The Christmases of my youth are like a patchwork mosaic of bright, but incomplete memories: the smell of fir needles and sap, the twinkle of ornaments hanging against the sharp, spiky branches, a single strand of blue Christmas lights, standing outside in the cold front yard waiting for my dad to flip the switch and reveal an outdoor Christmas display. A lot of my childhood felt really hard — I was a sensitive kid and often wondered if I’d arrived on planet Earth by mistake; it did not seem like I was supposed to be here. But Christmas promised a reprieve from all that. It was a time of delight and belonging.
Now, did Christmas actually deliver on that promise? Hardly! There were plenty of tasty treats, gifts, of course, too, and singing hymns in the soft light of the Christmas Eve service always felt exactly as wonderful as I hoped it would. But almost everything else felt like a breath waiting to be exhaled and when it finally was, and Christmas was over for another year, I’d already be yearning for it to be Christmas again.
When I thought of having my own kids, I often thought about Christmas — how fun it would be to make magic for them. And it has been, although, like every other part of parenting, it hasn’t gone at all how I imagined it would. My children are both very different from me and are having very different childhoods, but the anticipation is similar, as is the post-Christmas letdown. Still, every year it seemed like I was getting closer to… I’m not sure what, but it felt like a destination.
Then, two years ago, I got sick just before Christmas, and while epic storms raged across the prairie, trapping us in our house for days, I spent most of Christmas lying on the bathroom floor, trying to remember how to breathe. I haven’t been entirely well since, although, I’m happy to say I’ve felt a lot better the past few months. Consequently, the arrival of another Christmas is triggering more recent memories, and most of them are stressful. Re-reading old columns in preparation for writing this one has made me nostalgic for the person I was in early parenthood, the pre-sick version of myself — I was overwhelmed and exhausted by all my responsibilities, but also still so optimistic. Before getting sick, I wrote like an adult who somehow still believed my childish Christmas dream was eventually going to come true: namely, that Christmas would come and stay. I still believed I eventually was going to finally get to a place where life didn’t feel like a held breath.
Two years ago, I finished my Christmas column as follows: “I am awed and humbled by the beauty of the world, of the way darkness gathers and then lifts, of the way stars cut through the night sky like every prayer ever whispered in a time of need. By the tenderness of the prairie sleeping beneath the snow.”
I was trying to write into my hopefulness and to not let in the reality of how terrified and sick I felt. I love that version of me, and all she was working so hard to create. Honestly, I still miss her seemingly endless energy, and if you had asked me anytime in the past two years if I wanted to go back to being her, I would have shouted, “YES!”
Sitting here, writing to you now, Christmas once again about to arrive, I’m realizing that might not be true anymore. Sitting here, the click of my fingers tapping keys, feeling the rhythm of my inhale and exhale, life feels harder than ever with no signs of the difficulties abating but life also feels more beautiful and precious than ever. The endless cycle of anticipation and letdown have given way to the everything-ness and the simultaneous over and underwhelm of human existence.
I was right about the stars, like every whispered prayer, cutting through the darkness, and I am so glad to be here for all of it.
