christmas without a tree

In 2001, I was a sophomore in high school. For Christmas that year, I wrote – for months – a story on my giant Dell computer that was passed down to me and was my in my own bedroom. My own computer!

I wrote a story for my parents’ gift – I edited and edited and printed the final draft on red computer paper. I gave it to them Christmas Eve, and I can remember them sitting in our living room downstairs reading it together late that night.

The story was my first real attempt at becoming a writer, and it was probably the loudest applause I got from my ever-affirming parents. My dad still mentioned it when he would read one of my more coherent blog posts. I can hear him now, calling and saying “I read your blog today. Remember the Christmas story you wrote? Things like that – you need to keep writing, you need to get published.”

The story was called “Christmas Without a Tree” and was told from a sixteen year old girl’s point of view on September 11, living out my worst nightmare – losing one of her parents. In the story, the girl’s mom died, she was in a meeting in the World Trade towers. She and her dad spent the night visiting NYC hospitals hoping to find her in a bed somewhere.

Who knew that eleven years later, I would lose a parent suddenly, just like the character I created. Dad died suddenly, tragically – sure, much less tragic than at the hands of terrorists, but still – every day that we woke up last fall and approached a new day without Dad was tragic, just as it was for the girl in my story.

Last year, we couldn’t bring ourselves to get out our Christmas ornaments. Most of them tell a story – from a trip we went on as a family, or a trip my parents took and thought of us and brought home an ornament – my mom and Gentry and I just couldn’t dig through those ornaments and dig through those memories. Not to mention Drew & I were getting married just six years after Christmas.

My mom did decorate last year. She didn’t want to feel like “Scrooge” and she did a fantastic job of remaining alive as we dealt with my dad’s death. But I remember one night my memory clicked – remember that story I wrote mom? They family didn’t want to ignore Christmas, but they wanted to do something different to honor/recognize the mom’s absence, so they decided together to not put up a tree like usual.  

Just tonight, Drew & I set up our tree. It was his idea last year to go buy a tree December 27, take advantage of the after-Christmas sales. Just like him, always planning, always looking ahead to our future together. He reminds me so much of my dad, living in the moment, but always excited for the next adventure, always making it clear that life with me is fun and he loves thinking about the next step. Just like Dad made it clear he felt that way about life with mom, with us – Dad and Drew are both magnetic, and fun, and for their many similarities I am thankful.

I’m allergic to real trees, so we have a fake one.  I tell myself it’s good for the environment,  but - some factory had to crank out this tree, so I’m not sure that’s really true.

Christmas music is painful for me, as is most music without my dad. So many songs remind me of him, jamming in the car, on the boat, in our living room as a little girl, on the dance floor at family events later on, he loved music.

But I sucked it up tonight and played Christmas music on Pandora. I spread out the branches on our tree and thought of our mom, doing it year after year as we didn’t help much until the fun part – ornaments!

I wrapped a vintage red and white ribbon my mom found for me through the branches of me & Drew’s tree, and I thought about the twinkle lights. I thought about how my parents had done this for 30 years. Just 30 Christmases. Sounds like a lot and so few at the same time.

I want him back. I want my dad back for me, for my brother, for Dad’s friends, but I want him back for my mom above all else.

At a women’s brunch on Saturday at our church, the women’s minister talked about the mystery of Christmas. She talked about how she loved Nancy Drew as a child and how she loves to look closely at the mystery of Christmas.

I realized, as I wove the branches in among the twinkle lights of our tree, that it’s not just Christmas that is a mystery. It’s faith in general. Believing in Christ is a bit of a mystery, and where we question and doubt, the Holy Spirit zooms in (sometimes much less quickly than I would like) and softens our hearts, quiets our questions, brings the “peace that passes understanding.”

I love Christmas, just as my dad did, my parents together. But… Christmas is a mystery. The savior of all people wore diapers. (Likely the cloth messy kind, bless Mary having a newborn and no such thing as a washing machine!)

Christmas doesn’t add up, and that’s what makes it beautiful. How did God become flesh and dwell among us? How is the Word God and also “with God” at the same time? How does the darkness not overcome the light? (John 1)

Christmas is a mystery, and we gather as families in our churches and our homes and we sing and we celebrate and we rejoice, though we have questions. Our questions are quieted by the joy, the fellowship, the light.

My dad’s death is the same, I think. As is anyone’s death this is untimely. Anyone who dies too young – it’s a mystery why the good die young, and others that wreak havoc and wreck families remain living. I question, just as I wonder how God was laid in a manger, why my dad’s plane engine failed. I wonder why he couldn’t have just sold it, why he needed one more ride. I wonder why the trees couldn’t break his fall. I wonder why God died for me, and you, and my Dad, and all the rest of us messy people.

It is all a mystery. I’ve known this about Christmas, that it doesn’t really all make sense, but I’ve never really compared it to other things in life that don’t make sense.

Have you ever sat around with your family Christmas Eve and talked about all the things that aren’t logical with the nativity and the story of Christ’s birth? Probably not. Most families likely just enjoy the time together and the parts that they do understand. They rejoice in the miracle and the star that shone in the night. That dwell in its light and wrap themselves in it’s warm glow.

This is what I know I should do with Dad, too. His death leaves a lot of questions, but I should focus on his memory. On his wonderful stories and the funny things he used to say and the way he brought joy wherever he went. I should focus on how loving he was, to me and Gentry and mom, I should celebrate that he spent a Christmas morning with Drew and Amy and that he knows we are all alright- we are more than alright.  

My dad loved Christmas music. He used to looooove to drive around, with me and Gentry and whoever else in the back, and mom upfront, his hand stretched across the center console to hold hers, glancing over and smiling at her often. Or making fun of her and then looking over at her to wink in his loving way.

I can see his head bobbing in the driver’s seat, enjoying Christmas and the songs and time with his family.

It’s hard to pinpoint his favorite one, but right now, Wonderful Christmastime is playing, and it seems perfect. 

“We’re here tonight, and that’s enough.”

The moon is right 
The spirit's up 
We're here tonight 
And that's enough 

Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 

The party's on 
The feelin's here 
That only comes 
This time of year 

Simply having a wonderful Christmas time 
Simply having a wonderful Christmas time