Christmas

It makes me sad; I can’t remember Christmas’s before, before our life was turned upside down.  I can’t remember what it was like before the strokes when Marty was herself, when Marty was in charge, when Marty brought her own brand of joy to the world.  I can’t remember.

We have pictures.  I look at the pictures and I recognize the faces, the decorations and the homes.  I see the moments in time, frozen,  the contented smiles of a family standing with multiple generations looking at the camera or sitting at a table or sitting around a piano in mid song or playing a game or unwrapping way too many gifts. 

I see the reminders of Christmas’s past but as time stretches I struggle to remember how it felt or how it sounded or how it smelled, the memories erode with time.  

I remember the traditions of going to Christmas Eve services early to get a seat for all; I remember opening family gifts on Christmas Eve and Santa’s gifts on Christmas morning.  I remember waking up in the dark and cold as a tomb basement in Dalhart or the kids whispering that it was time to get up and get at Santa.  

But, I have forgotten plotting Santa and meals with Marty, I have forgotten wrapping late at night, and thankfully I have forgotten the trauma of putting the Barbie dream house together and how Marty put all those stupid stickers on.  I have forgotten Marty’s embrace and the comfort of us as a working couple.

Daughter Erin and I talked the other day; she talked of missing some of the best parts of her Mother.  She misses the free flow of Marty’s thoughts and ideas; she misses the encouragement, the prodding, the cajoling, the spirited part of her mother.  She misses that mother daughter stuff that only mothers and daughters understand.

I sometimes forget how painful it must be for both Matt and Erin to have their mother with us yet have lost so much of who she was.  It’s marvelous for them to see her, to know she is still here with her mother’s love for them.  It’s painful to know that so many of the most powerful parts of her are gone.  Accepting the new normal is okay, accepting the loss of what was is hard all of the time.

Holidays are hard because so much of what we like about Thanksgiving or Christmas are the traditions, the memories of familiar acts on these milestone days, the connection to our own personal histories.  It’s hard to lose a part of your life, a part of your history; it’s hard to lose the personality (Marty’s) that provided so much energy and so many of the memories. 

The reality of our life and its evolution is not nearly as dark as it may feel every now and then.  We are making new memories, memories to hold on to, memories to guide us, traditions to guide us. 

Marty is often overwhelmed with the chaos of Christmas day but she still wants to go to Christmas Eve services at our church, she wants to sing, she wants to see our friends and she still wants something under the tree from Kindler’s, our friendly town jeweler.  And she still really likes to be with her kids and her family.

The truth is things change, life changes regardless of your circumstances, life changes because of circumstances.  As much as tradition is about the past and what used to be you can’t let the past or longing for what was impair your ability to enjoy the present.  Being present in the here and now was a constant refrain from my dear bride.  Someday I hope to be able to do that.

Christmas makes me want to go back to what was and I know that is dumb, it’s not possible.  What is possible is learning to build new traditions and new history.  What is possible is sitting next to Marty and holding her hand and feeling the warmth of her skin next to mine.  What is possible is watching this miracle of woman touch her children in ways she couldn’t have before the strokes.  What is possible is writing a new book of our life. 

Years from now I know we will look back at these days and be warmed by the memory of what was.

We do have warmth.

We Got Caroled

We got caroled on last Sunday.  They came in the evening, dressed for Texas Christmas weather and stood at our door and sang at us, for us, with us.  I love it and so does my bride.

Our church, First Presbyterian in Waco, does this for Marty.  They get their merry band of song birds together and get in cars, vans and a bus and go to nursing homes, home bound folks and our house and sing.  It never fails to make Marty smile and when Marty smiles it makes me smile and I suspect it makes the song birds smile just a little.

We got a little Joy to the World, Silent Night, Jingle Bells and We Wish You a Merry Christmas.  The voices were strong and mostly in tune and Marty, who is a little self-conscious about her very being and her singing, sang with them, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come”, joy to the world indeed.

Along with the adults and youth there were two young female children, Lily and Ella standing right in the doorway, right in front of Marty, right in her sight line through all of the songs.  They sang but mostly they did what one might call interpretive dance using their arms and legs to proclaim Joy to the World.

After the singing and dancing familiar faces came up to Marty and gave her polite hugs and touched her hand.  In case you need to know, she loves human contact.  The little girls, Lily and Ella stood there and then looked at Marty and said, “Can we give you a hug?”  Marty hesitated, I think a little surprised from the polite request and then said, “Sure.”

