The 17 Turkeys (a rough draft)

There it goes again, the gurgling in my stomach. The sound of distant thunder, or a monster stuck in my gut. Over the past few weeks that sound has become a close companion of mine.
I remember the day Dad put on his Apostle voice, deep, rich and resonating like a cello, I was ten at the time. The only time Dad spoke in that voice was either in church when he was giving a talk, or when we were having family council, and that was not a good thing. Whenever family council took place it never was a happy discussion, the pain and unease you felt was similar to sitting in the dentist chair as they begin to drill before the numbness sets in.
When it first happened everything seemed rather exciting, Dad was home all the time, something that had never happened before. He was the one to send us on our way out the door in the morning, and we all thought that Dad would find another job soon, he was good at what he did and there was no reason for him to stay unemployed for long. But weeks turned into months, and those months formed two years. Days seemed to mimic the movie “Groundhog Day”, every moment repeated, and every day the same, still no job.
The first Christmas seemed normal enough. It was a little smaller then the past year, but we had Dad’s pension money and Mom was working hard so Christmas was not painful, just a nagging ache in the back of your head. But by the next year things looked dim.
I was in my bedroom, snuggled up in my covers, the weight and softness of them kept me cozy on the late summer’s night. I cracked my window before retiring to allow the playful wind, the shiver of rustling leaves and the orchestra of humming bugs free rein over my senses as I searched for night’s dreams. But the dreams did not come and melancholy voices filled my ears rather than the whispering summer. Mom and Dad were on the porch, assuming all the kids were tucked in bed. My interest was piqued as I heard the distress in my parents’ voices and the topic of their secret conversation. My mom inquiring what they were going to do about the house. Payments were late, food was scarce and the pressure of our world as a family was becoming too much. I remembered them even talking about sending the kids to different homes till things could be more stable. With compassion in his voice my father refused. He knew that we needed to stay together as a family. Relief encompassed my body like the sun rays did earlier that day. Things were hard, but our family would remain together no matter what. As Mom and Dad ended their conversation with tears and slight sobs, I was able to fall into a tempest tossed dream of worry and dread. But every storm ends and I knew my family would be my vessel of protection.
My 12th birthday came and another Christmas was just around the corner. Though this December seemed like any other, the weeks that followed would change my life forever.
I remember the first night the angels came. The air was crisp, new powdery snow had just fallen and the silence that descended on the neighborhood was not foreboding but a welcomed calm. Even in the quiet hush of winter, the footsteps in the snow went unheard. It was not until a soft thumbing on the door came that anyone was aware there had been visitors. Though the knock was no louder than a drip from a drain, in the late hours it seemed like a waterfall crashing on the rocks. Since my room was the closest to the door I was the only one privy to the sound. Curiosity consumed me. I threw off my blankets, and pounced on the floor, like a lion stocking prey I inched down the hall way to the door. As I drew closer to the front door, butterflies sprang to life in my stomach as hesitant anticipation crawled through my veins, but I could not stop myself from turning the handle.
Angles. That was the only answer. Heavenly Father had sent angles to answer the hunger stomachs and prayers of my family. Sitting there on the porch, in a nest of snow, were four boxes of food. The boxed, canned, and sealed food made excitement boil through my blood like I have never felt before. But I could not keep the knowledge of this Heaven sent food to myself. Instead of a lion I was a cheetah sprinting down the hall way to my parent’s bedroom. I flung the door open with vigor and leapt onto their bed startling them into groggy coherence. With sleep still glazed in their eyes they followed me to the angel’s present. My siblings were aroused by the motion in the house, and as the family circled round the boxes in the kitchen tears of gratitude flowed freely from every eye. Even at 12 I knew this was a special moment, my parents seemed to breathe a sigh of relief for the first time in months. After the first tears were shed, my family gathered together on humbled knees to thank Heavenly Father for the angels of mercy that were sent to us that night. The Spirit I felt that night was warmer and more comforting then any ray of sunshine I had ever felt. It was the night that began the gift of the turkeys.
Over the next couple of weeks we had countless angles visit our house. Heavenly Father always sent them at the perfect time. The moments when doubt, fear and hunger would begin to clutch our bodies, the bands of their pressure would be broken by brown boxes.
I remember going on a drive with my family one evening in a car that was given to us, lovingly called the “Sharkmobile,” we had taken a family outing to see some of the glittering, colorful Christmas lights in the other neighborhoods. As we pulled into our driveway reverent silence filled the car. Through the steady snowfall, illuminated in the warm, yellow glow of the porch light we say that the angels had visited again. But this time was different. As my siblings and I trudged from the garage to the front porch to retrieve the boxes, we noticed that a note was attached to the door. I had never before read four words that had plucked at my heart strings and had filled my spirit with such love as the words scribbled on the note “Look behind the fence.” Tears blinded the vision of my family as we unlatched the fence and saw a true Christmas miracle. There before my eyes was something more fantastic then a pirate’s treasure cove; it was a treasure cove of boxes. I have never seen such as gathering of food in my life. There had to be 20-25 boxes overflowing. The tears that cascaded down my cheeks were not only the tears of gratitude but of utter humility. How it was possible that the love of my Heavenly Father was so great, that He would send so many blessings, in this case food, that there would be no room enough to receive it, I did not know, I only know that it was so. Once again, my family fell to our knees, and my father offered up a fervent prayer of thanks. But this prayer was deeper then thanks. We had been given much, and now we also must give. Service was something that needed to be passed along.
That Christmas was the best Christmas of my life. By New Year’s my family has accumulated 17 Turkeys. But those turkeys were never wasted. As a family we decided who needed to be visited by angels. And now as Heavenly Father’s servants we tiptoed through the crunchy ice crystals of snow, and lightly thumped on the door of those who also needed an angel’s turkey. The 17 Turkeys were an answer to prayers, fasting and humility. But the glorious beauty of those turkeys is that they were meant to bless more than one family’s life.