The shadow of Christmas

The shadow of Christmas hangs heavy in my home. The soft glow radiates beauty from the branches of the tree. Like a million stars in the heavens, the intensity of majestic glory shines from the tree. I see the tiny treasures hanging from the bows; each carrying a story of their past. It is a collection of my life, on this tree. Tiny footprints, turned ornament to capture a time gone by too fast. A snowman in a hot air balloon from my childhood tree, holds on to the legacy of a family broken early on. Intricately fashioned pieces from around the world, carefully brought to my home by my husband’s parents of places I may never go. The memorial ornament, carved in glass, of my mother’s birth and death. This year, 4 new ornaments became mine: A moose glass, a funny memory of my childhood of watching National Lampoons Christmas Vacation; a sparkling nativity scene, from Kemah, the place I was for my father’s memorial; a cowboy boot, that will become the memorial ornament for my father; and a carved nativity, simple and fascinating, adorning my tree with the true meaning of Christmas.

It glows in the darkness of my home. I feel its warmth in the very core of my soul. I breathe in the legacy of the tree. Many stories rise up about the tree on Christmas. Christians have scorned the presence of the tree as pagan. I cannot buy into such a fallacy, as the tree is but a creation of the living God and the ornaments a pop-up book of memories for my family. Christmas traditions and celebrations are but an adoration of the coming of the Savior; Emmanuel. In fact, advent is exactly that: the arrival of something important or awaited. Of course there are many pagan holidays and traditions that surround the Christmas season, but that is to be expected, since Satan himself has tried to destroy the very life of our Savior. The tradition is what is created in the heart of man, as a reflection of what is inside. If pride and selfishness is what motivates a tradition, then it can become pagan. However, if love and family and joy and remembrance of our Savior is at the heart of what motivates a tradition, it is hard pressed to call it pagan. So many traditions and celebrations were practiced by the Jews to remember something that the Lord did for them, so they would not forget. The Christmas tree, standing in my living room, is such a memorial. A reminder of times filled with love and family. A time when, even though brokenness ruled my childhood home, the tree brought us together with love and laughter, if only for a moment.

I am reminded of the time when we had no money to buy a tree. I had a 2 foot artificial tree in my collection of decorations and knew this would be all we would have. With three small children, my husband and I carefully crafted the story of our Savior around the humble little tree. Sharing the story of a king who was born in a barn, not a palace; and how we need to be thankful for what we have, no matter how little of a package it comes in. I had planned to have several home parties at my house to earn enough credits to get free things to give as gifts to my family. During one of those parties, a woman I had recently met, inquired of our tiny tree. I shared the story of Christmas and how we were thankful for even the humblest of trees. The next day, my doorbell rang. I opened the door to an intrusion of pine. In came the green beauty, propped up in the corner of my home, lingering a scent of Christmas wonder that was rooted in the heart of love. We decorated that tree with more delight than I we had ever experienced before. Lights adorned the branches, lighting up the bows of majestic splendor. Ornaments carefully placed, the topper given its place of honor on the highest point of the tree. It is only a tree, but it holds in its presence the exquisite grandeur of grace and love.

It is 3 days after Christmas, yet my heart is not ready to let it go. I am not ready to leave the celebration behind me. I want to rest in the legacy of this time of year. I want to relish in the sights and sounds the season has to offer. The house looks so full and stately with all the decorations around. The pine and lights and flowers and candles and nativities frame the walls of my house. Cards sent to me from family and friends are greeting cards of life that share a story of health and prosperity. I do not want to pack up my treasures hanging from the tree and take down the lights that gently glow in the night. I do not want to end the season that brings such joy to my depths. I look at the tree and wonder at its origin. The legends that surround its birth at Christmas are fascinating and intriguing:

 Legends of the Christmas Tree:

Many legends exist about the origin of the Christmas tree. One is the story of Saint Boniface, an English monk who organized the Christian Church in France and Germany. One day, as he traveled about, he came upon a group of pagans gathered around a great oak tree about to sacrifice a child to the god Thor. To stop the sacrifice and save the child's life Boniface felled the tree with one mighty blow of his fist. In its place grew a small fir tree. The saint told the pagan worshipers that the tiny fir was the Tree of Life and stood the eternal life of Christ.

Another legend holds that Martin Luther, a founder of the Protestant faith, was walking through the forest one Christmas Eve. As he walked he was awed by the beauty of millions of stars glimmering through the branches of the evergreen trees. So taken was he by this beautiful sight that he cut a small tree and took it home to his family. To recreate that same starlight beauty he saw in the wood, he placed candles on all its branches.

Yet another legend tells of a poor woodsman who long ago met a lost and hungry child on Christmas Eve. Though very poor himself, the woodsman gave the child food and shelter for the night. The woodsman woke the next morning to find a beautiful glittering tree outside his door. The hungry child was really the Christ Child in disguise. He created the tree to reward the good man for his charity.

 Each legend, capturing humility, love, beauty. A promise of what is to come.

 My tree stands majestically tall, touching the ceiling. It captures the memories of a time when we had nothing, when we had plenty. It tells the story of a family, building memories that shape the human spirit, and define a heart. With each passing year, my tree will be a symbol of hope and joy; a reminder of love and legacy. Something my children will pass on to their children. The light of day begins to break and the glow of my tree burns bright. It quietly sings a song and I hear it in my ear:

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree!
Thy leaves are so unchanging
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging

Not only green when summer's here,
But also when it's cold and drear.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Thy leaves are so unchanging!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

For every year the Christmas tree,
Brings to us all both joy and glee.
Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll never be unchanging!
A symbol of goodwill and love
You'll ever be unchanging

Each shining light
Each silver bell
No one alive spreads cheer so well

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
You'll ever be unchanging

 

 

 

Rice Krispies

I found this as I was cleaning out my files, a blog I never posted about my little miss....

