I
attempted to sing with the others, but listening to her breaths sounded like a
clock ticking – tick, tock, tick, tock – to remind me time was coming to an
end. I took a few steps back from the
choir and quickly made my way to my bedroom to cry alone.
It’s
one of the memories that have led to my battle with depression every Christmas
since. It begins on December 4, Crystal’s
birthday, and ends on January 10, the day she died. It’s a Christmas memory that brings balance
to my preaching, teaching and service to others. It’s a reminder of the gift of love that
shows up when a 13 year-old sister looks at her brother, with eyes bigger than
her face should hold, and says I love you for the last time.
I
welcome the depression.
After
years of confronting the despair of missing her, I’ve discovered that she has
been with me every day since she died in 1976.
I hold my depression close. I cherish each tear that comes in between the
date of her birth and death. I feel her
presence deeply when my body shakes so fiercely that it feels like a part of me
will break.
Christmas
is about memories.
We reminiscence
about childhoods were evergreen trees adorned with bright bulbs and flashing
lights stirred laughter after the opening of each gift. We beam from ear to ear
when thoughts of mama and daddy bellowing with deep joy after witnessing the
joy of children. Christmas reminds us of
days when family bonds overshadowed the weariness before the coming of the
promise of peace, joy and hope.
Christmas
cultivates thoughts of grandma’s honey baked ham and collards greens placed in
the middle of the table were uncles, aunts and cousins held hands in
prayer. Memories of snowmen built during
a white Christmas and recollections of journeys down the hill in the back yard
on a sleigh with room for two.
The
good comes bundled with all the bad that challenges the peace and questions the
hope of Christmas. Memories of the first
Christmas without grandma cooking and grandpa telling stories that sound like
lies told after a fishing trip. The urge
to stay away from the emotions that creep up in the middle of the first verse
of silent night keep coming, and coming until you can’t fight the tears from
coming.
The
temptation to hide from people, conditioned to have a good time, makes it hard
to appear. How do you sing happy songs
when you only know the blues? How can
you pretend to have happy feelings when death, loss and misery keep coming back
to disrupt the indulgence of eggnog and decorated cookies?
Christmas
is about the good and bad of life and death.
The promise of life inspires the best of us, while the pain of loss
challenges us to embrace the hope lurking with each song we sing. Christmas is a reminder that more is left
after everyone leaves. We’re left with the promise of more because Christmas
comes again. For those who trust, it
comes every day, and can be found within each breath we take.
I
stepped back in the room at the end of verse one. The tears remained pasted on my face as I
joined the choir.
Silent night, Holy night
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord at thy birth
Jesus, Lord at thy birth
I prayed for Crystal to open her eyes.
“Give me a miracle God. Please,” I prayed.
Her eyes remained closed as the sound of inhales and
exhales matched the movement of her chest.
Heavenly, hosts sing
Hallelujah.
Christ the Savior is born,Christ the Savior is born.
I stopped singing. The tears came back.
There are many memories of Christmas. Some evoke pleasant thoughts. Some renew
thoughts of death and pain.
I’m looking for that star that twinkles bright – the one called the “North Star”.
I’m listening for the songs that awaken hope.
Christ the Savior is born.
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