This was a dark fall. The sun would set at 430. I’d eat something. And then for two hours, if I didn’t
read with an throbbing eye, I’d stare at the walls or into the flickering fire. I
was isolated, cold and slipping fast. I started a new and nasty medication. So for a few weeks, I added constant
yawning followed by waves of nausea to my irrational thoughts and bouts of
crying. Thanksgiving was a
reprieve thanks to a sisterly rescue. And afterward I visited one of the adorables for a
refreshing week.
But I was still nervous going into Christmas. Would I cry in front of my children?
Would I want to retreat and escape the chaos of the three adorables and four
other beloved children? What if Christmas wasn’t perfect? For the first time in my four years at the
cabin, my family would be together for the holiday.
If it wasn’t perfect, if I wasn’t perfect.... they might not
want to come back. They might
reject my quiet life. They might reject me.
This is my mind without sunshine. Even on medication.
Even with the assurances of my children that they will decorate, they
will cook, they will.... help.
I hate needing
help.
I did a modicum of my usual frantic preparation. I thought
about meals; I didn’t make a food flow chart.
Or shop for food. Thank heavens for Amazon or there wouldn't have been many gifts either.
I
hauled up a few boxes I haven’t looked at since I left our family home on the
East Coast.
My blessed sister
brought me three small trees and a cool piece of greenery to stick on the
mantel. I added a few Fontanini pieces.
Had to have the Holy Family.
I added a few more.
And hid the Baby Jesus. All of them.
I stuck some cheesy Christmas clings onto the front door window.
And hung art from son #2, created in 1987
It began to feel more like Christmas, in all the good ways.
My daughter came first, with two of the adorables. And they
were. They ran to me yelling,
“Bebe!” Their hugs were sweet and laughter contagious. My daughter looked around
at the dirty house and said, “Wow, I thought you weren’t going to decorate. It
looks great.”
Oh, uhh, thanks.
We did pull out the big Christmas tree and stuck it on the
porch outside the great room window (as there was no room in the inn), piled
logs on its base to keep it from blowing away in a strong wind and plugged it
in. The adorables jumped on the couch and squealed with delight.
Oh, that’s all it takes?
A son showed up and we shopped for food. Another son came
and everyone cooked and played games and it snowed. The three adorables flew
down my barely sloped yard on cardboard boxes and plastic sleds and shrieked
with laughter.
Hmm, that was
simple.
We even moved into a bigger house when the third family
arrived. More chaos as the
adorables met four new kids and established pecking order. More games, more sledding, more fun
drinks and lots of wonderful food.
The mother of four new adorables commented on what great traditions we
had.
“We do?”
“Sure, you play
games- obviously a lot of games and you don’t just cook, you present wonderful
meals and make special drinks.”
Why yes, we do. We are a family and we do enjoy being together.
My children and friends didn’t resent caring for me. They didn’t miss
the all the decorations or preplanned meals. They commented how they appreciate our low-key gift
exchange. They told me without
words how their father's and my parenting was successful as they lovingly
parented their own children, even if their ways are different.
We laughed, we took photos, we shared meals, we napped and
bundled up the adorables for yet another foray into the snow. The men hiked the
hills and the women walked and talked through crunchy snow on a local trail. People tried on borrowed cross-country skis
and snowshoes.
It was Christmas at
its finest.
And I hadn’t expected it.
At some point in my haze and sadness leading up to that
magic time,
I had laid down my expectations.
Mostly my
expectations of myself. That I would be
energetic all the time. I would want to play complicated strategic games when I
could hardly remember the day of the week. I would be totally prepared for any contingency- fresh nutmeg
(found today as I cleaned out a kitchen cabinet) or head cold remedies.
Part of my angst is knowing I live ten miles from a limited
grocery store, but part is just my desire to have life so perfect here,
they’ll return for another Christmas. Perhaps my need for validation of my choice to
live here.
But returning to the cabin is their choice. My choice is to be kind and gentle and compassionate to them
when they are here but also, possibly more importantly, to be kind and gentle
and compassionate to myself. To
listen to the adults and the adorables, and to listen, as well, to my own need to retreat or to call for help, to be ok when I have to rely on others. It’s easier to extend my family to
include another; I must also extend and expose myself- and risk rejection in
both attempts.
Christmas is the ultimate picture of community; the
choice to be vulnerable and include others in your pain, in your joy, in your
family- and yes, to risk rejection.
The Babe in the manger didn’t come to live a perfect life
alone in a cave. He didn’t come to
revel in His own divine family. He didn’t come to avoid pain. It doesn’t appear He had paralyzing
expectations of other people or Himself.
And He certainly didn’t avoid rejection.
Instead He came to create meaning from our pain because He
trusted His own would be redeemed.
He came to invite us into His Love family and to enlarge own understanding of what family means. He calls us to risk the
relationships and possibly rejection involved in community.
And He gently called me to lay down my expectations of what a
perfect Christmas looked like. In
return, He gave me joy and peace, laughter and sweet kisses, gifts received
with appreciation and given in love, help offered with understanding and compassion.
He gave me more than I could have expected.
