“Hold the plucked bird over the gas flame of the stovetop to remove the remaining fuzz on the flesh.” Disgusting.
Imagine Thanksgiving without a turkey! Since the non-American world feeds and fattens turkeys for December, not November, our current cultural challenge required creativity.
Determined to avoid a turkey-less Thanksgiving while living in Poland, Larry and I headed downtown to Warsaw’s outdoor farmers’ market in hopes of negotiating an early bird, literally. Trudging through the stalls, we approached a villager who cautiously agreed to do business. In rudimentary Polish, we confirmed a collection date and, according to the man’s requirement, made the advance payment in full.
Thanksgiving week, my husband and I returned expectantly to collect this prepaid purchase. Dodging puddles, we shoved past shoppers and merchants, and schlepped down the narrow concrete aisle of the make-do shelter where dealers came to sell their wares. Past the pickle barrels, past the potato bins, past the slabs of hanging pork, we eventually reached the vendor near the end of the row of stalls.
And oh, my! There sat our agreement. Shabbily wrapped in pieces of old newspaper, the pitiful, scrawny bird lay dead—but barely. Minus his head, the rest remained as homework. (One dare not ask, “What would the USDA think of this, not to mention the CDC?”)
Hesitantly, we collected our poultry prize, put him in the trunk, and drove home to begin making this creature both presentable and, yes, edible.
We held the plucked bird over the gas flame to remove the remaining fuzz from the flesh. Somewhere, some inexperienced someone offered this hideous suggestion, and, before long, the charred odor permeated every crack and crevice of our home. With each singe of the carcass, my appetite for the upcoming feast steadily waned.
As we gathered around the dining room table on Thanksgiving Day, the gruesome ordeal stayed with me. The final product sat on the platter, but my mind served up images of its own. I nearly gagged at the vivid technicolor memories of that raw bird resting on the newspaper at the market, riding home in our car, and hanging over the stovetop flame. Choking down my portion, I politely declined seconds. At that meal, I felt thankful all right, thankful to be done.
Another year passed. Recollections of the previous loathsome episode dampened any enthusiasm for serving turkey. Yet without options, we followed the same drill, and reserved one at the farmers’ market.
In the surge of life, the upcoming raffle at our son David’s kindergarten hardly got any attention.
Something being given away? A turkey? How nice. Did you say an American Butterball from the Embassy’s forbidden-to-outsiders commissary? Oh, sure, we will buy a couple of tickets. Why not? I’ll even pray, “Lord, please let us win the Butterball. Please.”
And then
a few days later
on the street
outside a Warsaw restaurant
“Debby, Debby, I am looking for you!” In the din of noisy buses and trams, I barely heard Sandra (David’s teacher) as she shouted my name over the roar. Jumping out of the taxi and flailing her hands, she frantically ran to greet me. Clutching my children in the confusion and chaos of traffic, I wondered why this animated woman searched so desperately to find me. Sandra wasted no time in delivering her news.
“We just finished the drawing, and guess what! You won! Your family won the prize of the American Butterball turkey!”
The American Butterball turkey. Did she say we won? No. No way! In utter amazement, I asked, “How could this possibly be happening?”
Shock gave way to overwhelming gratitude as it dawned on me that God actually heard and answered my prayer. Could it be that He genuinely cared about a seemingly insignificant matter such as a turkey? Oh my.
Picture the drastic difference in holiday preparation! Rich aromas of this buttery beauty wafted in stark contrast to the previous bird’s smell of singed flesh. We relished each peek into the tiny communist-era oven, which was almost too narrow to house the trophy.
Once baked to perfection and sitting on a platter, our roasted royalty took center stage for individuals to pose alongside the miracle for photos. Even carving the mega-monster, fourteen-pound turkey involved a ceremony. And the festive atmosphere continued as guests consumed second and even third portions. What a feast!
Yet amid the excitement, I quietly experienced ongoing moments of private worship; this turkey felt like a gift from the Hand of God.
The words of Psalm 37:4 seemed written just for me: “Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.” On that Thanksgiving Day ages ago, disgust gave way to delight. Ironic—God used a turkey to teach me of His love.*
Living With Eternal Intentionality®
“For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.” Phillippians 1:21
How has God recently demonstrated His tender love and care in a very personal way?
As you prepare your heart for Thanksgiving, what discovery of gratitude will you bring to the dining room table?
*From Pulling Back the Iron Curtain: Stories From a Cold War Missionary
