When the last gift had been unwrapped – with ribbons, bows and shredded paper strewn across the living room floor – when the last toy had been meticulously extricated from its plastic prison and the kids had all identified their favorite gift, I would stop them mid-play and make the proclamation: “Remember this Christmas well because not all Christmases may be this nice.”
They would stare at me with a disbelieving gaze and quickly return to their post-Santa play. As I watched them, I would always think about a Christmas that wasn’t so nice.
On Christmas Eve 1991, my wife and I were living in an apartment in Haddonfield and taking down our Christmas tree. We had decided to give up. The struggle to keep up the expected joy to the world was just too much for us. So we didn’t.
Just three weeks before, we had taken my mother-in-law to Jefferson Hospital in Philadelphia, where we learned she had advanced breast cancer that had metastasized in her bones and brain.
By Christmas Eve, the treatments were merely palliative. We were told that it was only a matter of time, and they recommended we make plans for home-hospice care.
We had broken more Christmas tree ornaments that year than all other years combined, perhaps because we were in a rush to get to the hospital, or perhaps we were just angry – angry that we had already lost my wife’s father and my father; angry that having been married for only a year and a half, we were sacrificing our time together to help care for our parents; angry that we couldn’t have a nice, normal Christmas.
We had been so busy with our jobs and running back and forth to the hospital that any shopping had been left as an afterthought. We did, however, pick up a few things for my mother, and my wife bought her mother a beautiful jeweled watch.
Our hospital visit that Christmas Eve only lasted about an hour. We would have stayed longer had she not been so sedated. She never woke up while we were there.
The next day, Christmas Day, we spent time with my mother before heading to the hospital. There we found my mother-in-law alert, yet dazed; she would drift off to sleep from time to time.
Somehow, we were able to maintain smiles, even when my wife slipped the jeweled watch on her mother’s wrist and they both began to cry.
As she looked at the watch in the industrial, fluorescent light, she drifted off to sleep after her latest dose of medication. The nurse told us that she would probably sleep through the night.
My mother-in-law was transported back home on New Year’s Day. She died 11 days later.
This year, my wife and I are focused on our oldest daughter who has been battling Lupus, leukemia and other health issues for the past seven years. While striving to maintain our usual holiday activities for the family – decorations, gingerbread houses, hot cocoa with sappy Christmas movies – the aim of our hearts is hope.
I recently read a quote from Saint Augustine: “Hope has two beautiful daughters: Their names are Anger and Courage. Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see that they do not remain as they are.” While I understand that it refers to being angry at your sin and having the courage to repent of that sin, the quote resonated in another way.
I am angry that my 30-year-old daughter is scheduling surgery days during Christmastime. I am angry that I had to force myself to hang Christmas lights. I am angry I sometimes feel like I’m just going through the motions of the season.
However, I am steadfastly pursuing the courage to see that the anger does not remain where it is. In order to do that, I need to draw upon the graces that God offers. The graces received from prayer, lots and lots of prayer. The graces received from the Sacraments, from the Holy Eucharist, from attending Mass. It is only with this cache of graces that I can pull even a modicum of courage that results in hope.
Pope Francis once said, “Tomorrow’s hope flowers amid today’s pain.” That has become my mantra, that and the memories of more than 30 years of wonderful family Christmas with my wife and children.
This year – after all the carols, the candy, cakes and pies, after all the visits, gifts, cards and greetings – remember this Christmas well.
Deacon Dean Johnson serves at Church of the Holy Family, Sewell.
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