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My heart sank as I heard the clicking sound of the electricity being shut off again. It was two days before Thanksgiving. I had been unemployed for months, and my daughter and I were barely surviving. I grabbed my purse in an attempt to fix the problem. I gathered all the change that I could, but $1.75 was not going to solve our problem. We were months behind on the rent, to the point that warning notices to move were being posted on our door daily. Now we were not only going to be forced out of the only home, but we were going to make that move in the dark and cold.
My daughter got home from school. “Is the electricity off again?” she asked with a tone of accusation. “Yes,” was all that I could gather as I hung my head in shame. “Mom, are we poor?” “Only financially,” I responded, choking back the tears.
At that moment, I felt a burst of energy. I had to do everything I could to make sure that Thanksgiving happened. After all, it would be our last one in our home.
I had made Orphan (孤儿) Thanksgiving, which welcomed those people with nowhere to go, a tradition for 14 years. Now, with a warning notice and no electricity, how would I make my 15th Orphan Thanksgiving a reality?
I had to ask for help, but slowly I was getting things done. I put out an announcement that it would be the last Orphan Thanksgiving at my house. People living next door were generous enough to offer help. We gathered candles. We cleaned the room. All that was left was to find the money to buy food for a Thanksgiving meal.
That night, I sat in my candlelit bedroom with my daughter sleeping soundly next to me. I held my grandmother’s gold necklace in my hand for what felt like a lifetime. She was the woman who taught me to cook when I could barely walk. She grew up during the Depression, and she had told me many stories of hardship. I reasoned that she would have approved of my giving to those less fortunate. She would have approved.
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The next mornin