I am not a professional handyman, but I know when something is broken.
Including my Christmas spirit.
Each year I make some attempt to imagine we are the perfect family that lives in Lifetime movies (but not the one from the Christmas Shoes please). I buy my Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the reject pile and bring it to life with a blankie and some love. I tune into the 24/7 holiday music channel on my way to work to try to alleviate my stress filled commute. I even eliminated shopping for the perfect presents that are never, ever perfect in exchange for quality time, including an annual December trip that is our gift to each other.
Coming home from this year’s trip, I was determined to rally over the next two weeks to bring back that lovin’ feeling I’d lost for Christmas.
But the morning after we landed, my fingertips turned white with frostbite as I shoveled water laden snow and ice chunks at three houses.
Back to work Monday, I pitied the poor driver who lost their muffler over the holidays as I changed lanes to get away from the booming sound, only to realize the poor driver with the muffler issue was me.
That’s Ok, it’s just a muffler, I’ve got this.
Day three at home I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to “get lots of stuff done” before I drop my car at the shop, only to find the heat was out. After an hour off and on the phone and trying to restart the burner myself so I wouldn’t incur massive after-hour fees, I succeeded for a moment, quickly finding out that I could still take a hot shower, albeit in my bathrobe down the cellar, as every pipe seemed to explode with steaming water because our pipes had frozen in the 3 degree temps overnight when the burner ceased.
Which brings me to this moment, typing fast before something else bad happens, wearing my $1, one size fits all Target mittens, which are about all I’ll be able to afford after we pay for the Christmas trip, muffler and oil burner fees to come. Ho, ho… oh no.
But this is not the least of my or your problems, and I know that.
Bills will be paid, snow will get shoveled, and mufflers and oil burners will get fixed.
But those we have loved and lost are still sorely and sadly missed every day. And while it is life’s little aggravations that we lament about to anyone who will listen, it is the underlying feeling of loss that can break us, little by little.
Yes my holiday spirit is broken, perhaps beyond repair, but there is a band aid I use every year to get me through the season. It’s the memory of the night my brother Stephen and I saw Rudolph.
It’s a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe. It’s a memory I’m blessed to have, and share each year.
I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.
Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.
I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.
His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.
From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.
My brother has been gone 14 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right.
It was indeed Rudolph.
Each year I make some attempt to imagine we are the perfect family that lives in Lifetime movies (but not the one from the Christmas Shoes please). I buy my Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the reject pile and bring it to life with a blankie and some love. I tune into the 24/7 holiday music channel on my way to work to try to alleviate my stress filled commute. I even eliminated shopping for the perfect presents that are never, ever perfect in exchange for quality time, including an annual December trip that is our gift to each other.
Coming home from this year’s trip, I was determined to rally over the next two weeks to bring back that lovin’ feeling I’d lost for Christmas.
But the morning after we landed, my fingertips turned white with frostbite as I shoveled water laden snow and ice chunks at three houses.
Back to work Monday, I pitied the poor driver who lost their muffler over the holidays as I changed lanes to get away from the booming sound, only to realize the poor driver with the muffler issue was me.
That’s Ok, it’s just a muffler, I’ve got this.
Day three at home I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to “get lots of stuff done” before I drop my car at the shop, only to find the heat was out. After an hour off and on the phone and trying to restart the burner myself so I wouldn’t incur massive after-hour fees, I succeeded for a moment, quickly finding out that I could still take a hot shower, albeit in my bathrobe down the cellar, as every pipe seemed to explode with steaming water because our pipes had frozen in the 3 degree temps overnight when the burner ceased.
Which brings me to this moment, typing fast before something else bad happens, wearing my $1, one size fits all Target mittens, which are about all I’ll be able to afford after we pay for the Christmas trip, muffler and oil burner fees to come. Ho, ho… oh no.
But this is not the least of my or your problems, and I know that.
Bills will be paid, snow will get shoveled, and mufflers and oil burners will get fixed.
But those we have loved and lost are still sorely and sadly missed every day. And while it is life’s little aggravations that we lament about to anyone who will listen, it is the underlying feeling of loss that can break us, little by little.
Yes my holiday spirit is broken, perhaps beyond repair, but there is a band aid I use every year to get me through the season. It’s the memory of the night my brother Stephen and I saw Rudolph.
It’s a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe. It’s a memory I’m blessed to have, and share each year.
I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.
Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.
I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.
His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.
From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.
My brother has been gone 14 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right.
It was indeed Rudolph.
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