The Christmas spirit seemed to elude me this year, so I decided a little red and green around my house might help.
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Rummaging through my own mismatched, but cherished collection of decorations, I pulled out a storage container filled with my mother’s yuletide treasures.
There are tiny red bows and miniature tinsel trees, small candle holders, silk poinsettias and glass angels – apartment-sized adornment for a lady who still wanted to make her place pretty for the holidays, without creating too much clutter.
Tenderly picking up each small piece, big tears formed in my eyes as I caught their scent. How? How do even ceramic figurines take on the scent of the lavender cologne she loved?
Even after all this time, every single thing in that box still smells like a hug from my mom.
I was instantly transported back to our last Christmas together. She was showing me those little tinsel trees she found at the Dollar Store. She was as excited as a little girl, hunting for just the right end table or bookshelf to display them.
When she carefully tucked them away after that Christmas season ended, did she know that the next set of hands to hold them would be mine?
So, there it was.
With that thought came huge, relentless waves of grief. But this time, I was ready for them. What once knocked the breath right out of me now washed over my heart like a warm, familiar tide, catching me up and tossing me about like a canoe on the ocean. I knew this tsunami of emotion might sink me for a while, but wouldn’t drown me. I swam in the stream, embracing the tears instead of fighting them. Lavender-scented angels watched over me as the waves slowly subsided.
This is how it is, in a season so rich with nostalgia. Every carol, every bell, every holiday movie, every Currier & Ives card takes me back to when all the people I loved were still right here, and not way up there. When we were still able to take each other shamelessly and blissfully for granted.
After all this time, those waves of emotion still surprise me, but they no longer overwhelm me. Somehow, they bring a confusing sort of comfort with them; a sign I have not forgotten her, even though life mercilessly – and mercifully – has moved on.
I’ve learned that grief is like a Christmas tree – it demands accommodation.
When you first bring it home, you wonder where you’ll put it. It’s too big. The branches block the window. But eventually, you move things around, and you find a spot for it. Soon, instead of being an intrusion or obstruction, its presence becomes a part of the room, like the lamp or the couch. The sight of it comforts you.
Just like that tree, the “missing her” was the only thing I saw, at first. Like the Grinch, my heart has had to do some stretching to make some room for it. It required some adapting. And it hurt. These growing pains have changed me in ways I never imagined. They’ve caused me to shift things around in my life, and set priorities for the things that really matter.
And they’ve given me empathy for others who are also sailing on these unexpected waves.
Mom’s little tinsel trees now surround my nativity scene. The ceramic shepherd and kings have happily made space for them. Mary smiles serenely at baby Jesus. And the lavender-scented angels sweetly watch over them.
You never know when that last Christmas will be. But I do know that up in Heaven, there is a blue-eyed angel singing a sweet carol, as I hunt through that box of ornaments. And maybe she’s joyfully telling the other angels, “Oh my, look at that. She still remembers me.”