Christmas Eve will find me

I've wanted to write this post for the entire month of December. I've put it off until now because the idea of Christmas this year utterly immobilizes me. A few weeks ago I was in Walgreens looking at cards and Christmas trees and I was reduced to a puddle of tears. It's the first one without my grandma, without Christmas Eve church, without my family. The first year in a long time my holidays haven't been spent in the upstairs room of a friend, slinging insults during marathon monopoly sessions lasting until 4am.

When I was a little girl, we'd go to two masses on Christmas Eve. First at my Grandma's Lutheran church, then either a late night or midnight mass at my Grandpa's (and my) Catholic church. When my sister was born (at least according to my memory) we dropped the Catholic mass and only went to my grandmothers. I know it seems counterintuitive, given my non religious nature, but Christmas Eve church has become one of my favorite things. It's the beginning of the holiday. Sure, we've gotten into the spirit with baking and wrapping and tree trimming and cleaning, but that was only lead up, getting into church is when we go over the edge of the hill and I get to sit back and enjoy the ride. 

I don't know if this is a common thing, but at the end of service a soloist sings O Holy Night, while a flame is passed from candle to candle to everyone in the pews. There's a moment of silence and then the choir gently begins singing Silent Night, with the entire room joining in. When I was little I would always look at my mom, and she'd be crying. As I grew older more and more people started sharing her tears. I don't remember when I was first told, but my mom's grandma passed away near Christmas, and there's a link there. But I never really got it until the last Christmas my Grandpa was with us. 

I (probably incorrectly) remember always sitting next to him. But that year the space was conspicuously empty. The congregations voice seemed thinner, missing his deep (albeit off key) voice, the cold seemed to make it further into the church, and I had nobody to watch fall asleep during the sermon. He was in a nursing home, his health failing. All I could think about for that hour was him. Was he ok? Was he dying and we didn't even know it? Did he know what day it was? Was he angry we hadn't bothered to get him for church? (it was decided that it was too risky to move him.) And I just cried and cried and cried. The songs were like thorns across my heart and all I could think about was how empty this place would always heal.

He passed the next March. By the time Christmas had come around again, although we missed him it wasn't the fresh, raw wound it had been. And Silent Night came. I cried, but not the anguished, sorrowful tears of the last time. It was soothing, and the voices felt like a welcome home. 

After the song ends there's a moment of silence. We stand there, our candles flickering, pulling ourselves together and allowing that sadness to be felt, as well as to pass. Even the babies are silent. We are all reflecting, loving, and supporting one another. The moment allows us to acknowledge the pain we feel as well as the blessing we do have. 

Then it's a goodbye and Joy to the World is played. It's chaos as kids are rounded up, lost shoes found, and plans to go home and change before meeting for  dinner are exchanged. I'm not sure why this is so, in 27 years the tradition hasn't really changed. But the conversation is always had. 

Walking out of the church is magical. The mass of bodies becomes overwhelming, everyone shouting and excited and ready to enjoy their night. By the time you exit the building, the biting cold feels wonderful. The sound ends as you walk out the door and you're greeted with a silent night. There is always, without fail, a few snowflakes falling, as if the world decided we needed a bit more sparkle in our lives. 

Pictured: futile efforts

At home we eat. What started as a simple cheese ball (long before I was around) has turned into a feast of finger foods, baked goods, dips, everything I love. After everyone eats, we exchange gifts among the people there who won't be together on Christmas morning. As a kid I always suspected the grownups drug the eating out to torture and annoy me. As an aunt I know that's true. 

Then we sleep. Well, I sleep. My mom doesn't, and neither does my sister (at least not much.) Katie and I sleep in the basement together, with A Christmas Story in the background. At 5 am, to impatient to wait anymore, my mom wakes us up. There's a pile for each of us, stockings stuffed full. I can confidently say that I wasn't spoiled as a kid, except on Christmas. My parents have a knack for getting exactly what you wanted
, but didn't ask for. My mother is especially talented at stockings. Holy moly do I love the stockings. And there's always a box of socks and underwear. You don't appreciate that gift as a kid, but it's the best possible one to get. 

Pictured: heaven

After presents there's banana bread. I remember baking a lot of things as a kid, but as we got older the number of different kinds of things was reduced, but banana bread was never on the chopping block. For the past several years I always helped to bake it with my Grandma. I was usually busy with school and work, but finding an afternoon to bake, eat lunch together, and talk was always a priority. 

I've lost a lot this year in terms of Christmas. It will be the very first time I haven't spent December 24th and 25th with my family in my life. And that hurts. When my parents came down for Thanksgiving they brought me the precious moment clock I had gotten for my Grandma on Mother's day. It was like getting punched in the gut. My holiday is so wrapped up with the people in my life. It was a reminder that this woman who loved and supported me, who helped make my memories amazing (along with my parents, siblings, uncles, friends) is no longer a tangible part of the celebrations.

Pictured: a kid who will be much cooler than me.

 The traditions ingrained in me have given me a context for my life. I get to see the people I love, tell them how much I appreciate them, and celebrate the fact that we are family. 

I'm lucky in that I get to make new traditions, get to start an expanded family. Without my grandma I offered to take up the banana bread tradition. And I did. It was lonely. I didn't have someone guiding me, telling me that the bananas were mashed enough, the batter beaten enough, the nuts mixed in enough. I didn't have my Grandma to show my toothpick to for reassurance that it was done. But I found new people to ask. I followed the directions people left to me. From a test, it tastes like childhood and love. I think I did ok. I think I'll be ok. I know it's silly and possibly overly simple. But having that loaf of bread reminds me of why I do like the holidays. It gives me a piece of something to hold onto when I think about the holes.

There's so much more I could write about. The countless in jokes and traditions surrounding Monopoly. The way the nights seem to stretch on into infinity when I'm with them. The bonding my Dad and I have during church trying not to laugh and make inappropriate comments. The fact that presents aren't just things in a box. How we seem to really care about what we give each other, and how it's never enough. How I want to shower gifts on the people who have helped me love myself. Even though this year is sad and seems to be lacking a lot, I'm lucky enough to have the responsibility of being an aunt, helping some pretty awesome kids form their own view of the world. Sharing with them the sacred and magical moments that contextualize my own life. Showing them that distance is no obstacle, it's ok to be sad, and that they're surrounded by people who love them.