If the Holidays Feel Hard…
I was in my late teen years I believe. I got a fever the day before Christmas or so. Man, I’ve always held a strong sentimental attachment to Christmas. That Christmas however, it was strongly suggested, with a heavy dose of guilt, to stay home and not attend family Christmas. I was heartbroken. Feeling so lonely and sad, I put on my best baseball cap and drove over to the party, making certain to keep myself near corners and away from people. I wasn’t going to stay, I just wanted to feel Christmas for a sliver of my day with the people that I loved. There were darting eyes, angry head shakes and whispers as I sat there, and after not so long, I was told to go home.
I remember sitting in my empty living room at home, near the window, in a chair. The stillness and quiet taunting me until my tears melted my body into a puddle on the floor carpet at the foot of the chair. I didn’t even know what to do with myself amongst the red and green splashed on every wall behind the commercial reminders of “family” and “togetherness” all over the TV and radio. My body ached of desolation. My high school sweetheart at the time discovered my predicament and paid me a surprise visit despite his family commitments, or my contagiousness. He did not stay long, but it had lifted my spirits and made me feel loved so tremendously that I could never adequately share the amount of gratitude I felt for his gesture. The sadness and loneliness of that day, as well as the special effort and kindness I was shown, has stuck with me for nearly 20 years.
On this Christmas night, I am feeling that familiar unwanted, solitude. It hadn’t come as a surprise, there was no sickness or sudden event that brought me to this place. Rather, it seems it was par for the course of my year. I was happily invited to family Christmas, but it wasn’t where my heart wanted to be. The day was missing four of my most treasured people. The morning was full of excitement and tradition – racing from one thing to the next with eager anticipation. All too soon I was dropping off my kids and driving back to a quiet, empty home that looked over run by hungry, disgruntled elves. I listened to church while I stepped over toys and collected bits of wrapping paper and bows. I cried through the dirty dishes trying to put away all the reminders of the day that went too fast. I beat myself up with jabs from my inner voice reminding me of all the things we either forgot or didn’t have time to do, how I got angry too often, and how I didn’t enjoy the moments enough. And then the moments were over.
I sat alone for a while, trying to numb the best way this generation knows how: scrolling on my phone. But it only increased my longing for my phone to ping with a text message, or to ring with a warm voice with the passing minutes. I was waiting for something that was never going to come. So I collected myself and prettied my face before heading to see my family. They were lovely and welcoming, and the laughs were a hug for my soul, but the emotions of the day had exhausted me. My eyes burned and after wearing my smile longer than my nervous system had intended to exude for the day, I slipped out with quick goodbyes and headed home to my empty, quiet house. Surrounded by pretty handmade snowflakes and luminaries, with a few presents regrettably still wrapped under my softly glowing tree. After putting away the rest of the brunch evidence, I poured myself into my living room chair and cried in the stillness and confinement of the night alone.
The last several Advents have been challenging and have changed the emotional landscape of the season for me. This one was particularly harder than the last two. Life still hasn’t found a rhythm for this month and this year in general has been full of complication and mountains I’m still trying to scale. I’ve recognized I’m a person to make deep sentimental attachments to the people, places and happenings I value as irreplaceable. So I cannot help but question daily why God made me in this fashion, for an ever-changing life that loves to offer, then snatch back these attachments away from me. It surely doesn’t make me feel stronger. And I’m beginning to be one of those people who confront the holiday season with grief and unrealized hopes.
Much like George Bailey from It’s a Wonderful Life, it’s hard to find happiness in what is, when you’ve spent a lifetime doing all the things you thought would bring you something totally different. But this isn’t Hollywood. In Hollywood, George Bailey was a great, unselfish man who ran into strings of bad luck until a second-class guardian angel came down to show George what he meant to everyone in his life. But we aren’t unselfish, are we? We have our sins, don’t we? And we don’t have a Clarence to show us the volumn of meaning our lives hold. We aren’t able to see that -Hollywood clarity- that we are living purely as God is intending us to, in order to fulfill our purpose here on earth, in our lives and in the lives around us. We don’t always have reminders of what makes us great and what makes us matter. What is clear to us is who and what we are missing and where we could have taken a different road but chose not to. I’m learning it’s a hard lens to have, my friends, and if you feel this too during the holidays, I am so sorry and have been praying for light and love over you.
Life is hard and doesn’t always make sense to us. But you are loved. You are remembered and appreciated. You deserve to be looked upon and celebrated by the best parts of you, not judged or remembered by the worst parts of you. You matter, just as you are. If not by me, then by your friends and family - past and present, or by your neighbors and community and those lives you touch every day with your kindness, big and small. And when you don’t feel these things by any of those who surround you presently, rest assured you are seen and valued by the Man whose birthday we celebrate together today. You’re going to make a difference in this life.
As for me, I hope for a peaceful rest this evening. My home remains empty, my phone remains silent, but even when I’m weak and teary, I will continue to pray and I will keep f*cking going. Because someday I hope the purpose I was Righteously given will be revealed to me.
Merry Christmas