Tiny Bubbles
Days after Christmas my husband, Steve, and I were walking a trail that follows the Deschutes River. Most of the trail is single file, but some stretches are open fields and we can walk side by side and talk. Our conversation was spirited and covered unfamiliar terrain. We were nearing the parking area when I suggested to Steve that he Google “women wearing Santa hats,” to locate someone that loves Christmas like he does. He was caught off guard but took it in stride.
I have a different version of the song Blue Christmas Elvis recorded and it goes like this:
I’ll have a blue Christmas with or without you
I’ll be so blue just thinking about Christmas
Steve scoffed at my comment about the Google search, but he brought it up repeatedly afterward. It had somehow morphed from Santa Hats to Bunny Ears. We don’t want any achy, breaky hearts in our home, so we cut the ears off at the pass and turned the discussion back to us. What might we do differently next year to dodge the blues? I will be more careful in the future with my suggestions to a man with such an impressionable mind.
Tiny bubbles rose to the surface of my metaphorical underwater hiding place. I saw myself waiting underwater, and willing not to breathe until Christmas was done. My feelings about Christmas came out in spits and sputters over the days following December 25th. On the walk previously mentioned, the Questioner began from the posture of a deer trapped in headlights: “Have you always hated Christmas?” The questions progressed and became more specific and approachable reaching back to what it was like when we had wiggly boys at home, and how things have changed. Both boys are grown, with wives, in-laws, and families of their own. The holidays are fraught with an abacus of moving parts involving friends, relatives, and circumstances.
Decorating is the first turn for me getting wrapped around the axle. Where will we put a tree that might have been happily growing in a pine forest before it was lopped off at the ankles, bound, and tossed into a giant trailer? The tree is traumatized beyond hope having to leave its buddies behind. It begins to shed its precious needles in despair. Overlooking the slaughter, we bring a tree home, wrap it in lights, and hang round orbs of green and red in varying sizes on its grief-stricken limbs. The tree properly outfitted in its place assumes we successfully navigated the series of agreements we had to make to find new locations for the furniture and houseplants.
The Decorator completed Level 1 of the Toomey Holiday Season, and so began Level 2. Now that we’ve decorated, let’s have people over. Out come the calendars and I make a few more wraps around the axle. We need to coordinate schedules with parties, plays, and fundraisers. What will we feed our guests and what gift is appropriate for the people who have enough stuff? Why don’t we just trade stuff, I wonder? Zero net gain.
The Shopper emerged for Level 3 and negotiations began for what to get the kids, grandkids, siblings, neighbors, friends, and each other. We have made two massive reductions in material goods in the last ten years. The first was reducing our footprint by half when we moved from the City of Bend ten miles away to Mayberry where Andy Griffith lives. The second adjustment in our worldly possessions was due to the house fire five years later that impacted what survived the move. Fire, smoke, or water damage touched ceramics, wall hangings, books, furniture, and on and on and on. We took the Class 5 rapid to minimalism, but we arrived intact. Stuff is overrated. No one, trust me, no one needs more stuff.
The Elder approached Level 4, and together our hearts bent in sadness for the shattered families that faced Christmas without their loved one(s). We are fragile humans, created by a loving God. God’s love does not insulate us from deep grief but holds us through the process. The Christmas season is especially unbearable for these dear people. Oh, dear Lord, please hold them close.
The Angel of Christmas Present has reached Level 5. Christmas morning comes with music, a fire, coffee, gifts, a walk, a movie, good food, and telephone calls. My husband has been the gas in the tank through Christmas. Like a trained long-distance runner, he runs through the finish line, not abandoning his pace until he is through the goal. He is a real champion and I am grateful for him.
Why get so wrapped around the axle over this joyous and wonderful time of year? As I explained to the Questioner, it gets harder every year. Is it my age? Because I have more time now, maybe I think about it more. I see it for what it has become and am filled with remorse that we succumb to excessive everything. Gasp.
The Listener, faithful to ask the questions but also to listen to the response, thanked me for sharing my feelings about Christmas. I am a rookie learning the skill to honestly share how I feel. We navigated some delicate terrain—the décor, music, people, and places of Christmas—were they all wasted or only enjoyed by Steve? No, but I cannot say I swam in effervescent bubbles of joy. It was intentional appreciation. I re-directed myself through the season to turn my attitude around when it wanted to run for the hills…
The Elder, in an uncharacteristic surge of admonition, interrupted my full-steam-ahead manner the week before Christmas. He asked me to settle in and take in the meaning of the season. I took his suggestion to heart. I did not fully pivot to lay aside all of my doings and sit in quiet reverie, but I re-prioritized the important things. We had friends among us to share with, love on, and care for. We participated in the candlelight service with our community of beloved believers. “Here is Christmas,” reminded the Elder. “Let’s partake together.”