Remember

I’ve been trying to take it all in.

 The overwhelming flight/flight/freeze response we find ourselves in as another holiday season falls victim to a virus that thrives on the refusal of some to take care of one another by getting the damn vaccine and booster.  The pain caused by canceled flights, yes, and by sickness at Christmas.  I try to remember that each canceled flight is directly correlated to someone in quarantine after finding they have COVID.  That each one in quarantine is not only missing work, they are missing family plans.  I will try to remember this when I am waiting at the airport in a few days and find my flight is canceled too.  I will try to remember that my broken heart is no different than your broken heart when it comes to sitting in that silver and black airport chair and checking when my phone dings a new text only to see my flight is not my flight any longer.  I will try to remember when I see you not wearing your mask over your nose.  I will try to remember when you are shouting at me, or they are shouting at you.  I will try to remember  when you take the last overhead bin space.

 I will try to remember.

 And I’ve been trying to take it all in.

 The Christmas that is different in part because of deep changes in my family.  The pain that comes from knowing it will never be the same.  That comes from knowing that, during a time of tradition and ritual, every single thing is different.  That our family is now a different family.  That we are a different us.  I try to remember that family is gentle and always changing, just in different ways.  I try to see that different isn’t bad and that new traditions are the most hopeful thing a family can make.  I will try to remember this when we are smaller but stronger as we open our Santa stockings.  I will try to remember that love is boundless and changeless and that we love each other fully, just as we are becoming.  I will try to remember that my broken family is no different than your broken family, no matter if we are broken in different ways.  I will try to remember when I am laughing and when we are crying.  I will try to remember when I make a mistake that it was inevitable.  I will try to remember that when one of my beloveds does the same.

 I will try to remember.

 And I’ve been trying to take it all in.

 The lights on the houses we saw, my son, may parents and I, as we drove through neighborhoods last night.  The Lutheran pastor who had shared her ministry earlier on the now all-to-familiar online worship service.  The pain in my heart as I wept, for the second year in a row, singing silent night to a tv.  I try to remember that throughout this world there is more loneliness than homemade bean soup and cornbread.  I try to remember that in this world there is more bone-chilling cold, more addiction, more cancer and anxiety and frickin’ fibromyalgia than opening a Christmas present on Christmas eve.  I will try to remember that I am not helpless.  That we are not helpless.  That apathy kills and love heals.  I will try to remember that when you cut in front of me at the grocery line, when you run the red light right before I enter the intersection, when you scream at me for nothing.  I will try to remember that, when you scream at me for nothing, you are screaming at me for a very real reason that I cannot see.  And, mostly, for a reason I can do little about.  I will try to remember when I’m singing O Holy Night.  When I’m praying.  When I’m pretty sure I’ve had a good day.  I will try to remember that you may have a good day too.  And that it is very, very possible that you did not have a good day at all – in what might possibly be a long line of very bad days.

 I will try to remember.

 And I’m trying to take it all in.

 Last night I saw a tree lit with twinkling lights of all colors.  Pinks and blues and greens and silvers and purples and reds and beautiful greens.  Smaller lights than the others and a smaller tree.  Set back to the side of a house with the strings tying the lights to one another draped haphazardly and lovingly across branches in the way no serious tree light traditionalist would do.  It was a tree of delight.  Of silliness and promise.  Of just a touch of Christmas magic and a bit more Christmas promise.  Of whimsey.  I would have taken a picture but why would one do that to a miracle?

 You are a miracle too.  We are strung together haphazardly and with great love. We are the continuation of Christmas magic that started all those years ago when people were sick and families were broken and songs were shared and babies were born.  When a baby was born.  I take the story of the birth of love that we celebrate today seriously and with a deep sense of delight itself.

 I am trying to take all of this in. And I’m doing ok but, maybe, could you open your eyes too?  I need someone else with whom to hold this moment.  And, while you’re at it, would you mind singing the harmonies on Silent Night?  I know you’ll be on mute (Zoom echo and all) but I’ll feel better.