For nearly fifty years of my life, my family’s Thanksgiving feast was always celebrated at my grandmother’s home. She prepared every aspect of the meal and all her scrumptious food was made from scratch. I can remember her sending my mom and me on an expedition to find the perfect pumpkin in September so that she would be able to make her pumpkin pies – the absolute best I ever tasted. She would awaken at 4am on Thanksgiving Day to place the pies in the oven. Once they had baked, she stuffed the turkey and it roasted in her oven until her annual dinner at noon. She kept this tradition alive until she was 99 years old. We did not eat a single morsel until we said grace, and as the words to this blessing flowed from my grandmother’s lips, her eyes filled with tears because she always knew we might not all be together in the following year. Would we be thanking God for the gift of being present with each other, or would we be with God and be looking down upon our loved ones gathered at the table? My mind often wanders to those simpler times where I can still taste the food in my imagination.

Although this has been a year of great loss for so many people, 2019 was exponentially worse for my husband and me. The one saving grace of last year was the birth of our nephew, AJ. He has brought infinite joy into the lives of our family and extended family. Hugs and kisses from him just melt our hearts and transport us to a magical world of joy, and even though we have been distanced from him for the better part of 2020, we cherish the in-person moments God has graced us with in the last few months. If the pandemic has taught us anything, it is the importance of family. We are fortunate that we don’t personally know anyone who has tested positive for Covid-19, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t lost anyone close.

My husband and I have attended two funerals in two months for members of his family. In August, Jay’s aunt died after suffering from emphysema for years. Fortunately for her family, Jay’s uncle is a doctor and was able to oversee his wife’s care at home until she passed. Jay’s uncle was crushed because he and his wife had been friends since first grade and neither had ever dated anyone else before they got together as teenagers nearly 70 years ago. Jay and I have only been together for five years, but I feel like he has been in my heart my entire life. As his uncle was clinging to me and crying at the funeral home, I couldn’t even imagine how he was feeling after sharing his entire life with his soul mate. When we were at the after-funeral gathering, I was speaking to Jay’s cousin whose husband was dying of cancer. He was sitting next to her at the table and appeared to be the picture of health, but he was preparing for hospice. She was understandably shaken and said to me that he was next. Sure enough, we attended his funeral two weeks ago, which was held at St. Teresa of Calcutta Church (formerly St. Joseph’s) in Mahanoy City, PA.

As we were sitting in the church before the funeral, I was overwhelmed with the beautiful images of St. Teresa of Calcutta and St. Joseph. I had attended the beatification of Mother Teresa at the Vatican in 2003 and then played two concerts in Rome and Tivoli in honor of that event and the 25^th anniversary of Pope John Paul, II. This pilgrimage was life-changing for me, and I always felt my Polish grandfather had somehow arranged my trip from his vantage point in Heaven. He and my grandma were over the moon when John Paul, II was elected Pope in 1978. My grandma had even seen him preach as a young priest in Krakow, so he is my favorite Pope of all time. I marveled at the memories I recalled as I sat next to my husband in this church in Mahanoy City. Mother Teresa visited it in 1995, and a commemorative plaque marked the pew in which she sat. There was a beautiful statue of her holding a young child placed next to a statue of St. Joseph. Below the St. Joseph statue was a portrait of Pope John Paul, II. My grandma always had a special connection to St. Joseph because her name was Josephine. She and my grandfather donated the St. Joseph statue at their Polish church in Wilkes-Barre, PA, and she always prayed in front of it whenever she attended mass at St. Stanislaus (now St. Andre Bessette). When I saw all of those images in one place, I couldn’t help but think of my grandparents, and I burst into tears. I asked my husband to take some pictures of the church before the funeral began, so he began randomly capturing images. When I looked at my camera roll before the funeral mass, there was a beautiful, bright orb of light, which resembled the Blessed Mother. My husband and I were shocked because the church was dark, but the light was as bright as the sun. Perhaps it was a sign from the Heavens that the Blessed Mother or even Mother Teresa herself was watching over us! The image brought me so much comfort that I shared it on Facebook with my friends and family. My mom saw the pictures and called me a few days later. She said that she had been praying for weeks to the Blessed Mother to alleviate all of the suffering in this world. She had been asking God why all of this is happening and had been wondering if Heaven was still with us. She asked the Blessed Mother for a sign that she still hears our prayers. When my mom saw the picture, she felt it was her sign that everything was going to be okay. I am clinging to that hope.

Several days after that funeral, one of my brother’s close friends, Tony, died as well. When my brother, Joe, enrolled in Wilkes University’s music program in 1990, he met a bunch of musicians that hung out in the Wilkes lounge, and they were affectionately referred to as lounge lizards. These friends quickly became family, and, although I had left home in 1988, I got to know this band of misfits on my holiday breaks. They frequently visited our house, and my parents practically adopted them. When my brother got married in 1999, all of them served in his wedding party and then played in the band at his reception – perhaps the best time I had ever heard them play together. For years, I was one of two or three groupies that attended their gigs at Skytop, jazz bars or polka band venues. We all ended up at Denny’s after the gigs, and my brother and I would get home just as my dad was waking up to go to work. I always enjoyed talking to Tony, and he always managed to crack me up, but I only played one gig with him – on Christmas Eve at a country club in Dallas, PA. We sight-read flute and guitar duets, and it was the first time ever that I missed my grandmother’s Wigilia supper. Tony and I decided to carpool, and when he came to pick me up, he had garbage piled up from the seat of his car to the roof. After transferring the garbage to the backseat and into his trunk, he had to wipe off all of the potato chip crumbs that were stuck to the upholstered seats so I wouldn’t get grease all over my crushed velvet dress. Unlike myself, Tony had trouble with punctuality, so we arrived a few minutes late, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Everything about him was laid back. He was truly one-of-a-kind, and I will remember him with love. Tony had been battling cancer for years, but recently took a turn for the worse. A few weeks ago, all of the guys were able to meet at Tony’s house to say goodbye. Relationships, which had been cultivated through the art of music-making, had now come full circle as this band of brothers played together as a group for the final time. May he rest in peace until we meet again.

