It is the morning before Thanksgiving, that holiday I have been wrestling with, and there is a pie in the oven for grandpa and I am pulling my tennis shoes on and heading out the door and driving to meet my father at spin class and then it is lunch and the afternoon and there is more baking and dish washing to do and husband will walk through the door and then we'll leave, together, and meet the parents for dinner and stumble home in the premature dark, dodging rain and puddles and the cold.  It is the morning before tomorrow and already it is tomorrow.

It is the morning and I am up early and I am warm and wrapped and smelling like caramel and goodbye kisses and the night's sleep.  It is the morning and there is so much to be thanking Him for.  

But still, even now- the day before that holiday, it stays so cold silent.  And I am not sure why and I find myself here, once again in the silent and so very grey place He brings me to.  To teach me what?  I do not know, to bend me maybe.  Or to straighten?  To sit me down, to rush me forward.

Mostly, it is this place of absence and longing and remembering and believing and doubting.  It is this place that shouts in its silence of The Mystery.  And it is to the mystery that I shout back love, shake love, weep love while the thanking moves and now the thank lists can not count, they are too small, too neat, too numbered, granted, past.  

No, I am stretched on the bed and finally I am thanking.  Yearning?  Rejoicing always in this bloodless, far away place where my love is grown and blown and thank singing.  This place where I will not stay but will hope to come back to, resetting in holy mystery.