I wrote last year at this time about my love for the Thanksgiving holiday and my disdain for merging it with Christmas, so I won’t drag up all of that again.
I know many of you already have your Christmas tree standing or you will put it up this weekend and, of course, that’s your prerogative and I wish you the best. With all the work Wife does preparing for Thanksgiving, if I started dragging out anything having to do with Christmas tomorrow or this weekend, she would not be pleased. Everything in due time.
Tomorrow morning Daughter, Older Son, Older Son’s girlfriend and I will participate in the annual Habitrot, a Thanksgiving Day 5K which benefits our local Habitat for Humanity chapter. I use the word “participate” because I make no promises that I will run. I will finish, though, and we will have so much fun.
At our house tomorrow we will be hosting Wife’s family and will have a total of 13. We will have our Thanksgiving meal about mid-afternoon. Daughter and Older Son will head out early Friday morning for the Iron Bowl, Auburn’s annual clash with intra-state rival Alabama.
Friday night will be another football game as Younger Son’s team heads into the semi-finals of the state playoffs. (He even has practice tomorrow morning but believe me, he is not complaining). I will write more about that at a later time.
Given that there was no observation or mention of Thanksgiving at my church last Sunday, I will print the words of a wonderful old hymn that I would hope is still sung in many churches around the country at this time of year. If you are so inclined, you can go to this link and hear a piano playing the lovely tune, and you can sing along: www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/c/o/comeytpc.htm.
Have a blessed (and thankful) day.
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!
We ourselves are God's own field, fruit unto his praise to yield. Wheat and tares together sown, unto joy or sorrow grown. First the blade and then the ear, then the full corn shall appear. Grant, O harvest Lord, that we, wholesome grain and pure may be.
For the Lord our God shall come, and shall take the harvest home. From His field shall in that day all offences purge away. Giving angels charge at last, in the fire the tares to cast. But the fruitful ears to store in the garner evermore.
Then, thou Church triumphant come. Raise the song of harvest home! All be safely gathered in, free from sorrow, free from sin. There, forever purified, in God's garner to abide. Come, ten thousand angels, come. Raise the glorious harvest home!