On Gathering

December 01, 2024

The year is 2024 and November has finally caught the hint that it is supposed to be cold, just in time for Thanksgiving. And to make her point just a little bit more obvious, flurries were spotted around town as last classes hurried children away and traffic trudged along toward the Chesapeake Bay (a little more than 15 miles, in case you were curious). One moment the local world is entirely focused on staying and going and returning and repeating, the next it orients itself toward gathering.

People weren't expected for a few hours more as I ambled about the kitchen freshly dressed so late in the day and without hardly a care besides oranges and cloves and cider and wine. My family hosting had been busy preparing pies the day before, freeing up the oven for mac and cheese and stuffing while the turkey sizzled away in its special oven on the counter. Cranberry sauce frothed in a pot and wine mulled with cinnamon and clove. Eventually the meal would complete itself with roasted brussels sprouts and green bean casserole from my brother, a veggie tray from my sister, more drinks from the brother of my sister-in-law who feels as much a brother to me as any other. Before too long, the full expected compliment of nine arrive and without declaration we begin feasting and chatting and enjoying the gathering.

My family celebrates our coming togethers chiefly with food. Secondarily we reconnect with games. As soon as plates are filled, cards are dealt. As soon as plates are emptied, new cards are dealt. The pies will have to wait as pockets of people split off to challenge one another over new games and fresh drinks.

The house quickly fills with the mirth of my family. We are naturally very loud people, even louder when gathered together. But as I decline a game and retreat to the living room to admire my brand new, freshly erected Christmas tree, I cannot help thinking of the voices not joining in the throng of my boisterous family. Nine is a small number for us, I muse to myself. At a minimum, with all of us coupled and no additions, we should have twelve of us. Though we are gathered, we are not whole.

The sadness threatens to capture me (let's be honest, it often does), but I choose to focus on those present, reach for those absent, remember those lost. I see new and old faces making acquaintance. I see hard conversation prevailing. I see wide variety of personalities choosing their own means of celebration. I see what was. I see what may one day be.

Our family is not the only one missing faces. In my immediate circles I can think of so many acquainted with estrangement, sickness, death, deployment, or unmoving work schedules. So many tables have so many empty seats, just like mine. I used to think people who dwell on the losses and the pain were maybe a touch pathetic, selfish, trying to ruin things. But this year 2024, I found that those absences needed to be dwelt on, even incorporated like bitter flavors into sweet recipes. Incompleteness was an ingredient in our gathering.

Gatherings are big deals, especially for my family. They require scheduling (can we do it early? late? my work...), planning (who's making what? are you allergic?), and preparation (how many of us? what time? bring to-go containers!). But like every object casts a shadow, every gathering reminds us of who is missing. And if you think about it, there's no other way to do a head count unless we're all together. Gathering is as important for those absent as for those present. And if the gathering is good, it ends with the most important ingredient of all: hope for the next.