Circle of Gratitude

At church today I was intrigued by the phrase, "circle of gratitude". It was said in relation to Thanksgiving and the image of the family, friends, neighbors, gathered around the table and holding hands as they pray. I like that image very much. Maybe it’s a little too Norman Rockwell for some people, but I’ve always liked Rockwell. And I like the idea that we would join forces to acknowledge what we have, our lives, our health, our children. Maybe some of our wants go unfulfilled, but somehow our needs get provided.
There is strength in numbers, that’s undeniably true. And in the tough economic times that appear to be headed in our direction, it’s good to know that we aren’t alone. That, in fact, we’re all in this together.
In church however, when you say the word "circle", more than this Thanksgiving picture comes to my mind.
I was raised among singers. My grandparents were in a quartet that performed in my church thousands of times over decades of their life. My grandfather sang bass. Grandma sang tenor. Hmmm. Could be a lyric in that?
My parents sang as well. They were both prone to breaking into song unexpectedly. My dad would come home from the oilfield, his khakis stained with grease and his shirt wet with sweat. He’d take a seat on the porch step, remove his hardhat and light up a cigarette before he went into the house to clean-up. If he were to catch sight of me in the corner of his eye, he might burst out with "come sit by my side, little darlin’. Come lay your poor head on my brow. And promise ol’ Russ that you’ll never, be nobody’s darlin’ but mine."
In much the same manner, my mother, in a good mood, would sing us little ditties from her girlhood, like Mares Eat Oats, When Penny was a Puppy, and The Night Sweet Willie Died.
My parents, when together, occasionally made up their own songs. I didn’t realize until I was grown that they were the actual authors of such unforgettable tunes as "Who drank my beer while I was in the rear? When I got back, my beer wasn’t here." Or "I was riding down the trail, had a birddog by the tail, riding down the trail to Albuquerque."
With all this musical whimsy around me, is it any surprise that I myself began singing in very young childhood? In those old days when the television signal was still so faint we could only get a channel if the weather was right, having your children perform was considered a reasonable entertainment. I stood with the front door as my backdrop and belted out songs from church and school and the Perry Como Show. My family applauded as if I were amazing. I’m pretty sure that I was not. But I had a great memory for lyrics and was under the impression that all that was necessary in singing was opening my mouth and letting it out.
These days, I sing in public only in large crowds. Not surprisingly, however, in my own home I have taken up the mantle of my parents and burst into vocal performance without warning. I heard a comedian once describe this as "Broadway Tourettes". That label is not so far from the mark.
But anyway, with all this music that I’ve been blessed to hear and sing and remember, I think it is quite understandable that when I think of a circle of gratitude, I would remember my grandparents in the church quartet, my father able to croon after a hot, hard day and even my mother making merry between migraines. They are all gone now. They’re just a part of my memory. They are like echoes of the songs that come to my mind and spring to my lips. And for that, I pray, "may the circle be unbroken."