Joy

December 2009

I confess that I am an idealist. And like many others, I have a vision of what Christmas celebrations should be. But I don't have a stone fireplace, or a decorator, or a maid. The reality of the holidays generally falls far short of such ideals. This year I'm trying to keep my expectations low, focusing on the things that are the most meaningful to us as a family. Things that bring joy.

At our house, we start listening to Christmas music as soon as the snow flies, which can be as early as October. Music is my favorite part of the holiday season. Memories of childhood Christmases are rich with the sounds of Perry Como, The Living Voices and Wayne Newton (yes, Wayne Newton) among others, singing familiar carols and songs about wintery fun. No matter what we did throughout December, from working in the family business to hanging out on the floor of our living room by the tree, we were cradled by music. Today I have far more Christmas music in my library than any other type. Artists such as Amy Grant, Oscar Peterson and the Boston Pops are among those that have joined the playlist. To me, Christmas is music.

Our ten-year-old daughter gets much more excited about the presents. She tells me that her favorite part is the Christmas stockings. Each of us has a fuzzy store-bought stocking that gets stuffed with all kinds of goodies after the kids are in bed on Christmas Eve. There could be magazines or small toys, jewelry or a kitchen gadget. No doubt my daughter's favorite thing is the candy, and she's had the cavities to prove it. Jelly beans, chocolates, old fashioned candy necklaces, jujubes... she'll take it and squeal with delight. We'll remind her to ration her loot. She'll put it in her hiding spot in the kitchen and have several pieces a day until it's gone. Then she'll ask for more. And it'll be hard to resist giving her some change and letting her run over to the drugstore. She has a smile that will melt your heart, so look out.

I wonder what our son, twelve, would say is his favorite part of Christmas. He has a different way of seeing the world. He goes along with the festivities, though he is rarely so eager to participate as the rest of us. His tree ornaments have not yet been hung, and he hasn't decided whether or not he'll be doing that this year. When we ask him what he'd like for a gift, he really has to think hard. He doesn't think about possessions too much, except for the computer and his books. He's an idea man. He loves all things theoretical. Sometimes he surprises me by wanting to go along when my husband takes our Labrador-Collie for a good long walk. Maybe he likes being outside in the dark evenings, maybe he just likes to talk with his dad about all the things churning in his mind. I'd like to think that his best moments of Christmas are when we're just talking together, and he makes a witty joke that gets us all rolling.

Without a doubt, my hubby's favorite thing about Christmas must be cooking good things for everyone to eat. This year he will miss out on making the big meals since we'll be visiting with the family in my old hometown. But I'm hoping he'll pull out the stops and make a really great brunch for our own little crew here at home on Christmas morning. There's little he enjoys more than a good "audience" for his culinary feats. I'll savor each and every mouthful, remind myself how lucky I am, and hope that he'll make some more tasty meals during his break from work. He'll likely want to go driving and take pictures, too, his other hobby. I love seeing what he's been able to capture when he comes home from those outings. We like to pick out his best shots and imagine how they'd look framed.

Joy abides in the simplest of moments.

What I wish for all our friends and family is a season with plenty of room for simple moments that fill your hearts and memories, and remind you of all the things with which you have been blessed. May this time propel you forward into the new year, refreshed and eager to live out your choices, your faith, your purpose, each and every day.

1979

Dad's wool suit hung in the back seat of the car next to me. I stroked it and studied it so as to permanently remember the sensations. It was both rough and smooth all at once, dark charcoal in color, with fine white pinstripes. It smelled like my father. I pressed my face against the lapel. No one would mind if I got tears on the suit. It wasn't coming home again. It would never be drycleaned again. It would be worn only once more.

Next to the suit was Dad's white dress shirt, as well as a tie, burgundy red if I recall correctly. My mother had wrestled with herself over whether or not to include the shiny black dress shoes, but couldn't bear to let my father be well-dressed and not have shoes, even for burial. So she had brought them, and they were on the seat next to me. I could picture Dad polishing them on Sunday mornings, his hands whisking the brush back and forth. I could recall him wearing them with the suit. He was tall and handsome.

My mother slid weakly into the front passenger seat of our Olds 98 sedan, visibly emotional. My brother sat quietly in the back seat near me. My uncle took the wheel. I realized that it would never again be my Dad in the driver's seat as we drove to church, or the city, or the farm. Never again would he be driving us down the highway on vacation, grumbling that we kids were being too loud, or spontaneously singing silly old songs, or quoting “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear...” just for the fun of it.

Thoughts churned as we drove slowly and silently through the streets of our town. When we arrived at the funeral home, with my hands slightly trembling and my heart pounding, I carried the suit inside and handed it over to the attendant. It was respectfully carried away into a back room. I would never see it again, not on a hanger and not on my Dad.

I didn't see him in his coffin. The MVA that swiftly took his life left visible signs of trauma, so I was told. The last time I saw him he was in a wonderful mood, eager to get out the door and enjoy a drive in the country with family and friends. He had come back inside our house to say goodbye to me. I was busy chatting on the phone with a friend, like all seventeen-year-olds were prone to do, having chosen to spend my Sunday afternoon with my pals instead of going along on a family outing. He gave me a little kiss on the cheek, told me he loved me and walked out the door, happy. There was no better way to remember him. I chose to preserve that memory by not going to the viewing of his body.

Another thing I decided in those days was that I would never ask God why he took my father away when he did. As humans we always want to know the reasons for things. When God allows bad things to happen, we want an explanation. My choice to not ask why was borne of simple faith. I didn't need an explanation to believe that God had a reason for everything, including my Dad dying so young. It was okay to leave it at that. In the thirty years since Dad passed away, I have on occasion taken the liberty to ask why. Not because I expect an answer, or even truly want one. Sometimes I just need to express my grief to God. I need to say out loud that I long to understand, that I choose to trust him with what I cannot understand.

I have a box in my basement that contains a few of my father's belongings. Among them is a jewelry box with some cufflinks, rings and tie clips. There is a small photo album with a soft leather cover, holding a few black and white photos from his life as a young man. I also have the green velour Ivy cap he was wearing the last time I saw him. Sometimes I take it out and run my fingers over it and remember the way he was smiling at me that day. For those moments, I am a daughter of a father, timeless.