“I cannot recall the sound of my dad’s laugh,” my husband told me. “I can picture him smiling, that’s it. My memories no longer have sound.”
I was not expecting this conversation, but we landed here not too far after I asked, “What plans do we have for the holidays?”
As both of us are older and our children are grown and busy with their lives, holidays have become more about “if” we will do anything different rather than “what” we will do. This isn’t meant as a slight to the season, as we have learned simple ways to celebrate and be joyful right where we are… wherever that may be, and in whatever season of life.
Somewhere along the calendar of years, the holidays became more about people than presents. I don’t need a gala to be in high spirits or a feast to be fulfilled. And I don’t require recognition to feel validated. What I truly desire is to be a light for Christ — to have enough joy to share and sufficient peace to comfort others.
More than anything, I want to remain in God’s will. This may sound simple, but it has proven to be a lifelong journey that has taken me beyond my flawed inclinations and into the bosom of divine blessings.
Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday, but over the years, it has become more of a daily focus than an annual occurrence.
I felt woefully unqualified as I continued my conversation with my husband about holidays and family. The life I had before we met cannot be compared to his, nor his to mine. We each bring experiences of triumph and trials to the table, some harder to digest than others.
“My dad died of cancer when I was 15,” he continued. “I’d just turned 15. He was sick the entire time I was 14.”
“How did you spend your time before he passed?” I asked.
“The day he died, I took a bus downtown to the movies. I sat in the theatre and watched Star Wars. I would come home to my oldest brother telling me that Dad had died.”
“I did a lot of things by myself before and after he died. My brothers had the experience of knowing my dad – they have memories I don’t. I mostly remember Dad being sick.”
“What happened after he died?” I asked.
“I can tell you what didn’t happen,” he said.
“Okay, what didn’t happen?”
“My uncle promised he would be in the picture. He was close to my dad – they were brothers,” he said.
“And?” I asked.
“Well, the ‘and’ is simple: he bailed. In many ways, so did I.”
“Explain,” I said.
“I was floating without a sense of direction. My life was a sh*tshow, and I was the star.”
“No one would ever guess that looking at you now,” I said. “You’re an accomplished artist and a respected man of God.”
“What you see today came by way of finding God at the threshing floor.”
“The threshing floor?” I asked.
“Yes, a painful separation from what I would inevitably become if I stayed on the same course and a realization of who I was meant to be by following Christ.”
“Continue,” I said.
“The brother who told me of our dad’s death would come to me 15 years later to extract me from my daily death.”
He paused.
“That brother would take me out of state to live with him and his family while I recovered. On our way out of Texas, we took a trip to visit our uncle – the one who disappeared after Dad’s death.”
“Our visit was unannounced,” he continued. “I didn’t expect him to recognize me. I hardly recognized myself. I looked probably close to whatever you’re thinking, and that is on a good day.”
He looked away just long enough to pull something from his memory. When his eyes returned to mine, they appeared a bit softer, younger, and aching.
“On the drive there, I replayed in my mind all the things I would tell him. I was going to let him have it,” he said. “What kind of man willingly leaves three teenage boys after promising to stay? My dad left, but he didn’t have a choice. My uncle did.”
“What happened when you got there?” I asked.
“Our aunt greeted us at that door like a day hadn’t passed. She led us to the bedroom where our uncle was resting. She told us he was dying. Cancer,” he said. “Cancer.”
He started to speak again, but this time, more to himself than to me.
“I remember walking to the front door fired up. I was ready to say it all — everything that I’d been collecting in my mind for years. By this point, the scales had tipped: I’d now been alive longer without my dad than with him. I convinced myself that the man whose house I now was stepping over the threshold, so to speak, had forgotten me despite me spending weeks every summer with my aunt and uncle as a boy. We were close — we were family.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I walked into the living room, following our aunt toward their bedroom. As I walked, I saw pictures I had drawn and painted hung on their walls. My art. Their walls. And not just one.”
He looked at me. I could almost see the reflection of his work upon the walls he was remembering. His eyes filled. “By the time I took the final steps into his bedroom, I had no fire left in me,” he said. “None.”
“Despite my appearance, my uncle looked up and recognized me straight away. He was genuinely pleased to see us. And despite how I had felt in the years that led me to that moment, I, too, was pleased,” he said. “I was really happy to see him, too.”
“My brother and I would get back into the car, barely talking to one another for some time,” he said. “My brother would eventually speak first, saying, ‘God brought us here. We were meant to be here.’”
“We drove away, knowing we would never see our uncle again,” he continued. “So much had been released, and it was hard to put into words. I guess we realized all of us had been carrying some measure of pain, guilt, shame, and desire. Whatever it was, God took it away with each step, from our uncle’s front door to his bedside.”
“Our uncle would die almost a week later,” he said.
I have thought about this recent conversation with my husband many times. This time of year often brings moments of reflection, sometimes bittersweet. We may find ourselves feeling both sadness and joy, fullness and absence, thankfulness and yearning.
The holiday season reminds us of the power of grace given to others and ourselves.
Christ Himself is the greatest example of grace. For by His life, death, resurrection, and promise to return, we have been grafted into His family, not by our works, but by His grace.
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.