For this year's holiday season, it may be challenging to find the "Merry" in Christmas, or the "Happy" in holidays. With so many people going through hard times, sharing the usual seasonal greetings don't feel quite right to me. But sometimes, you can find hope out there... I wrote this holiday piece in 2013, after a very difficult year. Rereading it brings me comfort and joy--maybe it might do the same for you...
Garrison Keillor says being joyful is a large task for
people from the Midwest, “where our idea of a
compliment is, ‘It could have been worse.’”
But when it comes to the year 2013, I think sometimes that
it actually couldn’t. For the first time in our marriage, John and I decided
not to send out our traditional Christmas letter this year, filled with our
happy times and photos of smiling grandchildren. It’s been a year of many
sorrows and challenges—enough to make me conclude that there really is something
unlucky about the number 13. Surely any truthful account of the last year would
be too disheartening to revisit, much less share with friends and family.
Still, here I am.
This difficult year began even before 2013 arrived. December of 2012, the holiday season promised to be already sad—John and I were facing
our first Christmas after his mother passed away, and he was also grieving over
the loss of his childhood home, which had just been sold. I was cooking our New
Year’s Eve dinner when we found a voicemail on the phone—from a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona.
John’s son had been in a car accident, hit by a distracted driver. Collin’s
injuries were serious; after extensive surgeries, he was in no shape to care
for himself, so John spent six weeks in Phoenix
looking after him.
It was a lonely time for me—worried for Collin, and trying
to look after Berryridge Farm by myself in the darkest days of winter. With
John away, I learned to be more self-sufficient, but I also got a taste of what
widowhood might feel like.
John’s return and the advent of spring was a lift, but in
March, we got another phone call. It was John’s brother—their sister Becky’s
cancer had progressed and she had only a few weeks to live. It turned out the
time she had left was more like days. So right away, we traveled to her care center on the other side of the state to say goodbye.
She died two days after our visit. Losing Becky felt all the more poignant
knowing she had struggled through illness for much of her life. And that she,
who had such a generous and loving heart, and who adored kids, never found a
life partner, never had children of her own.
John’s birthday begins one of the
loveliest months of the year in the Foothills—the sun doesn’t set until 10 o’clock. But
this June, it dawned on us that we were facing a plague of tent caterpillars,
such as we had never, ever seen. So it began, our month-long battle: we
hand-killed caterpillars at least five hours a day, and sometimes up to 8 hours
to save our orchard and our many dozens of berry plants.
I can’t describe how
revolting the experience was, but I will say it cured me of squeamishness. The long days of squishing insects, bracing myself to kill other
creatures by the hour, seemed endless. By the first of July, however, the
caterpillar plague had pretty well petered out. But I felt like I’d lost one
precious month of my life.
John and I were just regrouping when we lost our small flock
of chickens to a cougar. For the first time since we moved here, I wanted to
get away from our farm. Get away from the sad little corpses, from the feathers
strewn around the chicken run, from the empty coop. Get away from the guilt we
both felt—that we’d let our girls down by not protecting them. After so many
blows this year, after this one, I couldn’t seem to bounce back.
There's a verse in the Old Testament that has become part of the Christmas story: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” This
Christmas, I see that it has been the light that has brought healing. In
August, I went to the Oregon coast with our granddaughter and spent time with
my daughter and her two little sons. At the beach one evening, I watched the
setting sun and the silhouette of my granddaughter frolicking in the surf, saw the
golden-pink light bathing my grandsons’ rapt faces as they played in the sand,
and I felt an incandescent joy I hadn’t felt in long time.
In November, John and I went to visit his daughter and her
family in Los Angeles. Seeing the kids’ bright little faces, being called
Grandma by the children for the first time, walking on the beach in the warm sunshine,
when at home it would be dark and cold, I felt my heart lift even more.
A few days later, John and I took our granddaughter to
Portland to attend an Oregon Symphony Orchestra concert, which featured a young
singing prodigy. Christmas lights were all over the city—the eighty-foot fir
tree in Pioneer Courthouse Square
all lit up brought back the wonder of my childhood. At the performance of
gorgeous music, I feasted my gaze on the stage lights playing on this young
singer’s face as she sang, the sequins on her gown sparkling, and the lighting
behind the orchestra dancing in the changing hues of a rainbow. It was a joy-filled
evening.
 |
Holiday warmth
|
So after the darkness, if you’re patient, the light comes
back to you. Right now is the time of winter solstice, the darkest days of the
year, but we have the light. The light and hope of the Christmas story, that
speaks of a bright star that shone over a miracle, the light of generosity that
the season brings…
Back to 2020: This Christmas, you may be missing seeing your loved ones...John and I are among the millions of folks who won't have the joy and pleasure of visiting our family or friends. Yet I take comfort from little things --a cozy fire in the woodstove, my favorite holiday decorations, rereading the Christmas story--which makes me believe the light will return. But
maybe it never went away...surely all the caring and dedicated people who have helped
others during this crisis are bringing light and hope for the future.
 |
| Christmas figurines |
I also take hope from a lovely Christmas wish that took place years ago, when the Apollo 8 spacecraft carrying astronauts Frank Borman, James Lovell, and William Anderson first orbited the moon. Bidding goodnight to the American people, that Christmas Eve of 1968, Mr. Borman said, "Merry Christmas, God bless all of you. All of you on the good Earth."
Take good care, and this year, may you create holidays that bring you comfort and light.
No comments:
Post a Comment