Christmas conjures up the sweet smell of spritz cookies; those fancy dollops of maple, lemon, and chocolate squeezed from my cookie press and packaged for our friends.
Laden with tinsel and lights, the evergreen tree winked at me in delight as I admired the handmade ornaments created from clothespins, felt, and glitter. Then others that were cross-stitched: a little drummer boy, reindeer, candles, all stuffed with cotton, dangling on branches from improvised thread hangers.
The young hands that fashioned the dancing angels, soldiers at attention, and gingerbread man are busy now in their father’s home.
For a brief while this morning, there was a flurry of gift-giving, with squeals and laughter. Wads of brightly colored paper waited patiently to be taken to our bin. Not long ago, five chairs around our dining table were filled with me and my four pajama-clad children, ages 2, 6, 8, and 10.
Heaping plates of pancakes decked with cherries and cream were soon swallowed in hushed awe. Then, slowly, I broached the subject of them dressing and me combing their hair for their departure. Feet shuffled up and down the staircase while each sat expectantly with their backpacks and sleeping bags stacked nearby.
Now, their laughter is only an echo in my memory. I busied myself with dishes, vacuuming, and mopping until there was nothing else left to face but my thoughts.
Unable to avoid the reality that this first Christmas Day would soon fade without any family or friends to hug goodnight, I reflected back upon other Christmases that at first glance seemed to invite a bleak spirit.
There was a Christmas spent in faraway Asia, several spent during penny-pinching times, and now today asked me for a toughness I didn’t possess. My soul was weary from this recent challenge. No matter how many times I invited it to go, stubbornly, the ache in my heart would not leave.
One Christmas was spent 6,400 miles away from our families in the teeming city of Tokyo. I can still hear the clattering wooden geta on the pavement that the women wore with their traditional kimonos as they headed to the nearby bus stop for a ride to a festival.
With our sliding glass doors to our balcony open, smells of the neighbor’s fried food wafted in as the commuter buses roared past. The quick exhale of their brakes reminded me of the drums rumbling as the hunters came through the woods in Peter and the Wolf. High-pitched women’s voices, with their now-familiar intonations, floated throughout the open hallways of our building.
Downtown in the Ginza, the exclusive shopping district where land was over one million dollars a square foot in the 1970’s, luxurious department stores adopted the westerner’s holiday traditions and stocked tree lights and ornaments in a small area. Familiar carols were piped over the intercom system to encourage purchases with a nostalgic touch.
I busied myself baking streusels and braided sweetbreads as gifts for several Japanese friends and neighbors who had befriended us. I tried to ignore the pangs of homesickness that reminded me of how sad it was that our parents were afar off, as far as the distance I felt from this culture, as Christmas drew near. But my two-year-old daughter and baby boy made it worth the trouble to hunt down some traditional trappings and to prepare the goodies.
Several Christmases were spent during our lean years working in churches. The arrival of the Christmas holidays was usually a cruel reminder of our poverty. We lived contentedly in our meager circumstances the rest of the year, but the pressure to buy extra gifts and trappings stressed us both.
During these hard times, we joined forces with friends to raise a cow and later a pig to butcher and share. Some friends came to help make tamales and to cut and wrap the meat. Lard was rendered with lye to make soap, which I poured into school milk cartons that I gathered one day after the children had left the lunchroom.
All who joined in those workdays divided the packages and cartons among us. These were grand times full of friendly chatter and laughter amid the messy work. We felt rich and satisfied as we stocked our freezer, making the best of things.
Christmas challenges stirred our creativity as we found ways to make gifts to share with those we loved. Simple gifts like my homemade granola, hot cocoa, and hot spiced tea mixes, delivered in canning jars decorated with plaid ribbons tied in bows. No cards--instead duplicated letters packed full of achievements of Jennie, Nathan, and Audrey at school, the first words of Jonathan and his antics, and excitement as we described our first country home surrounded by sugar cane fields. Gifts might have been few, but the time was rich together.
As I finished reminiscing about these other tough holidays, I realized there were always good memories as well, so that old ache lost its grip on me.
I focused now on today, wondering if my children felt as odd about spending this holiday without me as I did about spending it without them.
Exhausted and tired of the company of this melancholy spirit, I reached for my guitar. I sat strumming while my mind meditated. My heart warmed as I recounted so many things I was grateful for. Opening my Bible to the Psalms, I sang the words and worshipped. A sweet presence filled my quiet living room. I sensed God’s warm comfort wrapping around my shoulders, then melting away any stress perched on my neck and shoulders.
"So, Jesus," I grinned, "this is our day together, you and I.”
My thoughts melted into peace, and a liquid joy raced down my spine. Life is indeed full when I just stop long enough to notice.
Atuned, expectant, and at attention now, I curled up on the couch to listen, relish the stillness, and embrace this new tradition.
Again, the tree winked.
Note: I know this is a bit early for Christmas. I wrote this in 1985, but I’m publishing it now to encourage all who may be out of sorts, missing part of their family, or just alone and on their own somewhere during a special day or holiday.
Psalm 42:1-5 NASB1995
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