Thanksgiving’s Gift

Posted on November 24, 2016 by randamir

This is an Italian sonnet for Thanksgiving Day which in America was formed and established midst a backdrop of hardship. As a discipline during hard times, it may be more important to take time for the practice of gratitude which can form in us a virtue of enduring resilience.

Gathered together, November’s last Thursday

The turkey is stuffed, pecan pies prepared

The table is set, pulled in the extra chair

And pass the time watching Macy’s parade.

Long ago the first Thanksgiving Day

Began when refugees with natives shared,

Thanks for their host’s hospitable care

And Providence who kept their hunger at bay.

So before you return to your television,

Succumbing to the tom’s turkey-ed sedation,

Before you doze and into sleep drift,

Pause for a moment acknowledge provision

With gratitude comes a gift’s consummation

For seeing the giving is Thanksgiving’s gift.

artwork: : “The First Thanksgiving at Plymouth” (1914) By Jennie A. Brownscombe, 1914. Stedelijk Museum De Lakenhal

Returned

Posted on November 16, 2016 by randamir

This is a sonnet for Thanksgiving and it is based on the account of Jesus’ healing of the ten lepers from Luke 17:11-19.

The passage reads,

On the way to Jerusalem he was passing along between Samaria and Galilee. And as he entered a village, he was met by ten lepers, who stood at a distance and lifted up their voices, saying, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.”

When he saw them he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went they were cleansed. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice; and he fell on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks. Now he was a Samaritan.

Then Jesus answered, “Were not ten cleansed? Where are the nine? Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” And he said to him, “Rise and go your way; your faith has made you well.”

You may read listen to the sonnet by clicking the play button here.

I raise my voice while bowing in shame;

Cloaked, hiding my face crying, Unclean!

Soiled, bearing the untouchable name.

Not alive, yet not dead, lost in-between.

Mercy heard us, then sent us away

For the priest to declare, clean or defiled?

No sooner we’re healed; we rush to obey,

Be rid of our leprosy, no longer exiled.

But Rabbi, forgive, I did not go but returned

To know what mercy moved you to heal

A Samaritan and leper, defiled yet not spurned