. We went for a hike in the trails behind our neighborhood. And then we made a pledge to take in as many “homeless” people as we could the next Thanksgiving. We’d roast a turkey and mash potatoes and bake pies and do whatever we wanted and we’d open our doors to anyone who didn’t have a place to go. Because no one should be left alone on Thanksgiving.
And that’s what we’ve done. Every year since then minus one. We’ve had people we know well and people we just met and people we didn’t know until they walked through our door. We’ve taken food to our church to feed a crowd, and we’ve had a dozen people in our little apartment.
This year we thought we’d keep it a little smaller. Two of my siblings. A couple of friends. Nothing too crazy. At the beginning of the week there were going to be 6 adults, 3 kids, 2 infants. This morning we were up to 8 adults, 3 kids, 2 infants. And now we’re up to 12 adults, 4 kids, 2 infants. No problem. Everyone needs a home on Thanksgiving. The more the merrier. We’re all friends. Or will be, after tomorrow.