A knock on the door startled me. Who on earth was at my front door 90 minutes before the Thanksgiving service? Couldn’t they have waited until I got to the church? Didn’t they know I had to finish packing so I could leave right after the service?
Grumbling and trying to muster up a smile, I walked to the door. Pastor’s job, right? I threw open the door and saw a complete stranger. I wasn’t overly surprised. We occasionally got strangers in the small town of Savona, New York, because we were an exit on Route 17, a major east-west highway. I asked if I could help him. He said someone had told him I might be able to give him something to eat. Must be someone didn’t know I never had much food around when I was leaving for three days.
I invited him in, telling him there were slim pickings. He said he’d be grateful for anything. He was tall, broad shouldered and spoke with the most charming British accent. Who could resist that?
I offered him an elegant repast of a half stale donut and a can of cream of mushroom soup I stirred up with a can of water. Yum. With a graciousness, I couldn’t have conjured up, he thanked me and swallowed it eagerly. He must have been hungry.
Newly arrived from Canada, he said he had lost his passport and was on his way to the British consulate in New Your City. He was exhausted. Preoccupation with the nuances of worship kept me from noticing he had no luggage. That should have seemed peculiar.
Then I had a brilliant idea. I called Pat and John, my closest friends from seminary days, to see if it would be okay to invite him for an American Thanksgiving dinner. They were all in. The adventure I was always seeking was sitting at my kitchen table.
I returned to the kitchen. “Rather than trying to hitch to New York City during the holiday rush, how would you like to travel with me to my friends in Pennsylvania and enjoy Thanksgiving with us?” I asked. “The only catch is, you have to join me for worship first.”
After he agreed, I remembered that I had forgotten my manners. We hadn’t even exchanged names. I told him mine. He reciprocated. Jonathan Winters. No, not that one. But the humorous nature of the situation now seemed apparent. The universe, winking madly, had realigned itself, to provide an unexpected situation.
An hour later, we walked over to the church. Inviting him to find a pew, I left him to finish preparations for the service. My first task was to approach the choir members, tell them to take a good look at the stranger, and imprint his features on their memories. They would be helpful to tell the police if I didn’t return on Sunday. I wasn’t really concerned, just taking appropriate precautions. After all it was the 1980’s.
After the service and good-byes to the congregation, we walked back to the house. I left food out for the cat and grabbed my suitcase. Then together, Jonathan and I set out on our two-hour trip to Gibson, Pennsylvania.
Fortunately, he was a great conversationalist, and the time passed quickly. He had taken a leave of absence from his teaching position at one of the universities in England. By about 10:30, we arrived at Pat and John’s. After introductions were made, we talked, sipped soda, and snacked on chips and dip. By midnight, Jonathan was a bit fidgety.
He asked if they had any wine or other alcoholic beverage. I laughed and told him my friends didn’t even use wine vinegar. He tried, not too successfully, to relax and soon went upstairs to bed.
Pat, John and I followed. Thursday was our day to relax and unwind. It had become our tradition to wait until Friday to have our Thanksgiving feast. Thursday was for cheese and crackers, pepperoni, frozen pizza and multiple two-liter bottles of soda. John and I would nestle into our chairs for the football games. Between bouts of harassing us for being lazy, Pat would walk around the neighborhood. John and I enjoyed her walks and the ensuing silence.
The addition of Jonathan Winters changed our pattern somewhat. We still ate our goodies and John watched every pass and tackle. I checked on the progress of the game when John cheered or yelled derisively at the set. But all that afternoon and much of the evening, Pat, Jonathan and I engaged in a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit.
Games like Trivial Pursuit lend themselves to conversation. Pat and I told Jonathan how our friendship began in seminary until she “traded up” for John. The three of us had remained the best of friends even now that our churches were miles away from each other.
Jonathan talked about life as a history professor. As the day lengthened and he began getting restless again, he told us that his wife of 10 years had had an affair and told him she was getting a divorce.
We commiserated with him, offering sympathy and another ginger ale. It was clear he preferred something with more “spiritual” qualities. When John joined us after his games, Jonathan explained that he had taken a leave from the university to get away from his domestic upheaval. He had become depressed and needed a change of scenery, so he travelled to Canada. Our heads snapped back when he told us he had lost over $10,000 gambling.
Still later, we asked how he had lost his passport. By now his tongue was as loose as it would have been after drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels. Evidently, sobriety had not been a recent activity.
Jonathan confessed that he hadn’t actually lost his passport. It was secure in the hotel safe. It would be returned when he paid the $700 hotel tab. Since he didn’t have the money, he had simply walked across the border and begun hitching. His goal was to get to New York City, where no one would think to check a hotel in Canada. The tall tale he would concoct would get him sympathy and a new passport so he could return to England.
When Jonathan’s story, which he told in bits and pieces over the evening, finally completed the puzzle that had been on our minds, we came to an alarming conclusion: we were harboring an international felon!
With that realization, the festive spirit dried up quickly. John and Pat were uncomfortable with having a criminal in their home. I didn’t think he was dangerous, but I was concerned about what our superiors and congregations would think if they ever found out.
The party ended and we all went to bed. In the morning John dragged himself out of bed and popped the turkey in the oven. Pat and I peeled potatoes, concocted a delicious stuffing, stirred gravy, and creamed onions.
Jonathan went for a walk. His edginess at having had no alcohol for 48 hours was taking a toll on his nerves. While he was gone, the three of us discussed what to do next. We finally decided that after dinner John would take him to the bus station in Scranton. We pooled our money to come up with $20 to buy him a ticket. We called and found out there was a bus leaving at 7.
Jonathan enjoyed his American Thanksgiving. Conversation was light and humorous. Postponing his highly anticipated turkey-induced nap, John drove Jonathan to the bus station. While they were gone, Pat and I cleaned up and put away the food. John returned safely. Jonathan gratefully boarded the bus to continue his saga and perhaps find a drink.
The three of us fell asleep with a bowl of chips on the table. Once we had discovered what he had done, our anxiety levels rose and we found ourselves exhausted.
Since that day, however, we have gleefully claimed the experience as one of our most memorable Thanksgiving memories and delight in retelling it to one another. But I always wonder whatever happened to Jonathan Winters.