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In the past, I have always prided myself on my WAY over the top Christmas decorations. I liked to tell myself that though every bush in the yard was festooned with lights; every exterior window boasted a green wreath, AND every room in the house (including the basement) not only was home to a Christmas tree but every manner of Christmas decoration known to mankind; MY Christmas decorations were TASTEFUL, not TACKY. Of course I was lying. My Christmas decorations couldn’t have been more overstated if Chevy Chase himself had come in direct with the crew of Christmas Vacation and started stapling cotton batting to my roof. I started early and worked long and hard to achieve a level of “splendor” which cannot adequately expressed in words. The day after Thanksgiving always was reserved for the trip to ye old Christmas farm. My husband and my boys and I would plan that day to take the horse wagon around the tree farm, followed by hours of tramping through muddy fields in quest of that “perfect tree.” This was tedious because even though we have only 9 foot ceilings in our home; I always begged for trees in the thirty-foot tall range. My husband could never convince me that a tree bent at a ninety degree angle would have less impact than a nice eight foot tree. When he finally would put his foot down and FORCE me to choose one which would fit in the house, I would sulk and pout over the unfairness of a world which did not afford me fifty foot ceilings to showcase my tree. We’d finally agree on a tree (after numerous more pout-fests on my part) and return home. Once home, my husband would secure the tree in the stand, (wiring it to the wall after several of my front heavy trees hit the ground a couple years in a row), and then they’d leave me to decorate. Oh, the magnificence of my trees. I may be delusional, and I am quite sure I am, but my trees go down in the history books as the MOST DELUXE trees in the entire history of tree-kind. Through all of this, I’d be baking like a Keebler elf; shopping until my head throbbed from thinking about “the perfect gift” for every teacher, associate, friend, child, child’s friend, Sunday School teacher; and attempting to keep my aforementioned Christmas madhouse in some degree of cleanliness. I would send out what had to be THOUSANDS of Christmas cards to every person I have ever randomly encountered, placing the annual Herb Christmas photo inside. My husband and I would tell our three boys that the important lesson at Christmas was, GIVING not RECEIVING and pound that message into the ground by focusing on what they were going to give to each other rather than what they would get. We would have numerous craft-fests where we would fashion one of a kind gifts for each other to treasure for years to come. Had you asked me, I would have maintained that
through all of this Of course I would have been lying. There were days when I could barely remember my OWN name, let alone quietly focus on the true significance of Christmas. Then Carrick died. My family is left with a Christmas devoid of any secular meaning. It is WAY past the day after Thanksgiving and not so much as an reindeer or snowman has made its way out of the bins in the attic. No cards have been sent; no cookies have been baked. I have not yet purchased one single Christmas gift, and the family photo is not even an option. Our photo would be incomplete without our boy. Not a Christmas light glows; not a needle is found on the floor. I don’t miss any of it. I do, miss the presence of a boy who taught me in a very real way the love Mary must have felt for her tiny newborn Jesus. I can imagine her pain at his death; her grief akin to mine. Our grief has caused us to be able to focus; almost tunnel-like to the REAL meaning of Christmas. I wish I could say that I would have come to this spiritual focus without a tragedy which changed me forever. I like to think that eventually I would have come to this place on my own; without emotional scarring so deep it may never heal. Once again, I know I’d be lying to say it would have happened on its own. As I keep my eyes on the Star of Bethlehem this year, I know that this is the only way I can survive; and how I will survive is something that only God can know. I do know that I will be doing it, as Dr. Seuss once said, “without ribbons!.... without tags! .... without packages, boxes or bags!” and strangely enough, I don’t even miss what once was the focal point of my Christmas.
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