The end of the year is near, but the story of 2023 continues. I could not write about the year while living it. I’m not sure why I need to record the events that transpired, one after another, but I think it is imperative to “get 2023 out of my system.” Writing affords me a release.
It’s Christmas. A time to reflect. So here I go being philosophical.
2023 has been a year of loss. My cancer diagnosis was only the tip of the iceberg. There will be so much more to the story forthcoming. The experience of 2023 however, has provided a new perspective. As Romans 8:28 puts it, “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.”
The first question is, “what is my purpose.”
There’s no predicting the future, but for today, I am trying to appreciate that I have today.
I have entered the season of loss. It could be my age. Or, it could be finishing a short course on Charles Dicken’s novella, “A Christmas Carol,” that has set my mind to thinking.
I have discovered Dicken’s had a way with words. I plan on reading more of his work. Everyone is familiar, or should be, with the story of Scrooge’s transformation.
No, my Christmas will not involve visitations from Ghosts, or cooked geese for that matter. (My mom hated the farm geese.) Just a few musings in the quiet darkness of winter.
I’m not going to lie. I miss all that snow we had last year. It provided a white blanket of warmth and quiet during the short days of winter. I like the darkness. And appreciate quiet. Many mornings are spent in my nest sitting, reflecting, sometimes reading, ordering things online (you know everyone does it), or drying tears.
Thinking on my childhood Christmas memories brings tears of joy, longing and sometimes regret. Now that my grandparents, parents and nearly all of my many aunts and uncles have passed, I wish I had paid more attention to them. As children, we don’t consider adults, because Christmas is a time of delight for us.
We did not realize how little we had because we had nothing to compare it to. We were insulated from the world in our rural communities, without the Internet or cell phones. We did not know what everyone or anyone else was doing yet, at the same time, we were part of some greater collective.
There were school pageants and concerts and decorations. On Christmas Eve, there was church with the nativity presented by all the little children. The service always ended in candlelight and the singing in German of the all-to-familiar hymn, Silent Night. I miss the sound of voices, young and old, joined together in the language of my ancestors. Afterward the church elders handed us a goodie bag of peanuts, ribbon candy, and oranges or apples. It was a landfall of goodness in a time when we did not eat between meals.
Presents, but not too many, were opened after church. In the morning, we hopped in the car and off to grandmother’s house — both sets of grandparents. The food was familiar and plentiful. The presents were the least of our concerns. My mom’s mother had so many grandchildren we received a wrapped box of Cracker Jack with a silver dollar, later a dollar bill, on top of the box of our favorite caramel corn.
It was a time when the prize in the Cracker Jack was made of metal and represented a real toy. As times changed, Grandma gave us crocheted doilies, potholders, toilet paper doll dresses and more for Christmas. She must have worked all year to produce enough for her 50-plus grandkids plus her daughters. I have no recall of the men in the family receiving anything.
There’s so much more to these memories, down to the menu served at each house. It was an honor to enjoy a meal with the grandparents, an insult to turn down anything offered. In our culture, food was the equivalent of love.
Today, I am working on making things for my own family’s Christmas gifts. I have started using the good dishes, the good towels, and attending as many of the grandchildren’s Christmas programs and concerts as possible. My Santa’s workshop has been kicking out goodies all month. I cannot wait to watch the two newest additions to our family enjoy the flurry of ribbon and wrapping paper instead of their actual gifts.
There are no guarantees about the future. I only have today. It’s sometimes difficult to not think about how my story ends. However, the unpredictability of today’s world without a disease can still be scary for many, much less for those of us with monthly doctor check-ins that cause me some anxiety.
It seems there’s something lost in today’s Christmas. It’s not as dark. It’s not as quiet. It’s not even as joyful as many people I meet on the street seem surprised when I wish them a Merry Christmas. Like I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.
Think of me what you will, but I am pondering the story of Jesus’ birth and what that means for me. I pray every day that He’s waiting for me in that kingdom of no more sorrow, no more tears. A place where someday I will see my parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends that are no longer celebrating Christmas, but are living it. Are they watching expectantly? Are they waiting for us to come home for Christmas? I hope so.
At the end of this eventful year, I thank you, everyone for your cards, letters, words of encouragement and support. Thank you to all my farmer market customers for allowing me to bake, grow and can good food for you. Feeding people makes my heart happy. It is the German way.
Merry Christmas.
INDYchildrendotme 
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