Not everyone gets a happy childhood. I view mine through a gauzy scrim -- a secure, sweet, simple upbringing where time seems to stand still. But the unexamined life is not worth living, isn't that what they say? Every family has its skeletons, and all of earth and humanity have its fatal flaws, capable of cracking off and plummeting into the canyons. My family is no exception. There were deep addictions and suppressed traumas on one side, then moral jump-offs and escapades on the other. There's really no telling where following your "heart" can lead, no matter how idyllic that sounds to our Hollywood-sirened-ears. I'm sure Ted Bundy was following his, too. Here it is Christmas, and I'm being morose. But no, I've witnessed miracles in my not-so-short life, beyond all that comes natural to us humans. They do exist, without the benefit of celluloid and soundtracks. If you've heard me tell of my (and my siblings') favorite Christmas story, please indulge me once again. The best stories bear repeating, and often...
Our earliest Christmas memories were happy ones. Mama made it very special for Daddy, who had grown up hungry, cold and poor. She went a little overboard, even with just a single income on a postal worker's salary. The Sears and Roebuck catalog yielded up tinsel, ornaments, a tiny nativity scene and spray snow for the windows. Perry Como crooned from the record player as we danced around the tree. Sugar cookies, fudge, peanut brittle, brazil nuts...need I say more? There was a blight, however, in the background that us little kids did not understand at the time. Our Mama was angry, for what reasons, we did not know. The house we grew up in looked like a hospital -- clean and sanitized daily from top to bottom. The porcelain on the toilets began to be dull from all the scrubbing. There was plenty of crying over spilt milk. Don't spill the milk, because that's when earthquakes occurred. In later years, I learned that in those days our parents were coming to an impasse -- over time, anger makes cracks form in even the strongest foundations.
The most inexplicable part (though where the roots started) of our Mama's anger was when we visited our Grandma, way up in Illinois. We'd drive for many hours to get there in our tiny car, usually a Volkswagen Beetle. Us kids would sleep in the back, cuddled like so many kittens in a pile. The trip would begin pleasantly, but within a day or two there would always be a fight between Mama and Grandma. It would start small, then escalate to what sounded like two cats killing each other in the kitchen. Everything went sour from there. I didn't understand the dynamics of the hurt, shamed, bitter adults that surrounded me, but I knew that there was nothing good about it. Our simmering, volatile Mama had deep, mysterious wounds. I loved being a kid, but I didn't think that I wanted to be a grownup.
We grew up in our local church, dutifully sitting in the pews every service. Daddy was head of the boy's group that met each week. We had a form of religion, but there was something missing. Then things began changing in our church. A revival isn't a bunch of scheduled meetings, it's when God starts taking out peoples' hearts of stone and replacing them with hearts of flesh. One of our uncles visited one week and brought shock waves to Mama when he said: "Judy, you go to church all the time and you carry around that big ole Bible with you, but you hate your own Mother." She was struck by the fact that she had been forgiven by God, but had not forgiven her Mother. God instantly gave grace for her to lay down her bitterness, and that was the first miracle. Again, we were kids and not fully cognizant of what was happening, but we noticed that the house started blooming. The cold, sterile walls mushroomed with color. She started painting, wallpapering, sewing beautiful clothes, humming while she was cooking. Daddy and her started sparking, holding hands, giggling. I knew there was a God, when I spilled a big glass of milk one night at supper and she happily jumped up and grabbed a towel to clean it up. No earthquakes. It was in this new environment that our already-sweet Daddy announced one day that he had become a Christian. We thought he already knew Jesus, but apparently he had not. He could be found on his knees in our freezing spare room, his Bible getting lovingly worn out from reading and re-reading the passages. Their marriage was not just repaired, it was ignited, sometimes embarrassingly so.
That first Christmas, after all that, we took the long trip to Illinois to visit Grandma and our step-Grandpa. We played Carpenters Christmas tapes and sang along as the miles went by. Things had changed drastically in our family. There was love, warmth, peace, but I pondered how it would be, up there with Grandma. As we pulled up to their snow-blanketed townhome, the light spilled out the door as we all hugged and unloaded. Eventually, things calmed down inside and most of us were in the living room except for Grandma and Mama. I leaned up from my chair and looked into the kitchen to see them bear-hugging, something I had never observed in my entire young life. Tears were streaming down their faces, but no words. Grandma lived many more years and our visits became more frequent, but they never fought again.
"The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and upon those who sat in the region and shadow of death Light has dawned." Matthew 4: 16
Christmas has come.
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