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.
Last week Becca and I celebrated Thanksgiving by going to the Thanksgiving Eve Worship service. We got there and Becca found seats towards the front.
We went up, took of our coats, sat down and looked around at a packed house. Seats are in a semi-circle instead of the regular square looking church. We were in the very front corner. By the time we left it was about a million degrees. I wish they would have opened some doors.
I have not been to Our Savior's Lutheran Church for a service before. It is a contemporary, 'cool' church. They don't mind if there is a little hand waving, they invite people to stay afterwards and pray with the 'prayer team' afterward, and most noticeably they don't follow traditional order of worship. Communion is in the middle of the service and the sermon is last. Those crazy baby-boomers.
Knowing that about the church, I wondered how they would deal with a very traditional service like Thanksgiving. It's not as popular as say Christmas Eve or Easter Sunrise service, but it’s a good indicator as to what those services might be like. Most people think of these as ummm, sacred cows. Or at least there is something about them that you just want to make people feel comfortable, welcome, and invited. For Thanksgiving I suppose there is a little of that and to a lesser degree.
All that aside, I really like Thanksgiving and did not realize it until tonight, what it means to me, and how it impacts me.
You see, we walked in sat down; the pastor greeted everyone, read through a responsive prayer, and read Psalm 100. We sang a few praise songs, (it’s a contemporary church, and thanksgiving, what better a time to sing praise and thanks songs.) and read the scripture. Then came the anthem. Yes that's what is called in the service folder. The Anthem. This is where we all stand up and sing with one voice.
It’s not like a baseball game where everyone puts there hand over there chest and takes off their hats. But everyone knows the song and it has the same effect. Like mosquitoes to a warm body on a cool summer night. We are drawn to the song; and it is significant
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.
The words of the song remind me of our agrarian roots. I say our, because I have never been a farmer, or lived on a farm. I don’t consider myself farm inclined. Unfortunately. But I do have images of my grandparents and their milk cows, pigs, and chickens in Minnesota, and miles of corn, soy, and wheat, in Nebraska. A time long ago when people lived closer to the land and died closer to the land. I live in a city, I commute, I sit in front of a computer all day, I buy milk in plastic jugs.
I did do something cool this year though, Becca and I planted a garden. A modest potted garden consisting of some basil, green peppers, 4 tomato plants, parsley, more peppers, marjoram. Some things did well, others did not. The tomatoes, basil, and green peppers did very well.
We marveled when the first shoots came up in May. I carefully watered everyday this summer. We picked weeds. We marveled some more when the first flowers came. And speculated on how nice a salad they would make, or pasta sauce. (Keeping quiet so as not to alarm the plants and their newly formed flowers of our designs.) We watered more, positioned them in the front of the house for maximum sunlight and heat from the brick wall. We were saddened one day after a heavy rain took the main stalk of our first plant and snapped it off. Our first success met with setback. I wondered what it must be like on a larger scale. For farmers to see entire fields destroyed, acres and acres wiped out. The loss of an entire crop, the mental, physical strain, the loss of income, and effort with nothing in return. These are things too great for me, for anyone to take on alone.
Finally in August we saw the first fruits. I remember popping one in my mouth biting down and tasting Red ripe cherry tomatoes that we had grown. They ripened by the handful. Enough for a salad here, and pasta dishes, a Greek salad, with feta cheese. I took pride in eating what we grew, we were pleased with the garden and what the plants brought.
It is November now and for the past few days, the plants have been hanging around, a few tomatoes still hanging on, a little frost bitten, and the leaves withered away. I am only now able to take a scissors and cut everything down and place it on top of the soil in the buckets.
We stood, and sang “All is safely gathered in ere the winter storms begin.” It marks the passage of a season, from fall to winter. A slow march towards the end of the year. Plants are done growing for this year, fruit was produced, it was good, and now its over. I only know a little of what happened this year. I am barely in tune with the cycle of life and gardening. But I know that I have been singing this thanksgiving song for a long time, and now it gains a new significance. I still have a vision of farmers bailing hay and putting it up in the loft, bringing in all the cattle and closing the big heavy wooden doors. Like the doors of a huge castle, fortified ready to withstand the fiercest enemy or longest siege.
Like the farmer, I make plans to go and plant a crop, work at a job, earn a living. Knowing the risks and weighing my options. I can not do it alone though. God gives me strength and I rely on him for his hand to provide my needs. Like the farmer, all my effort can be wiped out without reason, or notice. God gives me strength, and I rely on him, to provide for my needs. Like the farmer I watch the seasons, I watch flowers bloom and fade, and I take care to do what I can to help the plants and fruit to grow, and when harvest comes, the cycle is complete. God gives me strength, and I rely on him, to provide for my needs, and I am thankful for what he has provided. I return in thanks to God and the cycle is complete. The relationship grows.
Fall is a time when plants die. I waited until now to finally cut down the green pepper, and tomato plants that had been languishing in the cold nights and cold rain. It was long overdue. I snipped away at the plants and reduced them to a pile of small sticks. Green plant juice ran down the blades, I removed the wire cages, and cut the plastic wraps off the cages that held once heavy vines, now withered and olive grey-green. It was dark out, at 5:00 pm. No one else was out, and the thermometer read 52 F. I looked at the main trunk of the plants; they were once sturdy and solid now lightweight and hollow. We’ll see about next year, what to plant, when. Becca and I will probably do this again, and see what other tasty things we can grow. For now it’s a time to reflect, and give thanks to God for all of the good things he provides.
