On that day, the day I walked up to the home of my grandparents,

It seemed almost surreal to see that house again and realize anew that the house is there, as are the memories, but the loved ones who gave it life and meaning are gone.

I can't walk up the path and step on to my grandmother’s porch and find her and grandpa sitting in the dining room reading. My grandmother died on Christmas Eve over thirty years ago.

I stand in front of her house thinking how in those days of childhood,

My world was small.

It was filled with rich relationships,

many funny stories,

great laughter,

long held traditions,

and

solid foundations for

faith

and family.

My head turns so I can look across the street where the other

foundational structure of my childhood

still stands.

More memories of Christmas Past fill my mind.

Every year in that little church across the street a Christmas pageant was held where the Christmas story was read by a very solemn elder of the church as he sat in what seemed to me to be an ancient high back oak chair upholstered in black leather. I imagined it to be like the very chair upon which God Himself must sit in heaven on his throne. My brother believed God lived in the upper room the church when he was a child.

As I gazed at the building, my mind went back to the year when my sister, my cousin, and I, along with other girls our age were finally able to participate in the service. Dressed in white dresses made of gauze belted at the waist with silver tinsel ribbon, and crowns of the same ribbon, we were to light candles set in evergreen boughs placed on each of the widow sills beneath the glorious stained glass windows that adorned the church.

Before the procession of the candle lighting angels, and after the welcome and opening prayer, my mother stepped from the choir loft to take center stage, and without the use of a microphone, she began to sing “O Holy Night.”

Standing at the back doorway in anticipation, holding a lighted candle, I am in awe of both the the beauty of my mother and of her beautiful clear soprano voice which fills the sanctuary. I can still see her, a tiny and strikingly attractive 4'll” tall dark haired woman dressed in a green shantung silk dress she made herself, adorned in crystal jewelry which sparkles as she sings.

With a lighted candle in my hand,  I listened with tears rolling down my cheeks as she sings.

I will never again be able to hear that song sung without remembering my mother in that moment. I will remember her voice, her beauty, and the feelings of awe that I had for the holiness I felt in that moment as words to that beautiful Christmas hymn penetrated my very soul.

Oh Holy Night!  The stars are brightly shining.

It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.

*********************

My mother died in March of this year at the age of 103.

Oh how I long to once again be standing next to her in church listening to her sing that song of 

praise and adoration 

for her Savior,

Immanuel,

God with Us,

The One whose birth we celebrate on Christmas.

*********

My father is also gone.

He, the one who found sleigh bells to ring outside our house near midnight to let us know Santa was near by.

He, the one with the very best storytelling skills of all the others is gone. Oh how he loved to tell stories. Oh how he loved to laugh. Oh how he made us all laugh.

He, the one for whom family meant everything after his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.

All the aunts and uncles are gone.

Only the memory of the 

times we spent together, 

remain

**********************

Many memories are stored in black and white photos,

But real life is not always black and white.

I don’t remember tensions, undercurrents, resentments in those days of old and long ago.

Were they there?

Not in my memory.

I lived a family made up of real people with real emotions, real problems, real joys, real triumphs, real defeats, real conflicts, real unresolved issues.

Those generational problems don’t just go away.

Part of the story has to be that those stories that were told were stories of a large family made up of individuals who didn’t always agree on everything. It seems that whatever problems individually or between each other they had, in the end, love for each other and the devotion to family they all seemed to have as demonstrated by the legacy they left us, must have been the glue that held them together.

***********

This year,

Christmas 2020,

Will be a Christmas like no other.

This year, a year where black and white seem to blur together,

we sometimes wonder if we will ever make sense of it all when we look back on it.

Most of us will not celebrate this Christmas with loved ones.  

Perhaps, more than ever this year,

In the year of our Lord,

2020,

It is more important than ever that we not focus on the trappings and traditions of Christmas.

We live in a time of such

Brokenness,

Division,

Unrest.

*****************

I know what I am yearning for.

I am yearning for

Healing,

Reconciliation.

I am yearning to give and to receive

Forgiveness,

Grace.

*********************

This year,

In the Year of our Lord,

2020,

Now,

More than ever,

We long for,

Indeed,

We pine for,

A song of hope.

The world is weary.

I remember the words of the song my mother sang out so many years ago as if they were the last words she would have wanted me to hear, as if they were the last words she would send to her family:

Truly He taught us to love one another.

He law is love.

His gospel is peace.

************************

May your Christmas be filled with 

Hope,

Healing,

Reconciliation,

Forgiveness,

Joy,

Love,

and

Peace.

Merry Christmas to All.