We had a nice Christmas. I guess. I have been in quite a funk for about a week now, since I heard that Emilie's condition was rapidly deteriorating. Things like my 31st birthday or our last child-free Christmas don't seem all that important when a dear friend is dying... or, far worse, when a family is losing its beloved wife and mother.
And yet. Emilie inspires me, as she did in life, to embrace the small moments of living. And so, I delighted in watching my adorable husband conduct his children's choir on Christmas Eve (complete with 3-year-old Eleanor, whom I would love to scoop up and take home with us)... partaking in traditional Norwegian foods (meatballs & lefse, no lutefisk) for dinner... singing a midnight service of beloved carols... feeling more moved by the candelit "Silent Night" more than I have in years past... cuddling with my husband and kittens under a twinkling tree...
I have heard so much this year about how this Christmas was going to be drearier and more bleak than Christmases past. I suppose that had much to do with the economy, lost jobs, fewer gifts, worries about the future. We are fortunate to still have jobs and prospects, but we didn't do too much in the way of gift-giving this year either, in the name of saving for my upcoming maternity leave. And certainly, despite 2-year-old Daniel's proclamation a week ago that "Christmas is coming!", this Christmas was likely not a happy one for a particular family in St. Paul.
But it always seems to me that the holidays - I'm thinking of Christmas and Easter here - are much richer in meaning when colored by the sorrow as well as the joy of life. I felt this about our wedding, too: my brother's death two months prior made our marriage a much more complex celebration of life and love than it would have been otherwise. Without a family's sorrow, a wedding can be just about flowers and cake. With it, a wedding can become a concrete reminder of God's promise to bind up our family at all times in our life together.
And in the same way, the promise of Christmas (and ultimately Easter, for us the much bigger holiday) is all the sweeter when we know what enemy we're up against. I am abundantly thankful that the measure of Christmas, for us at least, is not about Santa and gifts under the tree. And wonderful though they are, it's not even about family togetherness or the ways we hope to make Christmas memorable for our children. I shed more than a few tears this Christmas, not just for Emilie but, of course, for Eric and others now gone from my life. And yet the knowledge that my tears will one day be wiped away makes Christmas precious for me, no matter how much sorrow I have to endure until then.
3 comments:
"And yet the knowledge that my tears will one day be wiped away makes Christmas precious for me, no matter how much sorrow I have to endure until then. "
That is a really beautiful thought Liz. We talked about that concept a fair amount yesterday at Henry's baptism, but the way you put it really hit me. Thank you for sharing.
Well said, Liz.
I agree, Liz. With everything you said. Everything.
And I too believe that some day God will tenderly wipe away all of our tears. Some days, it's the only thing that keeps me going.
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