Santa remembered: Grief during the Holidays

Grieving, even as a Christian, is hard. The extreme sense of loss of a loved one can never be explained to anyone who hasn't walked behind a casket. The sorrow is ever present, and you never really get over it - it has been almost 4 years since my father's death and I still struggle. The holidays can make grief even more painful; making the season anything but joyous. For several years, I let my grief hang over my head like diseased mistletoe and I stuggled to overcome the pain. I didn't want to walk the memory halls of Christmas' past; I didn't want to remember. I put away anything that would make me remember - photos and letters - packed away. Yet, like a candle piercing through the darkest of nights, memories rushed upon me and there was nothing to do but open those doors that I had long left closed.  To my surprise,I found joy again, not like before; but there is was waiting to be opened, written by the hand of a long lost friend.

My father was born on Christmas Day, so it was fitting that his favorite holiday was Christmas. Every year he would begin the season, at Thanksgiving, by playing Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole's holiday albums. I remember coming down seeing him dancing in the living room, by himself mind you, and singing loudly. My father understood that Christmas time was a special time of year - it was a time of magic, fun, and reverence. He encouraged us to believe in the unbelievable- that there really was a Santa and that many years ago a Savior was born.

 I remember one Christmas sneaking down the stairs because I believed I had heard Santa. I peeked around the corner to see my father sitting by the fireside, Christmas tree lights illuminating his face, drinking hot chocolate. He then turned around and said, "Why don't you come here and wait on Santa with me." I jumped into his lap and snuggled deep; comforted by the thought that my father believed in Santa too. I never saw Santa that night, due to the fact that I fell asleep; but in the morning there was a letter addressed to me from Santa. It said, "Sorry I missed you little one. I kissed you on the cheek. Merry Christmas, Your Santa"

 From then on I never forgot to write Santa a letter, and every year he would write me back. The last letter I ever wrote and will ever receive was December 25th of 2010.  At the time, I took the words for granted, but now they hold more meaning, because in his own quiet way my Dad had given me a ageless Christmas present for the soul. These are the words he wrote...

Dear Ones,

                The Ringing in your hearts will never cease as long as there is believing - in love, in goodness, in gentleness, in kindness, in Christ. No light can ever go dim, nor ever cease, but only brighten with Christmas in our hearts. The lights and bells of Christmastime will always remind us to hold fast to these truths. My joy is knowing you have chosen well for all Christmas'.

Merry Christmas, Your Santa

 

Christmas in our hearts...such a simple and complex statement. How can I keep Christmas in my heart when I am grieving? By letting the holiday in. It is as simple as that. Much of my sadness had stemmed from NOT letting the season of goodness, gentleness, love, kindness, and Christ back into my life. My father will never be present physically for another Christmas...but in my choice to block out the season it was as if I was watching him die all over again. I was grieving not just for him, but for the loss of Christmas in my heart. My father had wanted me to remember...he somehow knew that someday I would need to remember.

I still desperately miss my father and there will always be tears - how can there not be when you love deeply? But I can now say, that Christmas is no longer dreaded by my heart. Instead I have found that every Christmas my joy grows. It brigthens the corners of my heart, restoring my faith, and it is there that I find my father once again. It is there that God grants me peace... 

Merry Christmas, Dad...thank you for teaching me

to believe.

The Promise...

"Promise me that someday you will have one of your stories published."

That was one of the last conversations that I had with my father before he died. I had just finished reading him one of my latest scribblings; his wrinkled hand softly patting mine, staring at me with eyes that glistened with pride. I laughed at his request and asked the question "Who would want to read my stories, Dad?" His simple reply back was "People."

Two years after he passed away, I heard the whisper of this conversation tiptoe back into my mind. I was still grieving, lost in a sea of despair over his death, but those quiet words "Promise me...promise me..." slowly broke through the darkness. I needed to fulfill this last request, so I began to pursue publication.

Writing a story is easy, getting published is a whole other can of frustrated worms. First, unless you have a treasure trove of money to just throw around you will be hearing a lot of slamming doors. It is amazing to me how many good stories there are out there, but you and I will never read them because the author didn't have the cash to back it. The reality is authors pay for their book to be published. Second, most huge publishing houses require that authors have a publishing agent before they even open the pages of the writers' manuscript. Most agents go for 20 grand or more. Third, I am not famous, nor do I have a famous family. The truth is that fame and who you know is everything; little minnows like me rarely get noticed in the sea of literature.
I had NONE of these things. All I had was a story, a promise unfulfilled, and the Internet. I searched until I found a few publishing houses that considered "new" authors who had little money and no agent. I picked one, took a deep breath, submitted my story, and mumbled under my breath "well Dad I tried".

"We like your story and want to publish."

I read those words in disbelief, and even now, holding the book in my hand, I still wonder at it all. I am a published author...a promise fulfilled.

 

My book has not made me famous, nor has it brought me untold wealth, but it has served as a connection to my past, present, and future. I find that my book allows me to see a bigger picture, I see the "people" that my Dad spoke of that day. People need stories that remind them of gentle conversations, loving memories, and home. I need to remember...so I write another story which may never be read by others, but I write it because someday I know that my son will need to remember. Writing is just inked memories for the library of the heart.