The light always returns

Finding the joy and warmth where you can

It is early on Christmas Eve morning. I am sitting in the living room, lit up by the lights on the Christmas tree. Ornaments hold memories of years past and presents spill out, shiny red, green, and silver bows punctuating the gifts. I have my coffee and Windham Hill Winter Solstice music playing softly in the background. I am way ahead this year, with all but a handful of gifts wrapped, food planned out for tonight and tomorrow, the house relatively clean. All three of my boys are upstairs, still asleep. Over the past two days, I have had good visits with friends and been reminded again and again what a supportive and kind community we lucked into when we moved to this little city 18 years ago. At this moment, I am awash in gratitude for this life I live.

I have not always felt this way on Christmas. Fourteen years ago, in the early morning hours of December 22, I woke up to my little M’s labored breathing. He was five weeks old and had seemed off when he fell asleep. Now, he felt warm and sounded congested. I took his temperature and called the on-call nurse at the pediatrician’s office because it was just over 100 degrees. After taking him outside to see if the cold air would help clear his lungs, then turning on the shower and filling the bathroom with steam to see if that would help, the nurse told me to head to the ER. I went in and woke up D, thinking that M and I would be back in a few hours, depending on the busyness of the ER. By the time we got to the ER, his oxygen levels had dropped and he was quickly rushed off for a spinal tap to make sure he didn’t have meningitis. He had RSV, and was admitted to the hospital. At one point, I was told we wouldn’t leave before Christmas and that Z and L couldn’t visit because H1N1 was a concern that winter. I cried and cried in that hospital room, worried about my tiny baby and not being able to see my other little boys. My dad got in the car and drove the seven hours up to help out, and M and I made it home for Christmas.

Many years, I worried about the distribution of gifts among my three little boys. D and I would count, consider the excitement factor of each gift, try to anticipate whether or not someone would feel slighted. Most of the time, we got it right. But there was one Christmas, not so many years ago, when L was upset about a gift he didn’t receive. Like dominos, the upset pushed first M into tears, and then me into a burst of frustration at L for not being more grateful. In my sleep-deprived state (because most Christmas Eve nights, I did not get into bed until well after midnight), I got angry with L. And he cried and cried. Of course, I made it worse. One of my worst parenting moments. Ever.

While we can easily recall the excitement of little boys bursting with anticipation to come and see if Santa came, we talk less about the sadness, the absences we feel, the ways in which extended family expectations can cause stress and tension. When one partner grew up with formal dinner with everyone dressed up and another celebrated Christmas by wearing pajamas all day and not cooking a big meal, it can lead to disappointment and frustrations that take years to iron out. Pulling little ones away from new toys, getting them into button-down shirts and ties, while also preparing some dish to bring, getting everyone into the car and driving an hour away was a different experience for me than it was for D. Because the destination held disparate meaning for us.

We have taken trips down to see my family that I have been anticipating for weeks, sometimes months—imagining the connections, the ease of being with my siblings and parents, watching my kids with their cousins. And then, it doesn’t go that way. Somebody assumes bad intentions where there are none, someone feels overwhelmed (because there are 24 of us if everyone is together. And it is a lot.), someone feels left out, misunderstood. And it isn’t the magical reunion I had built up in my head. There have been times when I can roll with it and move on. And times where the anticipation and the stress in other areas of my life just hasn’t left me room to recover quite so quickly. And then I feel sad and guilty that I haven’t just let it go, that I’ve missed the chance to connect.

So,I sit here on this Christmas Eve morning, thankful my boys are here, that we are not likely to have drama tomorrow morning, that the meal we share tomorrow will be in our own home with each other, and that I expect there will be some wistfulness for Christmases past. I have learned to let go of expectations about what this will look like for anyone else, to enjoy this family D and I have created and poured our hearts into. To be grateful for the community of friends who are like family. To know that Christmas with teenagers is not going to be the same expressions of unadulterated joy, the jumping up and down with excitement for the hoped for gift now in hand. It will be muted, understated, perhaps with a large helping of seemingly ungrateful. But for me, the joy is in their presence, the physical togetherness, the lack of expectation, the space for them to be who they are, the knowledge that this is a part of their journey to adulthood.

And I am so lucky to be part of that journey.

May you find your joy in the next few days, may you see and feel the quiet, slow return of light in a world that has been getting darker.

May you know love that is unconditional and envelopes you.

May you have a place, a person, a space that is home for you.

May you know how much you mean to this world.

'Cause I can feel the winter coming
With the cold December wind
And I can feel the spirits rising when it snows
I can feel the whole world smiling
In the songs the children sing
But it doesn't feel like Christmas
'Til I'm home

~Ben Abraham

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.