My Plan for Christmas this Year

There is something about home that just heals me. I work hard to call this life my own. The more I work to call it mine, the more I realize how little control I have over any of it. Any one part of my life could spin out of control at any moment, with no effort from me at all, and it would change my landscape forever.

The 20th anniversary of my brother’s funeral is coming up in seven days. I remember the wrenching that replaced “normal life” with “out of control”. I remember the agony, the foolishness, the despair of it all. It seems so far away these days but you never forget. I remember Christmas with presents left under the tree with Claude’s name on them. It seemed disrespectful, somehow, to return them. I remember sitting around with family trying to smile as we opened all the other presents and feeling so hollow. At least he was relieved from living with that awful name for years to come. What was my Mom thinking? I remember us plotting to change his middle name to his familiar calling when he went to college, deciding that Michael was much friendlier than Claude. Unfortunate for our plan, he roomed with buddies from high school, so Claude could not be escaped. But Claude is who he was, to the core.

It is in life’s uncertain moments that you realize what is important. Since that day, I have never gotten off the phone with my parents without saying “I love you.” Apologies between remaining family members began to flow after losing one of our most colorful members. We had all appreciated him more than we ever said. We had to make sure that didn’t happen again. Claude was a swirl of vibrant colors with loud accents. When that is suddenly jerked away, each member has to search for their own colors and notes to strike. We had to figure out who we were without him. My grandmother never did. She died 8 months later from a broken heart, I believe. The fact that she was 88 might have had a little to do with it, admittedly. She grieved, unrelenting, for the rest of her life, though.

There are vivid memories of strength that linger with me from that time as well. These are moments when you realize that meek, submissive personalities are sometimes the backbones of the family. My mother may be one of the kindest, most supportive, giving, submissive & gentle women I have ever known. When I was young her submission to my Dad would infuriate me. When I watched my 6’2”, 250 lb Dad crumple into her arms under the weight of his grief, I realized my Mom had been his rock all along. She is the one who yanked a knot in my tail when I whined that I couldn’t bare to go to the funeral. Oh yes I would. And I did. And I am glad. My Mom had lost a husband just as suddenly and tragically in a plane crash years before she met my Dad, yet she was the one who guided all of us through this awful terrain with a grace that I have never forgotten. That is a strong woman, however submissive she may seem.

This Christmas is bittersweet. Reflecting back on all I have to be thankful for overwhelms me. Experiencing a loss so deep makes the breadth of devotion to what is in the now just so much stronger. All of our lives are so fragile, and precious, and beautiful. Our lives are difficult, and confusing, and sometimes frightening. But we have so much to be thankful for. There is so much life to be lived right now. We can’t miss it by worrying or plotting tomorrow. We just need to show up and soak in the amazing grace of life right here. That is my plan for Christmas this year.