My daughter cried as I tucked her into bed this cold night. Her words were mumbled and quiet. I caught the tear in the light as it glistened and sparkled. I couldn’t help but see the beauty in her tears. My mind had not yet comprehended what the wet face reflected in her heart. She slowly said, “I am sorry, mama. I don’t want to make you upset.” I was bewildered at how my child’s tears could upset me. “What is it Pita? Why are you so sad?” Her words came out with a sigh of relief, as if she had just confessed some sin, “I miss Nana,” she said.


My mind lectured my soul for being too emotional to give her freedom to grieve. I knew she was holding it in. I knew the moment she held me hand and wiped my tears that she was going to be my caretaker through the process of losing my mom. I did not want her to be. I wanted her to grieve and cry with me, but her tender heart tended to my shattered heart. I felt, all too often, as a failure. A mother, who could not console her child, but had her child tend to her, was not a place I wanted to be. I have always been the nurturer, the caretaker, the protector and educator of my children, yet had not been able to do so in the last year. I asked her many times if she was sad about Nana, and she eloquently explained that it was not her time to be sad. She would dance for me and sing and be silly to try and make me smile. Perhaps the sadness I carried was too much for her to see. So my little Nita Pita did not grieve her Nana’s death.

“I miss making cookies with her and going fishing in her backyard. I miss making Rice Krispy Treats and gingerbread houses. I am going to miss her taking me somewhere special on my birthday.” Her words were thick and filled with conviction. She had memories of my mom that were beginning to come to the surface. “Can we make Rice Krispy treats tomorrow?” My hand touched her face and pushed the stray hair out of her face. “Yes, honey we can.” Her face lit up and she continued to describe in detail how the treats were made. Her words danced off her tongue and twirled around me, coming to life in my head. I pictured my mom in her kitchen, making these treats with her granddaughter. I saw my mom put an apron on my daughter and whisk around the granite to fetch ingredients.

Silence hung in the air and I realized my daughter had stopped talking. She too must have been in memoryland. I desired to know more, and reached into the depths. “Why now, Carah? Why are you sad now? Did something happen or trigger you be sad?” Her thoughts seemed to take her somewhere other than her room. She was silent for a while and her eyes blinked slowly. “I didn’t process it before. I just didn’t think about it, because I wanted to help you. But now I am thinking about it. I am thinking about all the things we did and all the things she is going to miss.” Tears flooded her face and sobs echoed in the room.

He words hung in the air and I thought about my Elijah playing in the State game and how she missed it. I thought about Noah overcoming his dyslexia and how she would be so proud of him. I thought about Aurora, my new niece and how she was not there for her birth. My sister posted on Facebook that she missed mom. I knew she needed her to be there and do the things she always did for her kids when they have a new grandbaby for her. I thought about my brother’s kids and how they will not get to experience the very things my daughter was crying about. This little girl was speaking in a way that was mature and methodical. Her heart had treasured specific things about her Nana and it was now bubbling over.

I prayed with her and hugged her goodnight. She couldn’t sleep and wanted to squish me. I capitalized on the time and made it “girl time.” We watched Enchanted and squished on the couch. She fell asleep on my legs and I carried her to bed. My breath was heavy and deep. Sighs weighed on my lips. My brain was tired, my heart aching. My body weary from sorrow and grief, I laid down on the soft mattress. I try to comprehend the way of my Lord. I try to learn how to live in this broken world. I do not know how to. I have no clue what to do, where to go or how to get there. I lay in my bed, my love besides me. I snuggle close to him and listen to him breath. I am thankful; thankful that he is breathing, thankful that he loves me and thankful we are still married.

I am learning how to be content, yet I want more. I want a full life with gray hair and grandkids. I want to see my kids live to be old and gray too. I want all of my kids and grandkids to be blessed. I want them to experience a life on this earth that is protected and blessed. I do not want them to have to fight the way we have fought. I do not want them to be tormented the way I am tormented. I do not want them to be afraid or worry or doubt. I hope that in the learning, I am changing the course of history in my family line. I hope that in the learning, my contentment spills over into my children and grandchildren. I hope that in the learning, I grow and the things that have cursed me, no longer have a hold on me or my family. I am learning to be content in the learning, content in the pain, content in the sorrow. I am learning to be content in the discomfort, content in the not knowing, content in the waiting. Yet, I am not fully content. I am learning to be thankful for my trials and tribulations, because I have seen the glory of God in my flesh. I have seen the blood of Jesus alive and real in my life, as healing overtakes me. I am thankful that my burden is becoming lighter and my yoke is becoming easier.

The little mounds of sticky mass melt into a blob of white. The spoon mixes the sticky mess into a mountain of what looks like snow. Little hands measure the crackling rice and it textures the white mass. Memories flood. New ones are made. The book my mom made for her grandchildren, before she died, lies open on the counter. One of the recipes she added in her book was for this treat. Carah reads the directions. Conversation steeps as we debate regular or mini M&M’s to add. Hands are slippery with butter to press the mixture into the dish. Webs of marshmallow string between hand and dish.

There on my kitchen counter sits a simple American treat. The simplicity frames our memory as it has become part of our family legacy. Lips no longer quiver with sorrow, but turn upward in sweet bliss that will satisfy both body and soul. We all enjoy the gooey bar in our hands as we sit around the fire. The grief is captured by the legacy my mom left, which will now become part of my family’s heritage.

Thankful for Rice Krispies, marshmallows and butter. Content in all I have and don’t have… Thankful this life is but a glimpse and we have eternity without the sorrow and pain and loss and fear…. Content as I bite into my gooey memory.