I moved Marty’s chair a little closer so these two beautiful children, these two gifts from God could get close enough to hug my wife, the woman who too often is overlooked because she is in a wheelchair, the woman some shy away from because of her brokenness.  

I watched these children; these amazing babies teach all of us a lesson in grace and acceptance as they innocently embraced Marty.

I love kids this age, they are so uninhibited, so full of very simple joy, so full of the happiness of life.  They don’t have hate in their heart; they just wanted to give a little love to a woman with a broken body. They don’t care that we have important people in our world saying hateful things.  They care about the moment, they care about dancing, they care about releasing their joy.

These children and millions like them are the reason we care when important people spew hate and they are the reason it’s important we call out the hatred.  These beautiful children are the reason I have faith that my fellow human travelers will know hate and will fight against it, these children are the sign that God is still with us even in the face of fear, anger and hate.

That Sunday we really were blessed, blessed by the people of our church who would give of their time, blessed by the music they made, blessed by the parents of these precious babies who came to our door, and blessed by the sweetness of youth as they made Marty feel right, normal and important for just a minute on a December Sunday.

Thank you Lily and Ella, you delivered a Christmas gift to a grateful husband and wife.

Come All Ye Faithful

Here we are living life on the edge this Christmas of 2013.  That’s just the way Marty and I roll, taking chances, risking the comfort of hearth and home to find the ever elusive peace and good will.

Yea, that’s right, we did it, we did it in the face of everything, we went to church in cold and flu season.  We hugged people, we touched people, we exposed ourselves to germs, and then we sterilized.  It was good.

A Christmas Eve service at First Presbyterian in Waco has always been one of Marty’s favorite places to be during the holiday season.  She loved the sights, the sounds, the smells, the people, the familiarity, the carols, the music, the whole magilla.  The strokes have not robbed her of this.

It’s a crowded service, if you want a primo spot you have to be there early, and when I say primo spot I’m saying one of the pews that will accommodate a wheelchair.  We got there about an hour before the concert which precedes the actual service.  There we sat, Marty in her black and red Christmas vest, me and our trusty caregiver, Nykkie, guarding our rear position in the sanctuary, watching familiar faces file in and find seats.

Before the strokes, my job on this night of all nights was to take number one and only son, Matt, to the church early and save seats for the consistently late Marty. 

I must say for posterity’s sake, I hate saving seats.  It involves telling people “no you can’t sit here” and disappointing perfect strangers and friends.  I did it anyway, it got me there early and Marty could come when ready and we could avoid the inevitable conflict of punctuality.  

I don’t do that anymore.  For one, Marty brings her seat in the form of her wheelchair, for two, I’m now in charge of getting her ready and out the door so we are painfully early and there is not conflict.  The one perk of being a caregiver is you get to set the schedule.  Now we just have to kill an hour watching and greeting old friends and their families and playing games on our smart phones.

The service is full of music and a lot of singing familiar Christmas carols.  All of the standards, most of which we can sing without the help of a hymnal, most of which evoke feelings of Christmas’ today and past, a good nostalgia a good centering of the present.

As is my habit, much to Marty’s chagrin (she told me once during the service, “Just leave me alone”.  Oddly it warmed my heart) I keep a close eye on Marty.  She is feeling good in spite of a treated UTI.  She is sitting, head up attentive, engaged, watching people, listening and looking and really basking in the warmth of this familiar setting.

The trumpet starts, “Oh come all ye faithful”, the congregation stands and begins to sing and fills the sanctuary with music, singing in unison, singing louder than a normal hymn.  There is a palpable sense of community and commonality as the voices build, as the carol progresses, “Joyful and Triumphant, O Come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.”  

I look to my left at Marty at sitting in her wheelchair.  She is looking at me, watching me, but singing, every word, “come and behold Him, born the King of angels, oh come let us adore him.”

And there it was, that was why we were living life on the edge, why we risked the germ factory that is any large group of people, to be with our larger group of people, to feel part of something, to feel the familiar, to feel a sense of continuity, to feel what we as humans crave, life as part of something bigger.

To the well, to the able bodied, to the sick, to the infirmed, to the challenged, being a part of a community, whatever that community might be is the great the common denominator that connects us all in spite of our very real differences.  We want to be a part of life and that church on that night with those people with those songs, that is our community, our faith, our belonging.

We sang in spite of the faux danger, we went to church, we hugged and touched others because living without that community, living without the song is not really living, at least for us.