Family Christmas Memories Evoke Joy, Sadness
But for some, the Christmas season is a time to grieve--more to be endured than enjoyed. Painful memories of a hard childhood, a divorce, or the death of a loved one are often overwhelming. And all of the surrounding glitter and happiness intensify those memories.
A new collection of short stories by New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Barbara Russell Chesser titled "Keeping Christmas" (Tapestry Press) was compiled for people wrestling with holiday grief. The 26 stories will remind us "while we may have much to mourn, we have more to celebrate," she says.
"Christmas rekindles for many people the most vivid memories and evokes the strongest emotions of them all. ...[W]e all long for the perfect holiday as the year ends and a new one begins. To savor the peace and joy of the season, we must reconcile the disappointments, the tragedies, of the past year -indeed our entire lifetime --as well as the triumphs, large and small," she writes.
My most vivid Christmas memories surround my father. When I was 6, he braved a snowstorm one Christmas Eve, taking two buses and walking almost a mile just so he could surprise me with a puppy.
Several years later, we trudged home together after a midnight Christmas Eve service through a blizzard. The snow sparkled like a million diamonds as it swirled through the air and drifted along the side of the road.
When I was growing up, we always celebrated Christmas Day at my aunt's house. She was a great cook. Her specialties included fresh ham, stuffed turkey, potato casserole laced with mozzarella and covered with bread crumbs, and chestnut pie topped with whipped cream.
Those memories are priceless, but the events of Christmas Day in 1996 overshadowed them all.
That morning, our two sons were opening their gifts under the tree in the living room while carols played in the background. The aromas of bacon, coffee, and nutmeg and cinnamon-laced French toast wafted through the house as my wife cooked breakfast.
The telephone rang and she answered it with a cheerful "Hello, merry Christmas."
There was a long silence. Suddenly my wife gasped, "Oh no!"
"Greg, it's your parents' neighbor. He says your dad fell and he can't get up." She handed me the telephone. My knees grew weaker as I listened to the details. Dad had been getting dressed for church that morning when he lost his balance while putting on a pair of trousers. He fell over backwards into the bathroom and now he couldn't move.
I jumped into the car for the 20-minute drive to my parents' apartment. By the time I arrived, Dad was in an ambulance. He was lying on a stretcher, his neck in a brace.
"He broke his neck, didn't he?" I whispered. "We're not sure, but we think so," the attendant replied.
The ambulance brought Dad to St. Joseph's Hospital in Paterson while I gathered a few of Mom's belongings and drove her back to our home.
"What happened to that nice man?" she asked. Mom was suffering from Alzheimer's disease. The "nice man" was her husband. Dad had promised to love Mom and to care for her "in sickness and in health until death do us part." He was doing his best to live up to that promise he had made almost 50 years earlier. As Mom's condition had worsened, he couldn't care for her alone anymore. He sold their home in New York State and moved to West Milford the weekend before Thanksgiving so that they would be closer to us.
Those plans had just changed forever.
After I got Mom settled at our home I drove to the hospital. Dad had already been admitted to the intensive care unit. He was on his back, his head locked into position by a metal frame that had been screwed into his skull.
"Hi, son," he said, forcing a smile. "What a Christmas present this was." He asked how Mom and the grandchildren were doing and then he said: "When I'm up and around in a few days, we'll get together and celebrate Christmas."
I leaned over and kissed him and told him I'd be back momentarily. I walked into the adjacent waiting room. He doesn't know how badly he's hurt, I thought as tears welled up in my eyes.
Finally, two doctors appeared in the doorway. Their grim faces told the story.
Dad died two days later. His last words to me as he struggled for breath were, "You're not my little boy anymore. Take care of Mom."
None of my aunts and uncles attended his funeral. They had all passed away years earlier. Mom wasn't there either. We decided it was better for her to believe that "the nice man" had simply gone away and the people at the nursing home where she now lived were nice people also.
Even in death, Dad demonstrated the lessons he tried to convey all his life: commitment, faith in God, and being a man. He had died while taking care of Mom, getting ready for church, and putting on a pair of trousers.
When Dad died, a part of me died with him. I lost the last person on this Earth with whom I could share my childhood Christmas memories.
And today as I remember that Christmas Eve when he walked into the kitchen with a puppy in his arms or our walk home together from church in the snowstorm, I am reminded how much I miss him.
But then I am also reminded of God the Father's promise to me through his little boy, Jesus Christ, that he would become "a father of the fatherless" (Psalms 68:5) and my grief is comforted by a peace "which surpasses all understanding" (Philippians 4:7).
Original date of publication, Thursday December 19, 2002. Reproduced with permission of The Record (Bergen County, NJ).
