Friday, December 1, 2006

Dearest God,

I enter December, having already begun the uncluttering process. I want my heart prepared for Christmas, the mystical event of God's coming. I want to hear the angels sing.

I wrote a letter that has taken me a long time to write, about four years to be exact. When the idea of uncluttering came to me, the thought of the letter came soon after. Some things that come to me need more clarification; this one didn't. It was very clear, like the Goodyear Blimp message hovering overhead. God wanted me to unclutter this part of my life, clean up an area, make it right, restore a relationship to its rightful place. Thoughtfully I wrote, attempting to be very transparent about my feelings, sharing information, then apologizing. As I signed the letter, stamped it, and put it in the mailbox, I felt good.

Something happened long ago that toppled our family. A series of behaviors, actions, decisions, poor choices. It blew our family apart. Within a few months our mother died of heart complications. She had never experienced a heart problem before. I surmised she died of a broken heart. A couple years later Daddy died of Alzheimer's Disease, easier to die than to remember what happened. Such a sorrowful time.

I've been angry for a long time. Held on to resentment. Bitterness ate away at my heart. I blamed. We never had Christmas together after that series of incidences. Then my parents were gone. A hole, a gaping hole in my own heart.

The final blow came about this time of the year. So I'm particularly sensitive at Christmas time. God, allow me to tell you a little bit about Christmas at "home."

Daddy always put up the Christmas tree. He was very particular. Nothing out of place. He arranged each ornament perfectly. The old, scratched, round red glass ball with the words, "Silent Night" was always placed where we could all see it. I don't know where it came from, its history, but I do know it was Daddy's favorite.

The lights were turned on every morning and off at bedtime. Mother purchased the gifts, wrapped them, then put them under the tree. (Daddy shifted them around in keeping with his perfectionism)

On Christmas Day we adult kids and our children made the drive home. Fort Wayne, Indianapolis, Plainfield, Brownsburg, we converged on Greencastle, the "house on the hill." We drove up the snowy lane (got stuck one year), then carried in all the brightly colored packages. Daddy was always standing at the door, gave us a kiss, then took the gifts downstairs, carefully placing them around the tree. (I don't think he trusted anyone to do it right)

Mother was always in the kitchen, the scents, the heavenly aroma of Christmas dinner wafting from room to room. Spaghetti and cheese (a family favorite), baked beans (my favorite), roast and potatoes, deviled eggs, chocolate chip cookies, mayonnaise cake, chilled pickled beets (I loved these), cole slaw (Mom made the best), and more. I used to stand and just close my eyes, breathing in the aromas, tantalizing my taste buds. I would kiss Mom hello, ask what I could do to help. She would instruct me, then we would all sit down. One of us would return God's blessing, then fight for the food. The Hughes family members were all worried that we wouldn't get our fair share of the family favorites.

After dinner we went downstairs, packing the room full of family. We got quiet just for a minute while Daddy picked out an "official helper". Then one by one the gifts were passed out. We waited for a present to be opened before another was passed out. Daddy always piled up his own gifts, waiting to the last to open them.

Paper and ribbons were strung from corner to corner in the room. Frequently someone would be struck by a flying tissue paper ball someone had released from their hands into another's direction. Laughter filled the room.

Then Mother would bring in the surprises. Either she would bring in a tray with new items that could be selected through the drawing of numbers, or she would have a bag for each daughter or daughter-in-law. Usually it was a household item of some sort, sometimes something she had made. We all oogled and googled over them.

We spent the rest of the day eating fudge, cookies, leftovers, playing games, teasing one another. A grand time. A really grand time.

One day it was all over.

God chose this year for the healing of my heart. I listened, sent the letter. I have no expectation. Forgiveness is for the one who needs it the most, the bearer of resentment. I don't know how the letter will be received. Hopefully it will bring the beginning of healing to the receiver as well. I don't know. I'm not in charge of that. I suspect God has a plan for that one as well.

Christmas is for the stout hearted. A brave soul who dares to march to the heavenly tune. An event of eternity that comes annally, reminding fragile human beings that there is a sacred order to the cosmos, a mystery so grand that only those whose souls are open, will gaze upon the heavenly realm, one more time. Mystically, the cows will moo, the sheep will baa, and the human heart will magically synchronize its beat, its own rhythm to the Savior's heart.

Christmas. Healing. Hope.

Wondrous and Never-Ending God,
your life with us
is extraordinary,
awe-full.
We engage in the daily rhythms of life,
without any deep sense
of where the rhythms originate.
Nor do we care most of the time.
But everything,
everything,
trails back to you.
As we stand gawking,
like adolescents feeling their way
through a myriad of newness,
we fall to our knees
asking for help,
clinging,
clinging to the Only One
who makes sense
of this thing...
...called life.

Love always, Andrea