Thanksgiving dinner was at my house; present being my brother and parents, and our two grown children. Other than the ham being too done and the rolls rising too much I thought things went pretty well. Dad and brother didn’t get in an argument, brother appeared less depressed than is usual on a holiday, hubby was helpful, and I managed not to do anything to inadvertantly upset the kids. Thank you God.
By late afternoon eveyone but one child had left and I could relax. Not only had things gone rather well, but I had managed to get through the day without getting upset myself. Holidays are never easy it seems, and honestly, that makes me angry. Holidays and family time together are supposed to be fun, right? So why is it, I have often wondered, that I would just as soon skip the entire holiday season? It is not fun. It is not happy. Holidays are days to be endured.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-holiday. I love Thanksgiving in principal and I really enjoy this time of year at school, spending more time than is necessary educating my students about the Pilgrims and the reasons they came to the New World in the first place. I’m finding ways to enjoy Christmas within the parameters of the church; the anticipation of Advent, the music, and the beauty of the Christmas Eve service. The rest of Christmas however, the shopping, gifts, music, cards, baking, and etcetera, do nothing but make me feel inadequate and stressed. When it’s over I’m left with a dull ache in my heart that doesn’t begin to dissipate until mid-January.
In an effort to make some sense of the way I feel, I go back to the holidays of my childhood. Holidays were never a huge big deal like in many families. Mom did try to make things special though. Perhaps she tried too hard, because I don’t ever remember her has being anything but very stressed on such occasions. Dad, who worked 3rd shift, was around more during the days on holidays but that was a mixed blessing. He was hard to please, and my mother, and eventually my bother, bore the brunt of his harsh words. We all walked on eggshells. When I picture holidays at home I picture a little girl trying not to cry, or hiding in her room crying in private. It’s taken me most of my adult life to admit it, but while I have a few happy memories overall holidays were not happy times in the home I grew up in.
So the little girl grew up determined that things would be different and better in her own young family. She tried hard, probably too hard because she was always stressed and things never turned out like she hoped. Her husband was a gentle man, but not easy to please, so she kept trying harder. Her children, hopefully, have some good memories of their childhood holidays but have also been left with a deep sense of unrest and grief that holidays in their house were not quite the joyous events for which everyone seemed to hope. The grown up little girl still tries not to cry.