When our nephew, AJ, celebrated his first birthday in February, he had a party at the country club, which 130 people attended. One of my sister’s friends, Kristina, helped decorate the dining hall with Peanuts-themed images. I met this sweet lady and her mother at a psychic party my sister hosted at her house just before I got married. At the time, she and her mom were worried about her dad because he was having health issues, and they were hoping the psychic medium could shed some light on her father’s condition. Over time, his health continued to deteriorate, but all three of them were able to attend AJ’s party. It was the last time we saw all of them together. A few weeks after the pandemic shutdown, Kristina’s mom was hospitalized with organ failure and later died. Our hearts broke for Kristina because she was not able to sit vigil with her mom on account of the Covid-19 restrictions. She did manage to see her just before she passed, but, when her mom died, she lost her best friend. A few days ago, Kristina’s father died as well, but she did not make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye. There are going to be two empty chairs at her Thanksgiving table this year – two empty chairs, which nobody could have predicted at this time last year.

One of my dad’s friends and longtime colleagues, Toni, lost the love of her life this week as well. When I lived at home, I often spoke to her on the phone because she would call my dad every night to update him on their clients. Toni and I share the same birthday, so part of me feels as if we are kindred spirits. She and her boyfriend shared over thirty happy years together but never officially married. They were, however, completely devoted to each other. Both of them attended our wedding, which was the last time I saw them together, as he had been ailing a long time. Toni provided care in her home for her love until he had to be moved to a nursing home. Once he was transferred, she was unable to see him as well. Toni’s heart is broken, and a woman who spent most of her professional life talking on the phone, can’t speak with anyone at all because of the depth of her sorrow. My head understands the reasons for the Covid protocol, but my heart has been having a really tough time catching up, especially when I have witnessed the fragility of life over the last year.

When I contemplate the fragility of life, there is nowhere it is more apparent than in the excruciating journey of a childhood cancer diagnosis. Three months ago, I wrote a blog entitled, Does God Wink?, and relayed the story of Nathan, a young Wilms warrior, who has been fighting like a superhero since he was three years old. In July, surgeons were unable to remove two tumors, which were dangerously close to his heart and diaphragmatic nerve. His family has been desperately searching for treatments that have not been attempted on Nathan to date. Yesterday, his mom’s Facebook post moved me to tears because there is nothing more the physicians at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia can try:

I don’t know what to say but I’m sure you all know by now my lack of posting means things aren’t good. There’s two new tumors. He will not be receiving additional chemotherapy but will go on an inhibitor. The goal is no longer to cure him but to keep him happy and at home. Parents of my children’s friends-please don’t tell your children. The kids will be returning to school Monday (Nathan for only an hour or two a day for fun stuff) to regain some normalcy before our lives go to complete shit. My children know there’s new growth, and we need to change protocols but we will not be discussing dying until we have to. Meanwhile my world is collapsing.

I am asking once again for my readers to flood the heavens with prayers for seven-year-old Nathan. His older brother and younger sister need him. His family needs him. They have received the worst possible news very close to the holidays. A kid like Nathan should be thinking about his list to Santa and not about going to live with God. I am still holding out hope for a miracle as the season of miracles is upon us. I often turn to music as a means of comfort in trying times. Yesterday, I was practicing a piece for solo flute by Gary Schocker entitled, Short Stories. I bought the music over twenty years ago because I liked the title of the composition. It consists of seven short movements of different styles and tempi. I played and re-played number five, which is approximately one minute in length and marked sadly. I couldn’t help but think that this somber movement was only one part of the whole. The movements that follow are glorious technical displays, which end the piece with a bang, in much the same way it began. Perhaps Short Stories is a metaphor for life, which is peppered with great joy and overwhelming sorrow. Triumph over adversity is the superhero’s way. Nathan has many short stories to add to the pages of his life. Please pray he is granted the time to fulfill his destiny, and visit his page: https://www.facebook.com/nathancrushcancer.

As I anticipate the glorious Thanksgiving feast that is only one week away, I am reminded of the cornucopia – the horn of plenty. The irony of this journey called life is that devastating losses become some of the greatest touch points, which allow the human heart to overflow with gratitude. No year has better demonstrated that than 2020. I have been blessed with many accomplishments throughout the course of my life, but the most meaningful gifts in my cornucopia are not degrees, jobs, performances or even books authored. They are the people who graced my life – the people who loved me, celebrated me, inspired me, kicked my butt into gear, and, most of all, the people who are present in my life. I thank God for them all. May His grace descend on you and yours throughout this holiday season. Happy Thanksgiving!