When Pumpkin Spice Attacks

Once upon a time, when I was about twelve years old, I tried to kill my aunt.

In those days, Aunt Cindy was a department manager of the now defunct Castner Knott store in our now defunct local mall. This being the late eighties, and she being one of my favorite people, it was always a huge treat for my mom to take us to visit during Aunt Cindy’s lunch so we could crawl the shops together. On this particular day, we happened to stop inside the Yankee Candle store, AKA The Scene of My Crime. While Mom scoured the shelves in search of what I assume was anything lilac-scented (her favorite in any and all seasons), I set out to inhale everything I could reach. My sense of smell has always been particularly acute (possibly in compensation for my poor, legally-blind-from-age-six eyes), so candles, scratch-n-sniff stickers, bubble baths, and all scented things always offered a particular fascination for me.

I’m not sure exactly why she came into the store with us at all, knowing what I do now, but Aunt Cindy was unfortunately right at my elbow when I happened upon my favorite scent of the day. I don’t remember its exact name, color, or components, but I’m sure it was holiday-inspired, probably with apple in it somewhere because I love apple, and that it must have been heavily infused with cinnamon oil. Overcome with olfactory delight, I simply had to share my discovery, so I shoved my weapon of oblivious destruction into Aunt Cindy’s face with scant if any warning.

The effect was immediate and violent. Her eyes rolled, her nose puckered (actually puckered; I didn’t know noses could even do that), and she turned to flee the scene, coughing and retching into one hand while desperately grasping for her pocket tissues with the other. Turns out that Aunt Cindy was and is severely allergic to cinnamon oil. Any fragrance with the word “spice” in it inflames her sinuses painfully and brings on just such an attack as this one. Every year, she can sense the arrival of fall long before the flocking of birds or changes in the leaves, because her nose starts to tickle from miles away as those ubiquitous little cinnamon-scented broom decorations alight their first shipments toward her local stores. She’s probably grabbing for her tissues right now just reading this. I’d had no idea about her affliction, of course, and I never made the same mistake with Aunt Cindy again.

Fast forward to Thanksgiving about ten years later, the first time (and the last, I was later to vow) I hosted the holiday dinner for my newly established siblings-in-law. I was over-the-moon excited to be entrusted with the job, so of course, I set for myself the lofty and always doomed goal that everything had to be perfect. Actually, not just perfect; I can admit now that I wanted it to be revelatory. My family of origin had the most wonderful Thanksgiving dinners in the world (obviously), so I was sure I would wow my new chosen family with a buffet that would ruin all other holiday cuisine for them forever. I began preparations the weekend before, gathered overflowing stacks of checklists and family recipes, and awoke before 5AM on the big day to make it all happen. By the time my guests arrived, the apartment smelled like heaven and I was sure I’d met my goal. We set the table, prayed, dished out plates, and…

…it was fine. Just fine. They liked some things, didn’t like others, and for every compliment I received, there were also probably three to five comments about how different it was from their mom’s way. Apparently, the biggest deviation between my table and hers was how much less dry my turkey was…and this was kind of a negative thing. They had been raised on turkey that was nigh-inedible without a generous drenching of gravy – and they loved that about it. My turkey was fine, but too moist for their tastes. One person even used the word slimy.

I was so deflated by dessert time that when I uncovered the pumpkin pies and discovered a little surprise left by my mischievous and mercurial-to-me new brother (he had pre-cut his piece from the center of one, a now-obvious attempt to help me laugh and loosen up), it devastated me. If my head had been in a better place, I would have loved the affectionate dig (get it?) at my perfectionism, but in that moment, all I could do was smile wanly and feel unappreciated and sorry for myself. To top it all off, the pie was wrong, too; I had somehow forgotten to add the molasses. It was fragrant and spiced well and not entirely unpleasant, especially with plenty of whipped cream, but despite everyone’s good graces, I was inconsolable. The whole day felt like a disaster to me, and I’m sure I was a nightmare to be around for the rest of our time together.

Reflecting on these memories now, I see an immaturity-based presumptuousness running amok through them both. On The Day I Tried to Kill Aunt Cindy, I didn’t invite her to share in the candle with me; I just assumed she’d love it because I did. On The Thanksgiving of (non)Delights, I never asked my guests what would make them happy and comfortable; instead, I made what I thought they would (and should?) like. My expectations and limited insight set us all up for discomfort and dismay.

Thanksgiving is famous for difficult conversations and stress among family members, and our feelings around that are absolutely valid*…but what about when we are the difficult ones? How much of our own myopic perspectives play into the arguments we dread and bemoan? Are we listening to opposing viewpoints…and if so, is it to understand or just to find fault and rebut? Loving our neighbor/sibling/in-law/weird cousin/etc. as ourselves in these matters is a twofold directive: we love ourselves by setting healthy boundaries, and we love them by listening beyond mere concepts to the heart and feelings of the person in front of us.

This goes beyond the Thanksgiving table into ministry and community service as well. Before the church or any of its members can truly be a voice of light, we first must be concerned and attentive listeners. It is not our job to decide for others what they need and then bring it, expecting their rapturous gratitude for the gift. Rather, we honor them, God, and our calling by letting them tell us what they need, and then helping them get it with no strings attached.

Anything less, and we may as well just be nose-puckering cinnamon oil on the breeze.

*The examples in this blog are intended to address normal relationship conflict (political differences, family dynamics, awkwardness, etc.). If you are struggling with unhealthy boundaries or abuse, please talk to someone who can help. If you don’t know who that could be, texting HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line) or calling 866-903-3787 (Mental Health Hotline) may be a good place to start.