It is with a prayerful and grateful heart that I approach the page today, my soul casting an endless shadow amidst the bright lights of this Christmas season. My former downtrodden state of being would crowd out the creative spirit, much as the frenzied crush of bodies scurrying around clogs the aisles of the mall, making forward progress come to a halt. Not so now, as deep within there is a knowing gratitude. Christmases past used to make me think I was going mad. Or was I just a depressed, hormonally challenged menopausal woman with low blood sugar, who survived a serious illness, had a fainting spell and a concussion, had a barely fulfilling job, and who rescued a misbehaving puppy with separation anxiety form the local shelter? Either way, it was tough being me, and the other me on some days.  All around would be JOY, JOY, JOY, and all I could think was take your joy and drown it in a big bowl of sickeningly sweet Eggnog, and if that didn’t do it, hit yourself over the head with Grandma’s fruitcake. I rest my case, amen.

Just sitting here writing this story, a respite from the days activity, has made me realize how much I love the act, the art of crafting words.  A few brief moments all my own, with a piping hot cup of coffee, and the warm glow of the Christmas tree shedding light across my writing table, reminding me that my little light is still alive within me, trying to peek out from underneath the Christmas mayhem.  I see the images, I taste the words, feeling them tumble around in my mind and my mouth.  Out they come, landing on the page, sometimes like a pine needle trickling down from the highest Christmas tree bough, other times like the same tree, improperly secured into its base, crashing with a loud thud onto the living room floor, ornaments and tinsel flying.  My truest joy is in the very act of writing. It is all the healing therapy, exhilaration, and profundity I could ask for.  My deepest self laid bare here, in safety and quietness, still hoping that the world will see me.

There are theories too numerous to count that speak of the origins of Christmas lights.  Jesus’s birth bringing light to overcome the darkness of our souls and our shame? Or the Light illuminating our path as we find our way back to God and our belovedness as His precious children? If I have this light of God within me, why does the darkness sometimes shine so brightly?  Is it because my light wasn’t given a chance to shine as a child?  Those entrusted to nourish you, and give you mental and emotional stability had long since become numb with their pain.  I marvel at people whose self-belief fans the flames of worthiness.  Years ago I felt my little light growing dimmer and dimmer, like a spent Christmas candle whose scent of holly or bayberry had lost its perfume, and the once tall candle illuminating the space, just a waxy puddle with the flame barely a flicker.  I know many of you feel that way even now.  Choruses of “rise and shine, and be grateful” adding to your heaviness. I wish it were that easy.

The nourishers in my family must have done something right, because overall my lasting impressions of Christmas in the Grant household are not quite Currier and Ives, but endearing, warm, and special nonetheless.  My Christmases past are a microcosm of my present reality, a candy cane twist of Hallmark goodness and “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”.  My mother’s pain expressed through the Scotch bottle and erratic behavior, building with each passing day on the Advent calendar plastered to the old refrigerator in the big, green kitchen.  The crescendo arriving on Christmas Eve with screaming, arguing, and turmoil of the Holiday variety, much as Mary’s cries of labor must have echoed through the chill night.  Mom’s screams giving birth to my tangled confusion of emotion on this most sacred of evenings.  The excitement of the Holiday, the sounds of the Andy Williams Christmas album going round and round on the turntable of the stereo with the familiar chorus of “it’s the most wonderful time of the year!” reverberating throughout the house. The aroma of freshly baked sugar cookies cut into Santa’s, reindeer, and snowflakes, dredged in red and green sugary sprinkles, and those little silver balls sitting atop my favorite cookie of all, the Christmas tree cookie. Before instant everything became the modus operandi, Mom heated whole mild and heavy cream with pieces of Nestlé’s chocolate, simmered ever so gently on the stove, and topped with a generous pile of mini marshmallows and whipped cream. In the deadest part of winter, the local pond transformed into an ice skating and hockey rink, I was grateful to chug down any hot beverage that would melt my fingertips and toes, squeezed into ice skates made too small, the result of layer upon layer of heavy wool socks.  We would come in from a day of skating, and the fireplace was almost always crackling, a dreamy place to get toasty and thaw, the glow of the flames reddening our cheeks, and the smell of weathered pine logs burning. Only during the Christmas season did the “good china” come out, and the Christmas bowls were full of shiny ribbon candy and confections that made their annual appearance with Santa and his gang.  The old gray wool stockings with the wide, red stripe circling the top were hung empty and waiting on the stone hearth above the fireplace.  Sounds good doesn’t it?  So Walton’s Mountain and Norman Rockwell.  But these Christmas niceties couldn’t hold at bay mom’s inevitable Christmas Eve meltdown and drunken collapse, and with it, the swirl of emotions accompanying what was supposed to be a joyous occasion, and follows me through the Holiday season even to this day.

As we hustle and bustle our way through the Holiday season, a few moments of quiet reflection have returned my focus, and I have a choice today. I choose to focus my thoughts and memories on cultivating my little light.  The warm glow of the Christmas tree, and the small bayberry candles casting off their ambient light, serve as a reminder to return to the source of all light, my God.  Christmas is about newness and hope, and remembering that we are His beloved children. The true light, the One who outshines even the brightest stars in the moonlit sky of a winter’s night, is my peace for today, and my hope for tomorrow, and that’s all I really want for Christmas.