It's Not the Most Wonderful Time of Year: Beating the Humbugs
I have loved Christmas since I was a kiddo. Who doesn’t? Before I knew I was going into a career in design I always told my mom that when I grew up “my whole house would be red and green.” (I kind of lived that out for a short stretch 2006-2008. My inner child loved checking that off the list.) My parents always made Christmas special. Even when we didn’t have a lot my parent’s made sure our Christmases were magical. Not to mention that every Christmas since 1985 is alive forever in a well documented VHS library. Thank you, Terry, and tripods of the 90’s. After we grew up we would take little family trips to downtown Guthrie, Oklahoma for the holiday celebrations there every year. We’d have wassail, listen to carolers, eat at local cafes, tour historic buildings and shop. My mom I were on a mission every year for the perfect ornament and scrutinized each shops’ selections until we found something worthy of taking home. Good memories.
But like many, Christmas started to lose its magic when life became complicated….as it does. Infertility feels like sitting the bench for Christmas. Seems like everyone is complaining about how much shopping they still have to do, all that wrapping they haven’t gotten to yet. And there you sit with the same ole boring adult crap while they gripe about the cost of Santa pictures and having to “move that stupid elf” around the house. Man, I’d give anything to stand in that heinous line with my kiddos all dressed up in scratchy outfits; shell out part of their college tuition just to go home with teary pouty-lipped pics. Truth. And I have dreaded Christmas morning for years. The void of the sounds of squeals and wrapping paper ripping feels like a dull knife to the heart. It’s just, quiet. And I hate it. Opening Christmas cards is a chore. While I recognize and thank God for the people in my life that love me, opening those envelopes to everyone’s happy little families stings. Disclaimer: I don’t want to NOT receive the cards. That would hurt more. But the process is an exercise in grace every time.
And now that my mom is gone, in a small family of grown men, the holidays in general have simply just become a job for me. Trying to make a holiday out of what is left. The recipes never taste the same. No one notices the finely tuned placement of mercury glass trees in your holiday table display. Or takes pictures of them (rude). Or show up on time for dinner. The conversations usually end up political or about sports or cars. But, men will be men, ya know?! You love them anyway. At the end of the day my little brother still struggles deeply with alcoholism and for all of you out there that live with addiction you know that holidays are more like helladays under those circumstances.
There are times I feel like I’m living in the story of It’s a Wonderful Life except there’s no clumsy Clarence to take me back to happier times. It’s really easy to let yourself be a scrooge in the midst of all the Christmas cheer around you.
West Elm Holiday Photo Shoot
This year though, I have new coping skills to help me through #therapyisawesome and set some goals to up the cheer. At least ATTEMPT cheer! I signed up for holiday craft workshops with friends, took a shift to ring for Salvation Army and shop for foster kids at CAB, made Christmas cookies, went to every Christmas concert at church, actually took a picture for our Christmas card (thank you West Elm FREE holiday photo shoot) and even went to the Nutcracker for the first time since my mom went to Heaven. But remembering WHY we celebrate Christmas in the first place has been the biggest help of all. Making sure we’ve been in church and Sunday school (except that one Sunday with a chest cold, ugghh) are a weekly dose of “reason for the season” that is the golden ticket.
Our Christmas may not be like the Christmas you might find on Facebook, or on Hallmark, or even in that text from a friend. But it’s our’s. A thrill of HOPE. A weary world, our world, rejoices. Christ was born. And He was a miracle. It is good. And it is good to remember that miracles are real. And He is proof.
We will keep praying for our miracle. And praying that my brother chooses to get healthy and sober. And for grace and comfort as we grieve my Momma.
