Christmas Brings Its Own Bittersweet Gifts

It is almost Christmas, and I am looking for a quiet place.

I know I won’t find it in the mall or on the roads. Only a fool would look for peace and quiet there. Not in my kitchen, either. And I don’t even bake.

And not in the secret place where I hide all my gifts. There is no peace and quiet there. Just snips of ribbon and empty rolls of tape.

No, I am looking for a quiet place inside my mind. And I’m not having any luck finding one there, either.

There doesn’t seem to be even a small corner to which I can retreat during this hectic and poignant time of year. No corner of my mind is clear of debris. There’s no open window, no fresh layer of snow.

There are no thoughts, no memories I can visit that are not covered with the dust of time or haunted by the black shapes of regret. Because once you have a few Christmases under your belt, each succeeding one comes with some added baggage, just like the Christmas ornaments that mysteriously don’t fit in the box they came out of.

*

In one corner of my mind, I visit the bittersweet memories of my own childhood, and the times I was disappointed with my gifts or hurt by my parents’ mood. I look at my own children now, and pray as they open their gifts that they feel none of that.

In another corner are thoughts of those who are gone from me, and the wreath on a grave lays heaviest on the heart. With memories of them come regrets for every Christmas morning I did not spend under their roof.

There are other places in my mind, too, where fatigue, not sadness, stays. “Christmas again?” echoes in those corners. “Didn’t we just do this?”

I unpack fewer decorations than the year before and tell myself I am shooting for preciousness, not clutter. But then I find myself in the corner of my mind where the clock ticks loudest. The Christmases I will prepare for my children are dwindling, I fear--how can I skimp on my effort?

There is a place in my mind I most fear to go. The place where 364 days can be easily stored because they are hollow and empty of anything sacred. That corner of my mind echoes with the pledges of Christmases past to honor God all the days of the year.

But there is also another kind of place in my mind, one that swells to bursting with the joy I feel when I see my sisters and their families gathered for Christmas Eve. And another one that cannot contain the pride I feel as old neighbors and relatives fawn over my children. But those are not quiet places, either. The kind of love I feel is powerful, and it ricochets around my mind like the sound of a rifle shot in a canyon.

*

There is the spot in my mind that aches for the poor and the old, the abandoned. The cold, the hungry, the dying. That sadness is there all year, whenever I see an angry child in school or a bewildered soul on the street, but it cannot hide itself inside my mind at this time of year.

There is a place in my mind that jangles with anticipation as Christmas approaches. I can feel as excited as any child. And there is a place where I can wallow in the pleasure of sleeping late while the children are out of school.

But there just isn’t any peace to be had in the mind of a wife, mother, sister and friend who is getting ready for Christmas. That’s OK. I love this holiday, as noisy as my brain can be at this time of year, because I know what waits:

Christmas Eve. It is nearly midnight, the children are asleep and the lights are dim even as my husband wraps the last of his gifts. “It’s a Wonderful Life” flickers on the TV screen and the final bell has sounded on my preparations. It is too late to do anything more, even if I wanted to.

I am not sure how to describe it, except to say that everything feels quiet.