On Thanksgiving, we have a family tradition of sitting around the table, sharing stories of what we are grateful for. This year, that tradition got mixed up a little bit and we ended up on the back porch as the sun set, sharing stories. . . and passing a Tomahawk.
I have no idea where that came from.
Legend has it, Uncle Ryan made it when he was a little boy and it’s survived all these years, only to resurface this week for Thanksgiving. We put it to good use by deciding that whoever had ‘the floor’ would need to hold the tomahawk. As I’m sure you can imagine, the tomahawk was waved in laughter and clinched in tears, as new memories were made last night.
The passing of the tomahawk symbolized many things.
Hearts poured out in thankfulness. Courageous stories of life and miracles. Gut wrenching words of letting go, love and hope.