I woke up early on Thanksgiving morning before my alarm went off.
Anxiety twisted in the pit of my stomach as I lay in darkness, curled warm under a mound of heavy blankets. This Thanksgiving I would not be gathering at the family table to feast on roast turkey and tell stories and pass the pumpkin pie.
I would be going to work in the midst of a raging pandemic. I knew I had to creep out of bed, don my scrubs, and mask up to enter the hospital while the rest of the world stayed sleeping.
For a minute I lay in my bed, waiting for enough courage to come.
I gazed out the window by my bed, the window recently deprived of its curtain when swinging youngsters brought the rod crashing down. I looked past the broken bracket jutting out the wall and the broken external windowpane (again, youngsters, this time with a BB gun) to black-outlined tree branches snaking silently over the sky.
I saw stars, which are a precious commodity when living in town. I looked at the black branches, and the stars.
Suddenly, a bright star streaked across the sky, falling, falling, falling.
I caught my breath. The broken curtain rod and the broken window and the feeble streetlights on a cold black night could not diminish the dazzling glory of the falling star.
This year, 2020, has been a strange and broken year. It has been a year of silence and isolation. But on Thanksgiving morning, I saw a falling star and knew that God was still with me.
I got up and went to work, the light of His presence shining in my heart.