remembering and giving thanks

We Left Buffalo stirred a lot of memories today.

My grandpa used to work in the Worthington steel mill in Buffalo. He worked swing shift, so every day my grandma would pack his lunch in a gray metal lunchpail along with a thermos of coffee (I think), and after dinner he would head down the gravel driveway in his maroon Oldsmobile. They grew up in farm country, so dinner was the big noon meal, and lunch was usually sandwiches or leftovers in the evening. Anyway off he would go, and he would be gone until about 1 in the morning. Once he brought back a handful of tiny coils of spring steel, scraps from some lathe work, and I used them as decorative peaks for my cities of wooden blocks. Those bits of metal were the only clues I had about what he did when he was away at his job.

He used to say grace at the dinner table, offering our thanks to our heavenly father in a voice like far-off thunder. Today I'm keeping that voice close to my heart as we sit down with family for our feast of thanks-giving.