Before-bed read

When Cyndi Bowen invited an elderly widow to join her family for Thanksgiving, she didn’t know how much it would change her own life in return

Inervously checked my cluttered kitchen that Thanksgiving morning. My turkey was stuffed and roasting in the oven, while vegetables simmered on the stove top. Fresh apple pie filled the house with an aroma that tempted my youngest son to linger close by my side, just in case I needed someone to help with tasting.

“What in the world was I thinking?” I muttered as I sent my boys to tidy the stray toys that had found their way into the living room. Meanwhile, their father went out into the cool November air to pick up our dinner guest, Joann. I had run into the elderly widow at the grocery store in the frozen-foods aisle the week before and spoken to her. She told me that since she was alone for the holiday, she was choosing a frozen turkey dinner with bigger portions so she could share with the fuzzy yellow cat that was her companion. My heart ached at her loneliness, and I invited her to come to my home to share the meal with my family.

Now that the day had come, I was filled with nervous dread. My cooking was good enough for my little family, but what if she found it unacceptable? I was a young mother of two lively boys, and our conversation consisted of baseball and video games most of the time. What would we talk about, and how would I entertain her? The answer came to mind so suddenly that it seemed inspired. I knew exactly how to fill the time! I would let my children decorate the Christmas tree while Joann was at our home. Surely, their excitement and joy would cheer her.

The dinner went better than I anticipated, and compliments about the best stuffing she had ever been served eased my worries. The lack of decorum of brothers tossing dinner rolls across the table to each other brought a glare from me, but my guest merely laughed at their antics. As I cleared the table, my husband went to the attic and returned with boxes of colorful ornaments, ropes of glittering garland, and the artificial tree that was folded carefully into its cardboard container.

I watched the animated faces of my children as they told Joann about presents, Santa, and all the toys they were hoping they would find on Christmas morning. I also saw the smiles each tale brought to her wrinkled face. Her eyes glittered nearly as much as theirs as the dreams of gifts grew more and more grand with each story.

As the evening ended, my husband warmed the car to drive her home. I pulled a plate from my shelf and filled it with leftovers for Joann, enough that even her kitty could enjoy a meal. Her bent frame came near, and her wrinkled hands grasped mine. She gently kissed my cheek and whispered, “Thank you for having me.”

The years that followed brought Joann to our Thanksgiving table many times, and we always pulled out the Christmas tree decorations to finish the celebration. Most years, Joann brought a cherished ornament of her own to add to its branches. We talked about a time when she was very young and the only gifts she received were fruit and candies. Sometimes, she reminisced about raising her own son just after the war and struggling to buy a few meager toys for his Christmas gifts. I treasured her tales of a life much slower and simpler than the hectic pace of mine.

Over time, her gait slowed, and the year came that we had to build a makeshift ramp to bring her wheelchair into our house. Finally, her weakened body was no longer able to make the trip, so I brought the turkey dinner to her. My boys missed her that year, but the tinseled tree still went up that evening.

The guest I had so reluctantly welcomed that first year somehow became a dear friend, and my attempt to entertain her had become our family’s holiday tradition. Joann had gained a little companionship, but my own life was enriched by knowing her. I had learned a valuable lesson

“My heart ached at her loneliness, and I invited her to come to my home to share the meal with my family”

through a simple act of sharing a meal: Kindness is a gift that gives both directions.

Many years have passed since those days. My sons are now grown. I miss the days when dinner rolls flew across my table and discussion centered around what Santa might bring. My dear friend Joann has been in Heaven for several years now, but the memory of her gentle wisdom and faith has remained with our family. This year, like every one that will follow, when we gather at my table for Thanksgiving, it will be a time of love, fellowship, and an occasional guest. Then someone will remind me with a smile that it is time to put up the Christmas tree.

—Cyndi Bowen