Thanksgiving 1998 didn’t happen. At least, not in our home. It almost did, until….
Shelburne, Vermont was our home at the time. I served as the Pastor of the Baptist church located just north of the village, right off Rt. 7.
The church held a traditional Thanksgiving Praise Service at 7:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving eve. The small crowd assembled in the auditorium, and the service began with “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.”
After a brief prayer and the reading of a psalm of thanksgiving, members of the congregation shared some testimonies, offering thanks to God for good health…provisions…family… saving grace…a church family, and so on.
We enjoyed singing “We Gather Together,” before I planned to bring a brief thanksgiving message., During the last stanza of the hymn, however, the phone rang.
One of the deacons ran to catch the call, then promptly returned to the auditorium.
“Pastor,” he said, “you need to take this call.”
I asked everyone to sit tight, I’d be right back.
Diane* was on the other end, calling from the hospital.
Diane began attending our church earlier that year. She’d never married, was in her mid-30s, and had longed for children. She took the unusual step, and very long, expensive process, of adopting a couple of orphan girls—sisters—from Russia. The adoption was finalized late in the summer.
Tatyana* (age 3) and Katya* (age 1) arrived in the United States understanding not a word of English. Diane knew no Russian. The new mom was bubbling with excitement, but soon discovered the simplest communication was challenging. Nevertheless, it seemed they were making progress. Every Sunday, mom got the girls dressed in cute little dresses and brought them to church. Everyone in church loved the adorable girls, and we offered to help as best we could.
Then the phone call.
Through her sobbing breathlessness, Diane choked out, “Tatyana is in the hospital. They don’t think she’s going to make it. Can you come?”
In shock, I returned to the waiting, tense congregation. I briefly shared the news, closed in prayer, dismissed the stunned congregation, and Chris and I left for the hospital.
We found Diane, crying softly, in the Emergency waiting room. Again she reported the latest word from the doctor. Tatyana was on life support.
“What happened?” we wondered.
Diane explained that she was getting the girls ready to come to the Thanksgiving service. Tatyana was bathed and dressed first and sent to her room to play while mom gave Katya a bath. While bathing Katya, she heard Tatyana jumping on her bed, then a loud “thud” startled her.
Diane ran to the bedroom and found Tatyana on the floor on all fours, trying to get up, holding the side of her head. She had soiled her clean dress and was dazed. Apparently, Diane concluded, Tatyana slipped while jumping on the bed, hit her head on the square-topped bedpost, and fell to the floor.
About that time in the story, a neurologist came into the room, sat down, and in a very serious tone asked, “What happened here?”
Diane repeated the story she’d just told us.
“Well,” the doctor said, “this was a very hard blow to her head. There is significant damage to the brain, and I do not believe she will survive.”
He went on to explain that they had performed surgery to try to drain fluid from the swelling brain, but she was in a coma and on life support. There was no brain activity, he said. The next few hours were critical, he continued, but he honestly expected no change. She would have to make an incredibly difficult decision in the morning, he warned.
Diane wept. We sat in stunned silence and shed tears with her.
On Thanksgiving Eve.
We were taken to the ICU room where Tatyana lay silent and still, swollen head wrapped in bandages, monitors pulsing, machines keeping her heart and lungs functioning. We cried some more at the scene before us.
A kind, sympathetic nurse showed us a room across the hall where we sat in silence for a while.
Eventually, we decided that I would go home—our two children were there alone—but Chris would stay with Diane through the long night ahead.
On Thanksgiving morning, I got up early, oblivious to the holiday, got ready, bid the kids goodbye, and headed back to the hospital. Diane had an awful decision to make.
There was no change through the night. No brain activity at all.
Shortly after my arrival, Diane made the heart-wrenching decision to remove the machines. Tatyana was gone.
We went to the room where her lifeless body lay, hugged, cried, prayed, and lingered for a while.
