Once the bird was in the oven, the potatoes peeled, and the dressing mixed, a cabinet drawer was opened and a white note card was removed. Well, it’s not really white anymore. It’s yellowed with age, stained & bent. (There might even be a small cigarette burn on one side.) It’s hand-written in ink. Words are scratched out and changed. Some of it is hard to read. But no one cares.
It’s titled, “My Bread”.
It’s a recipe for yeast rolls that my Grandma made for every holiday meal when I was growing up. At some point after Grandpa passed away, Grandma gave it to my wife.
The torch was passed.
So this morning we are making bread; more bread than any of us possibly need. There has to be enough made that everyone can take home leftovers for breakfast tomorrow morning. It’s part of the tradition. And as one of my Facebook friends said yesterday, traditions are important.
We have to hang on to those traditions of the past, even as we make new ones.
On this Thanksgiving Day, as we sit around the big table and pass the rolls (or as we say in the church, “break bread together”) I will be thinking about those traditions and the people who have passed them on to younger generations. And I will be thankful.