An Arabic Thanksgiving

I was trained early.

You might call it spiritual training.

It happened, not deliberately, but as a matter of hearing my father pledge himself many times over to thanking God for what he called the bountiful gift of money.

How many times as a youngster, I watched him place green paper bills into our cash register slots, thanking God each time with the beautiful Arabic words, Nuschur Allah.

Orlando, Florida. A sleepy city then, only two department stores and surrounded by cattle ranches, crystal lakes, and rows upon endless rows of giant orange trees. My father built the first grocery store on US 17-92 back in the mid-forties. Our market was about the size of an average convenience store, lit by stark fluorescent lights and cooled by wooden ceiling fans lazily whirling the Florida heat out the door. In orange blossom season a galloping sweetness invaded the store.

Charles Azar had emigrated from Syria and kissed the ground of this land when he arrived as a youngster in the nineteen-twenties. How often, maybe too often then, we heard that old story of his dream-come-true arrival around the dinner table.

But it was his simple words each time he closed the ornate register that most burned into my memory. Nuschur Allah, whether under his breath or loud enough for customers to hear; I’d always hear it. What delight he took when anyone would ask the meaning. “It’s Arabic for ‘Thank you, God!’”.he’d reply. And then how easily he’d roll into that discourse about what a great country America was and how he, a lowly immigrant, was given freedom to start a new life toward his own replica of the American Dream.

Sunday nights, when my parents sat at our dining room table for the nearly sacred ceremony of counting the paper bills and coins of the week’s work, I witnessed this stalwart American gratitude firsthand. The money flowing into our lives was pure blessing. And it didn’t stop there: after years of plenty in the grocery store, Dad went on to make profitable investments in Florida land and Wall Street stocks, so that at one point, friends in his Arabic community noted proudly, "Look at Charlie Azar! He’s become a millionaire!"

I credit my father with hard, hard work. But more, I thank him for his grateful heart. Somehow, his many Nuschur Allahs and his faith in America’s noble promise bloomed his hard won confidence to trust life and to move forward, no matter the risks. Risk was another expression of his thanks in God. If there is a patron saint of gratitude, I don't know it. But I'm inclined to honor my father as the Arabic saint of graitude.

There is something quite beautiful about this day our nation calls Thanksgiving. We are reminded, like my father, to utter prayers for every gift given which includes the money that comes our way. For me, there is always a deep connect to the money given us with accompanying gratitude. Unlike my father, I don’t slide green bills into a cash register anymore, but like him, when I write checks, or deposit a dividend check, I can’t help but write my Thank you on all of them. That Nuschur Allah formed soul to my money life. In this time of gratitude, when we gather around a table laden with the fruits of our labors, and when we, like the Pilgrims, bow heads to thank the giver of these gifts, I can’t help but reflect on the many bills and coins sifting through so many hands to bring it all to each table. That long ago sound, Nuschur Allah, to thank God for all gifts, both spiritual and material, grants me a wholesome sense of peace. Essentially, the reward of giving thanks is not what we get from it but what we become by it.

By Adele Azar-Rucquoi