When I was a kid, I loved Christmas. My dad and I tromped around the tree farm, often wading through knee high snow, until we finally discovered the perfect Christmas tree. Dad would saw it down and together, we would drag it to the car. In a day or two, the heaviest snow and icicles would drop off and we could bring it in to decorate.
Each year we delighted in the excitement of rediscovering the Christmas ornaments and carefully hanging them on the tree. “This one came from my grandmother’s,” Mom would say, as I lifted the delicate, gold filigree creche from its wrapping paper and hung it on the tree. We gently handled the wax snowmen, Santas and angels. Much of their color had worn off and many were misshapen and melted from spending too much time in the summer attic. Almost every ornament had a story to tell. Mom would finish off the tree by laying the tinsel strand by strand on each branch.
I loved the smells of Christmas: the pungent pine, the stick of cinnamon in a cup of hot tea, and Dad’s tart apple pie baking on the afternoon Mom would get away to do her Christmas shopping. I loved the crispness of the winter air that froze my nose and revealed my breath and made me cough as it frosted my windpipe. Everything seemed to smell crisper and more alive in December.
Then there was the challenge of finding where Mom hid the presents each year. I prided myself on knowing everything that would be under the tree and could never understand why my brother John never wanted to know what surprises were in store for him. Late on Christmas Eve, after everyone else was asleep, I would slink downstairs and carefully walk through the house until I reached the tree. By the light of the moon shining through the living room window, I would underneath the tree to see if I had missed anything.
These were the idyllic memories that could make themselves at home in a Hallmark movie.
Then John died on the second of January in 1975. I had just returned to work in Roanoke after being home for Christmas. The next time I saw him, he was lying in a casket. The following Christmas, my parents came to my apartment. In anticipation, I bought a tree, sawed off the end and stood it in the corner of the living room. I bought decorations, including small, costumed cardboard kittens that I still have. I even laughed when the tree, in slow motion, crashed to the floor, strewing dirt and water on my carpet. My first Christmas in my first home of my own. Despite the strangeness and sadness of John’s absence, we were able to celebrate.
After I became a pastor, I had the added joy of planning Advent and Christmas services for my congregations. Singing the carols drew me into the mystery of God-come-to earth. For four years, my parents came north from their retirement home in Beaufort, so we could be together. Most years brought only an occasional moment of sadness as I remembered John and spotted a tear in the corner of Mom or Dad’s eye.
In January 1985, my father was stricken with 2 different kinds of cancer. Throughout the year, the doctors said he was getting well. In mid-December, they finally said he was dying, but would probably live another month or two. I made plans to drive down on Christmas day. Two days before Christmas in 1985, Dad died. I didn’t get to say, “Good-bye,” to him either. I flew down immediately, but it was too late. The next time I saw my dad was in the summer. His cremains were in a cardboard box in a hot pink shopping bag.
The following December, Mom drove by herself to my house, which was 800 miles away, by herself. I spent the week before Christmas driving 100-mile circuits to visit parishioners in three different hospitals. I was exhausted and hadn’t done any decorating. Late one evening two days before Christmas, she insisted we stop at the drug store and buy an artificial tree. The only one left was the store display, which was filled with tacky wooden ornaments. At least we had a tree. We ate Christmas dinner with church friends. Mom stayed for several more weeks. We didn’t get out much because of the snow. We were both missing John and Dad, but we talked about everything else.
For the next 26 years, Mom traveled north every Christmas, except the year I left for Israel a few days after Christmas. After two or three years, she exchanged the car for a plane ticket. We always had a good time together. We shopped at Boscov’s, wrapped our secrets for each other, and stayed up late drinking a bourbon and remembering Christmases past. As we decorated the tree and set up the nativities, we reminisced about the origins of the ornaments and memories of earlier years when John and Dad were present. One of our great joys was driving through the neighborhoods to delight in the Christmas lights.
Some years we joined my friend and her mom at a restaurant before attending the annual presentation of The Messiah. The exquisite beauty of Handel’s oratorio, culminating in the majesty of The Hallelujah Chorus, filled my heart with joy and hope. Bursting with the fullness of Christmas, I was ready to lead the congregation in the journey to the manger.
Although we often ate Christmas dinner with parishioners, there were several years when we decided to roasted our own turkey and devour oyster stuffing. We ate turkey sandwiches for days, before finally boiling the carcass for turkey soup.
Over the years, we celebrated Christmas Eve in five different parsonages with nine different congregations. After services, we would sip eggnog, open one gift apiece, listen to Christmas music, and read Christmas cards. In the morning, we would sip our coffee, open our other gifts, and feast on Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. The day sped by.
In November 2013, my mother had a major stroke, which affected her speech and slowed her reasoning. I sped down Route 81, not knowing whether I would find her alive. However, after only a few days, she was transported from Charleston to the rehab unit in the Beaufort hospital. I returned home just before Thanksgiving to prepare for Advent and Christmas in Clearfield. Early on Christmas Eve day, I packed my car early and drove off immediately after the Christmas Eve service. I equipped it with 3 blankets and my fur-covered ear-flapper hat to bundle up in when I pulled over to sleep. I wanted to get to Beaufort to the rehab facility to which she had moved after Thanksgiving.
