Holiday Longing

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I'm at that stage in life where looking back is both nostalgic and painful. Where there is a built-in longing for days gone by. Not so much a desire to relive yesterdays, but to recapture the hope and dreams once held for the future. To experience again those youthful longings. To dream of possibilities unmarred by the tragedies and missteps of life.

In the earliest years that I can recall, the holidays were filled with a lot of activity. Visits with my parents' families, both sides of them. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. The grown-ups chatting, drinking cocktails, singing carols around a piano.  A pot luck of everything from Minnesota hot dish, Jell-o and Christmas cookies, to chips and dip. The usual fare. ​ 

​As the parties faded, we headed home to put on our pajamas, have a snack, and open our Christmas gifts from our parents. Mornings, of course, were reserved for Christmas stockings and opening the gifts delivered by Santa.

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When it came to Christmas, my mom was a holiday queen. She loved to put up holiday decorations. She delighted in things that sparkled. She often put up more than one tree. One for inside the house, and another, smaller tree, on the front porch. And she never forgot anyone. Did we always get what we asked for? No. But no one went un-gifted at Christmas. Stockings were filled. Oranges, chocolate, candy canes, a trinket or two. Lifesavers, slipper socks. Simple things. But thoughtful.  

As I got older, I would enlist my sisters to help me put together stockings for my parents. It bothered me that they weren't included. I guess my mom's desire to include everyone sunk in for me somehow. I can recall, in the aftermath of gift opening, a puzzled look on her face. Usually followed by a comment on how there was supposed to be one more gift for...fill in the blank...  She'd go upstairs, and you could hear her rummaging through her closet, maybe her dresser. It was there somewhere.  Sometimes she found it, sometimes she didn't. No matter, really. We were far from well-to-do, but my mother put plenty of effort and thought into gift-giving.

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At the end of August, 2010, at the age of 72, my mother passed away. We spent many weeks afterward cleaning out her apartment, and her storage unit. Sifting through boxes, drawers, and cupboards.

One evening there were several of us at her place, sorting through items. My sisters and I, their spouses, and some of their children, were there.  I was going through a bedroom closet. Inside was a big Rubbermaid container.

​I opened it. Inside, among a menagerie of items I don't really recall, were four sets of large metal angel candle holders.  All with the tags still on them. 

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Four daughters, four sisters. We were far from angels ourselves, but we loved our mother.

I took them out. Then hesitated for a moment to show them to my sisters. There were four of us. ​I was afraid of the tears that might fall. I knew that my mother had purchased these for us. Most likely during an after-Christmas sale the previous holiday. Like most, she enjoyed a bargain.  I debated on whether or not to save them until the holiday, and gift them to my sisters from her.  But I decided not to wait.

​To be honest, I can't recall whether or not the moment brought on a world of tears. Some things stand out during difficult times, some don't.  But we all agreed that it was my mother's intention to gift her daughters these Christmas angels. And, that she probably got them on sale. We each picked a set, and displayed them at Christmas that year. 

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It's been twelve years now, since she passed away. I still miss her every day. Her absence especially felt  around the holidays. But the memory of her still flavors the season. With every beautiful light display I see I recall how much she enjoyed the way they twinkle.  Sometimes decorating every tree in the yard. 

​We lived on a dead-end road, the highway on the other side of a large field. At night, you could look across the field from the highway and see all her handiwork, all the time she spent on a ladder, putting those lights up. I didn't appreciate it then the way I should have. 

One of my mother's twinkling Christmas trees from my early childhood years.

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The holidays are a mix of emotions for so many.

I'm older now. Many years, and holidays, have passed since she's been gone.  For me, the holidays are a perpetual pendulum. I want to go all-in. Decorate, celebrate. Give to others. Make gifts. Write holiday songs. Donate to good causes. Be filled with good will. 

And I also want to not do any of it. To just skip it.  There are days where the whole idea of Christmas is actually filled with disenchantment. Maybe it's because my husband and I never had kids. Maybe seeing the holidays through a child's lens can help a person rediscover the joy of the season.  Maybe not. I definitely enjoy spending time with my young nieces and nephews doing holiday things. Those are some of the most joyful moments each year. ​

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Beyond that, it's a bit of push and pull. I long for the excitement of the season. The magical moments it can bring. The kindness it can show a perfect stranger. The way it can bring people together for a common good.

Somehow, my mother hung on to that dream. Right up until her last Christmas on earth, she was already making plans for the next one. Four daughters, four angels. Something I will never forget.​

With all that she lived through in her life, she still believed in kindness and the magic of twinkling lights on a Christmas tree.

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Life isn't perfect. We have a lot of work to do in this world to make it a better place. To protect the planet, and heal ourselves. Tasks that shouldn't require a Christmas holiday to motivate us to be kinder, gentler, more forgiving. But this is where we are. And if the month of December brings twinkling lights, Christmas carols, and a heightened desire to put some good out into the world, I'm on board with that.

Because somewhere within this hectic, mad, fairytale of a  holiday, is a true longing. A longing for a future with heart, soul, healing, and kindness. We don't get to where we are going without remembering where we've been. It's all part of the process. And, though those we love may not be here with us now, they take the journey we're on within us. Which may be the best gift we can ask for.✨