Eventually, after signing the obligatory paperwork, an exhausted mom went home, as did we. Arriving home late morning, Chris headed to bed for some much-needed sleep.
A short time later, the phone rang. It was Diane. Could I come to her house, she asked. Some detectives from the police department were there to conduct an investigation.
“Seriously?” I thought!
Two minutes later, I arrived at her home. A police car and detective’s car were parked out front. I made my way inside, identifying myself as Diane’s pastor, and they allowed me to be with her. The detective calmly explained that they were required by law to investigate any time there’s a death of minor child. He then asked Diane to walk him through what happened the night before. I followed right along through the process.
I listened and looked. I hated the thoughts going through my mind.
I saw the bedpost, about 2 ½ inches square with a flat top. I recalled the doctor had said there were no lacerations, no breaking of the skin.
“She would have to have hit the side of her head squarely on that flat surface,” I observed. “Hitting it any angle at all would’ve certainly broken the skin.” I silently struggled to calculate the odds, trying desperately to stifle my skepticism.
A few short steps and on the other side of the hall, Diane showed us the bathroom where she said she was bathing Katya when the accident occurred. I couldn’t help but notice, directly across from the bathroom door, about three feet up the wall was a very pronounced, four-inch round indentation. The detective noticed it, too, but said nothing. As he ran his fingers over the indentation, Diane explained that was there when she moved in a couple months earlier and hadn’t yet hired someone to fix it.
The detective moved on, seemingly satisfied.
My mind whirled. I fought against the horrid thoughts, the alternative scenario piecing together these incongruities.
This was no accident. At least not a jumping-on-the-bed accident. Yes, Tatyana had been bathed and dressed in a nice, clean, pretty church dress. But while Diane was bathing Katya, Tatyana was playing in her room but had a potty accident. When she came into the bathroom and Diane saw the soiled dress, the frazzled, exasperated mother who couldn’t even communicate with these little girls lost it…head against the wall….
I pushed the scenario from my mind, refusing to consider it further. Said nothing of it to anyone. Let the police do their job. Nothing came of the investigation, though.
A couple of weeks later we had a memorial service for Tatyana at the church and buried her little body in the town cemetery.
In the meantime, Thanksgiving came and went. The day itself. The day after, and the one after that. Then it was Sunday again.
I don’t recall having even an inkling of a grateful heart. Offering anything other than a cursory prayer of thanks for meals. I do remember being stressed, and—I’m ashamed to say—even took out my frustrations and impatience on my children.
It was a Thanksgiving that didn’t happen.
And, giving of thanks didn’t happen, either.
I’ve thought of that Thanksgiving—or the lack thereof—on a few occasions over the past 23 years when I encountered this exhortation from the Apostle Paul:
…in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.
1 Thessalonians 5:18
My initial response is to acknowledge my failure. In that season, I didn’t give thanks. I violated God’s will for me. And I’m sure that had something to do with the impatience, pressure, and frustration I felt.
But then I have to meditate on the verse and the circumstances. How? That was a nightmare! How do I give thanks in such a season? Isn’t that the question, really?
How do we give thanks in such dark days? Note, by the way, in not for—there’s a difference.
I had much to be thankful for that year, if I were paying attention. I have a wonderful, helpful, supportive wife who is such a good complement in such difficult times. My children were mostly understanding of the pressures. Our church family was so supportive, came together wonderfully. People in the community were reached with the gospel through the memorial service. I was able to minister to Diane and many others who were heartbroken over this loss. I could go on—and should have at the time.
The point is, in all things I can find reasons to be grateful—if I but open my eyes and see them.
I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving…and a truly thankful heart, in all things.
Rest of the Story
Nearly four years after Tatyana’s death, we were living in the Chicago area, and I received an unexpected phone call from a police detective in Vermont. They were re-opening an investigation into the child’s death and had a few questions.
Long story short, Diane ended up being charged with involuntary manslaughter in Tatyana’s death. She eventually pleaded “no contest” and served a year in prison.
*Names have been changed.
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