I didn’t dare wait until morning because a huge snowstorm was coming up from the south. If I waited, it could have been days until the road was passable. The night was clear and filled with stars. God gave me a beautiful night to drive and I sensed his presence throughout the trip. Singing carols most of the night, I drove over 600 miles before it started snowing. I continued through Charlotte, passing Columbia at about 5. By then, with the snow blinding me and my eyes closing with fatigue, I found a rest area and pulled off. After locking myself in the car, swaddling myself in blankets, and pulling the hat down over my head, I fell asleep for a few hours.
My efforts were rewarded when I walked into the living area and surprised Mom. We enjoyed that week and we were both delighted with the progress she was making. Eventually, she came to live with me in Pennsylvania until I retired in 2015 and we returned to Beaufort. That Christmas, we bought a seven-foot tree that almost touched the ceiling. We pulled out every ornament and Mom directed where to put them. We filled the dining room with my Fontinini nativity village. At Mom’s urging we visited the nativity display at her Presbyterian church. She was proud of the event and had always wanted me to see it. She was thrilled to see her friends after two years. We had a wonderful time and celebrated Christmas Eve at the Waters Edge church.
Last Christmas was different. Mom became frailer after we evacuated during Matthew. We drove around to see the lights, but she was exhausted by the time we came home. I didn’t have the energy to set up the tree, but we did visit the nativities at her church again. On Christmas Day, I was blessed to be able to preach and lead worship. When I came home, I wished her a “Merry Christmas” and gave her a few small gifts. She was surprised. She hadn’t realized that it was Christmas. We did go to a friend’s home for dinner and Mom enjoyed those prime ribs. Except for the dinner reprieve, the day seemed endless.
For the first time in decades, Mom didn’t go to the Christmas Eve service. For the first time, I was alone. It was a foretaste of days ahead.
Mom died Mom died on March 29, 2017 at the Beaufort Hospital. She was 91.for the third time, I was not with a person I loved. But at least this time, I was able to sit and talk with he, hold her hand, say “Good-bye” before the funeral home came to take her.
As November approached this fall, I felt a heaviness come over me. Dad would have been 99 on Thanksgiving. He died on December 23. John died on January 2. On the 9th, he would have been 22. I was not present when they died. John’s been gone 42 years Dad, 32, and Mom for almost a year.
. As Thanksgiving neared, the emptiness moved into my heart. Yes, I have friends, but my closest ones live hundreds of miles away. I have not seen any of my cousins for years, even decades. I never married. I have no children. I alone am left. I am the last leaf on our branch of both family trees. When I die, that leaf will flutter to the ground and be indistinguishable from all the others.
On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I walked out of church after 10 minutes. People were still basking in the togetherness of family Thanksgiving. There were families of various sizes: couples, couples with children, couples with children and grandchildren filled the sanctuary with palpable happiness. I could not sing. I felt as if I were drowning in my big empty pool, unable to reach out for a lifeline even if someone was throwing one. At that moment, drowning would have been a gift.
My season of grief extends from Thanksgiving through Valentine’s Day. Dad, John, two grandparents, a family friend, and a college roommate all died during that stretch. The holidays magnify the sadness and loneliness.
Christmas music that has always brought me joy now brings me to tears. The thought of decorating a tree or putting up a nativity set is immobilizing. I cannot bring myself to send Christmas letters to Mom’s friends to let them know she died. The Christmas lights shine dimly for me. My memories of Christmas past are breaking my heart.
I feel as if I am on the outside looking into an enormous snow globe of Christmas joy and happiness that the rest of the world is enjoying. The peace of Christ has deserted me. Hope seems an empty promise.
I shy away from people now. I do not want the darkness of my spirit to dampen the celebratory good will of others. I am suffering from “fa-la-lalessness” and I do not want to quench their merriment. In turn, their happiness pierces me and I find myself in the “bleak midwinter.” My heart still remembers the joy of Christmas, but for now it is closed to keep the pain at bay.
This Christmas, I’m going away with friends. We will experience Christmas in an entirely new way. This, I trust, will be good for us all.
Someday, I believe, I will once again sing Christmas carols with joy and faith, although they will be colored and deepened by suffering. One day, the memories held in ornaments, a Christmas tree, roasting turkey and twinkling lights will warm my heart with happiness. One day, the peace of Christ will comfort me again. One day, joy to the world will be joy to me, too.
Until then, I’ll trust that Emmanuel, God-with-us, is with me, beside me even though I am sitting on the outside of life and hope. Deep within me, though I don’t hear or see him in my grief, I choose to trust that Jesus weeps with me.
One day I will rejoice and celebrate again. But not today.