Snowy Day in December

It is Christmas Eve and I am watching out the window as the snow accumulates outside. Like someone pushed a button and whispered, "this year, we will have a white Christmas"...

I am here by myself. Sitting in the dark watching A Christmas Story. I am warm and sleepy and content to be spending this evening by myself.

But in this quietness, I keep searching for the feeling. The feeling, which means "Christmas". It was distinct when we were children. All I keep coming up with are dusty memories. Faint, vague recollections of twenty some-odd Christmases past. Accumulated somewhere in the recesses of my heart.

Memories of a Pentax K1000. And Christmas Eve parties that lasted too long. Kathy Mattea. Cinnamon rolls and flannel boxers. Carol of the Bells.

I cannot describe to you what Christmas is to me, the way Christmas should feel, because I don't know how to describe the music. What it sounds like when Larry sits down at the piano and, by heart, begins to play Carol of the Bells. When I think of Christmas - good Christmases - I think of this.

This year, Christmas has been significantly different than any other. Our baby, Abby, declared at dinner she would be sleeping in tomorrow morning. We all exchanged glances of, "well, she's not little anymore". And I was flooded with memories of waking up to her standing next to my bed. Climbing in and sleeping against the wall, taking up far too much room for a five year old.

This year, we've been expected to be in multiple places at the same time. Despite our frustration, the four of us recognize how lucky we are to have so many people we love and who love us. But when my sister and I sat down for church tonight, in the place I call home, I leaned over and asked her simply why this year had been so much harder than all the rest.

That's when I cried my first Christmas tears. Which, if you know me, is no real surprise. I always cry at Christmas.

This year, we've asked for things like familiarity. For rest. For peace of mind.

Something in us has begun to realize how much we need, which is not at all material. How much we need each other.

We don't need new laptops or new socks. We don't need gift cards or DVDs.

-

I spent Christmas Eve alone. And woke up alone on Christmas morning.

Like Thanksgiving, I am having to redefine what this holiday means to me.

What it means when you wake up and it feels like Saturday. Instead of Christmas.

But snow fell last night. And I am sitting on my Mama's couch. Not a present has been opened, no stockings are hanging on the mantel. No Christmas movies are playing on the television.

But it is a beautiful, snowy day in December. And perhaps, for the first time, today is about family. The ones my heart loves.

This holiday season has been more difficult than any I can remember before. I've never felt so torn, so confused, so lonely. There is a steady, subtle ache in my heart. Wanting a family of my own, wanting someone to spend this holiday with. But shrouding that ache is the gentle reminder of how lucky I am.

Every time a child wraps their arms around my neck. Or all my sisters are in the same place at the same time.

We asked for rest. For peace of mind. For familiarity.

Because those are the things we really need this year.

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Merry Snowy Day in December.

Today is about the birth of a baby who was born to save our lives.

It doesn't have to feel like Christmas to be able to celebrate that.