Comfort and Joy

I will never forget the first Christmas after my dad passed away.

I got a phone call from my mom one night on my way home from work. It was the week before my birthday when I learned my dad had suffered from a massive heart attack and died suddenly and unexpectedly at age 50. It was a Monday in September, and I had just seen him the day before, when he came over to my house to watch the Titans game. When I got my food at halftime, I was headed into the family room to sit with friends, but I saw my dad sitting at the kitchen table, and I heard a distinct voice inside me that must have been God clearly say, “He won’t be around forever.” So I changed my trajectory and ate dinner that night with my dad before going back to watch the game. When the game was over and it was time for my dad to leave, I hugged him, and my last words to him were, “I love you, Daddy.”

I am sure glad God gave me those last moments with him, because although we were so very different in so many ways, I knew that he loved me, and I am sure he knew that I loved him. Knowing there was nothing left unsaid between us gave me great comfort in the following days.

But as fall gave way to winter, and the nights got longer, and the temperatures dropped, we knew some things were going to have to change regarding our Christmas traditions.

My parents lived out in the country on my dad’s family farm, and ever since I was a kid, we’d always had our close family members over for a big breakfast on Christmas morning.

Now, my mom, all by herself— a half hour’s drive from me and Alex’s house in town — was faced with waking up alone on Christmas morning and preparing Christmas breakfast. We decided she would spend Christmas Eve night with us, and we’d move Christmas morning breakfast to our house.

Of course, moving the big event presented many challenges of its own. Mom would be cooking in a kitchen that wasn’t her own. Would she have everything she needed? What kitchen items should she bring over? If something was forgotten, it’s not like we could run out and get it on Christmas morning. Maybe to Walgreens, but certainly not all the way out at her house.

In addition, like any good hostess, my mom was aware of each family member’s special considerations, meticulously noted from previous years. Aunt Debbie likes creamer in her coffee. Carlee likes grape jelly for the biscuits. Alex likes any jelly except grape jelly. Joey says it’s not really Christmas morning without monkey bread.

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Mom shopped and prepped. She made lists and checked them twice. Many phone calls transpired between the two of us:
“Yes, I’ll be in charge of the coffee.”
“Do we have enough chairs? I think we can all squeeze around the table.”
“We have an electric skillet; you don’t have to bring yours.”
“Go through the menu one more time.”
“What jellies did you get?”
“Don’t forget the smoked gouda for the grits.”

Of course, there is always a lot to do during the holidays, not all of it having to do with Christmas breakfast or a change in location. Mom also had angel tree gifts to purchase, family gifts to purchase and wrap, and food to make for other Christmas gatherings with extended family.

In essence, she kept busy — we all did — as Christmas rapidly approached. I guess for some people, and I myself fall into this category, it’s easier to keep busy. To fill my time with the routine, the urgency of the season. When I let myself slow down or rest, my mind wanders. To the missing of my loved one. To the emptiness in my chest where that person once filled.

I think most of us have lost someone (or someones) close to us. And grief has a tendency to act like a wave in our lives, never ceasing but changing like the tide, ebbing and flowing. And there are always the firsts. The first Christmas without them. Their first birthday they aren’t there to celebrate. Your first birthday they aren’t there to celebrate. The waves wash up. Sometimes engulfing.

Sometimes it’s not even the big days that get you. Sometimes it’s the small moments. When the restaurant has his favorite drink in the fountain machine. When I eat bologna on saltine crackers like we did when he took me to the race track. When I wish he could be there to meet my daughter; gosh, I just know he’d be wrapped around her little finger. When I just want to wrap my arms around him and say, “I love you, Daddy.”

On that first Christmas morning without him, we got up and bustled around, making coffee, preheating the oven, and putting the final touches on packages.

That’s when I heard an “OH NO!” from the kitchen. My mom realized she had forgotten the gravy. Which under normal circumstances might not be a big deal. But with all the holiday grief and stress our family was feeling, this felt so heavy. Alex and I dug through her bags and crates, all the while reassuring her that we didn’t need gravy.

Sometimes when we can’t control how we’re feeling or other aspects of our circumstances, like having our loved ones with us during the holidays, I think we try really hard to control whatever else we can. And that year without my dad, my mom and I were trying to make Christmas morning perfect.

What we realized is, our Christmas isn’t dependent on gravy. Our family still showed up, bearing gifts, smiles and hugs. We apologized about the lack of gravy, but they said the gravy wasn’t that important anyway. We gathered around the table, and we held our gifts against heads to determine what was inside, because, somehow, my dad always managed to guess what was in each of his before he’d even untied the bow.

Right before we sat down to eat, Alex opened our pantry and found a jar of gravy sitting there. “It’s a Christmas miracle!” we all shouted, over and over. We laughed until we cried, and we heated up that jar of gravy.

It wasn’t the same kind of gravy we usually had, but that was OK. It wasn’t the same kind of Christmas either. But we learned that as long as we are together, that is OK too.